Have you considered handmade paper as art itself? What is it about the paper that makes it so artful?
Do you create with it? Do you create your own paper?
What paper artists do you especially feel drawn to?
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When you think of paper, what immediately comes to mind? Something you make notes on? A thin sheet for your printer to print on? A thick sheet to paint or draw on? A decorative sheet for wrapping a gift? You wouldn't be wrong, of course, but there's so much more to paper. Handmade paper is often art itself. Seven years ago, while traveling in Bhutan, I visited Jungshi Handmade Paper Factory in Thimphu to write an article. [For videos of the process: click here.] I was surprised to learn that the Japanese government had provided training for the owner, Norbu Tenzin, for Bhutan has its own long history of traditional paper making. At the same time, I wasn't surprised because Japanese paper makers are renowned for their high quality and design. I was already familiar with the gorgeous washi that they've been creating for so many centuries. Even simple letter paper, not the kind that you pull out of a ream from an office supply store, is beautiful in its texture and subtle neutrals. Other papers are colorful and used for origami. The different papers are made from a variety of fibers, depending on what's available: for example, mulberry bark, mitsumata bush, hemp, and more. When I go to foreign countries, I generally pick up textiles to work with and also buy items made from them to give as presents. Textiles are easy to fold and carry. However, during my recent travels in Korea and Japan, I fell in love with the handmade paper that I came across and decided to bring a few sheets home. The first two are from the Pungsan Hanji Factory in the Andong area of Korea, with close-ups below them. And farther down are details of paper made with hemp that I chanced upon at Kamiji Kakimoto, a famous paper store in Kyoto. When held up to light, these ecru-colored sheets look like gossamer. But now I face a dilemma: I can't bring myself to cut through the paper, which has as much texture as many textiles. Maybe if I gaze at them long enough, appreciating their beauty, I'll eventually be seized with an idea and have the courage to wield a pair of scissors or rotary cutter or to tear by hand. While in Seoul, I saw the many things that can be created with paper. I visited the Jong Ie Nara Paper Art Museum. When I first stepped into the building, I was disappointed, for the first-floor gallery had an exhibit of colorful flower arrangements and cut-out designs. It was skillful handiwork, but not what I had hoped to see. As I climbed the stairs, I noticed on the wall how paper was folded into different creatures and plants. Koreans, who have been making paper since the 4th century C.E., believe that folding paper makes children clever--"wisdom paper." Finally, on the second floor, I found exhibits of both traditional functional items and contemporary artwork. I was amazed to see umbrellas, shoes, hats, clothing, jars, baskets, bowls, boxes, a powder keg, a lantern, a quiver and arrows, window blinds, cases for pencils or needles and thread, a pagoda, and more. As I peered into the vitrines, I struggled to believe these objects were made of paper, for they looked as though they'd been created with the same kind of plant materials used for baskets. Also, somehow, the paper was resistant to water. Then I was rewarded and impressed by a gallery of innovative work from Korean artists. Unfortunately, not all the title cards included their names in English, and I've not yet learned how to read Korean, so attribution here is sketchy. My apologies to the artists. And my apologies to readers for not being able to provide information about the kinds of paper and techniques used. Here are a few of the works I saw, which my photos don't do justice to because seeing them in person reveals so many textural details. If you've ever doubted the idea of paper as art, I hope these images will persuade you to think otherwise. Questions and Comments:
Have you considered handmade paper as art itself? What is it about the paper that makes it so artful? Do you create with it? Do you create your own paper? What paper artists do you especially feel drawn to?
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For some people, the word "museum" might conjure up stuffy old buildings where ancient artifacts are enclosed in dimly-lit vitrines. They can't wait to get back outside. In such cases, a museum does not live up to its Greek origin, Mouseios, of the Muses, the nine sister goddesses in Greek mythology that presided over song, poetry, the arts, and the sciences. Not all museums inspire, astonish, or enchant. In the last few decades, however, there's been a huge transformation in how museum buildings are designed or remodeled as well as in how much the programs and exhibitions are participatory. During my recent experiences of museums showcasing artwork and functional items created with textiles, clay, metal, paper, paint, ink, and more in Korea and Japan, I found the displays mostly fascinating. Some museums are highly sophisticated and even induce awe because they are far more than a building housing objects to view. One of them is Miho Museum, conceived by renowned Chinese American architect I.M. Pei and opened in 1997. When I was in Japan in 2012, I was encouraged to visit the Miho, located more than an hour from Kyoto, but I got so involved in going to other places that it fell off my list. This time, determined not to miss it, I went off with a friend one day. From the minute the bus started winding its way up a narrow road through the mountains, I sensed something unusual awaited me. I wasn't wrong. Also, after a long warm spell, I finally got to witness the colorful leaves of autumn. With most museums, you simply go up some stairs to the entrance, but to reach the Miho, you have to take a journey of sorts. From the reception building, which includes a natural foods restaurant along with a gift shop, we walked to a "silver" tunnel. As we traversed it, I was surprised not to hear any echoing of our footsteps. We later learned that the curved walls are perforated to absorb sound. Sitting along the walls are lights to guide the way. They made me think I was moving through a passageway illuminated by candles. While in the tunnel, you can't see where you're headed; you don't know what will be on the other side. Then, as you begin to near the end, you catch a glimpse of where you're going. Once out of the tunnel, you cross a bridge toward the museum building and the spectacular setting. It's like emerging into another world. In every direction are the forested mountains of a vast nature reserve. When I look back, I can see where I have just come from. I can't help but think of magical passages--from the womb, through the birth canal, and into the light of day, or from the back of the dark closet into the realm of Narnia in C.S. Lewis' fantasy novels. In fact, I.M. Pei based his concept on a Chinese fable, "The Peach Blossom Spring," in which a fisherman chances upon a utopian community where people live in harmony with nature. For Pei, Miho became a kind of Shangri-la. Once we cross the bridge, there we are, in the plaza of a museum that looks, at first glance, like a traditional Japanese house. As we ascend the steps to the entrance, we soon discover it is far from being typical. I.M. Pei used traditional Japanese architecture to honor the culture and environment in which the museum is embedded, but then technology allowed him to create a light-filled building in which one doesn't feel separate from nature. Achieving this effect, even placing the museum where it is, was a long and arduous effort with complex engineering making it possible. A media room inside the museum offers videos of how the project evolved. Pei's design also incorporates the triangles he favors, in the roof/ceiling, wall lights, and floor tiles. Think of the Pyramid he created for the Louvre in Paris. Because no photographs are permitted in the galleries, I can't include images of the kind of artwork that is exhibited at the Miho. But one aspect struck me: Instead of finding a lot of objects crowded together, there was a feeling of spaciousness. Each antique, representing diverse eras and regions of the world, is a treasure that Mihoko Koyama personally collected as she traveled (even at the age of 80 in a wheelchair) to other countries. She founded the Miho because of her sense that contact with beautiful things not only enlivens the human spirit but also enriches the quality of our lives. She believed that our capacity to see beauty is not something we learn through logic or reason but from the accumulated experiences in which we cultivate our sensitivities. The intention of the museum is to evoke a moment of happiness through an encounter with beauty (human-made objects and nature) . My experience of visiting the Miho did engender feelings of happiness. They didn't necessarily arise because of the precious ancient objects Koyama amassed, though many were indeed lovely to behold. Rather, it was the whole experience of getting there and being there. I loved heading up the mountain, witnessing the fall colors, passing through the tunnel, breathing the clear, fresh air, reveling in the panoramic views and peacefulness. I did feel as though I had been transported from one world into another. It was one that I readily embraced and wanted to hold onto. I turned to my friend and said, "I wish I could get on a plane from here, carrying this feeling home with me." As heiress to the Toyobo textile business, Mihoko Koyama was considered one of the wealthiest women in Japan. Thus, unlike almost everyone else in the world, she could fulfill her dream to create a place of extraordinary beauty. She had the means to purchase the land, collect the Eastern and Western treasures, and commission Pei as the architect--reputedly to the tune of three-quarters of a billion dollars. Still, can't her philosophy be applied widely, not just to rare and expensive masterpieces?: Through art, make the world a beautiful, peaceful, and enjoyable place. Questions and Comments:
Do you believe that the intention of art is to make the world a beautiful, peaceful, and enjoyable place? If so, how? If not, why? How do you make the world a beautiful, peaceful, and enjoyable place as an artist? When you view "beautiful" (who decides what's beautiful?) art, does it bring about a moment of happiness for you? In a nano-second culture that demands everything--especially money and fame--right now, the gradual development of an artistic voice and masterful accomplishment may appear agonizingly slow. The idea of innovation blossoming in one's later years can seem not only farfetched, but also risible. Yet so many artists, East and West, have much to teach us about the rewards of investing years, decades--a whole lifetime--in one's art practice and enjoying satisfying creativity toward the end of one's days. Perhaps the best statement about the ability of artists to ripen with age comes from Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849), the Japanese ukiyo-e painter and printmaker of the Edo period. He is renowned for the woodblock print series Thirty-six Views of Mt. Fuji (1826-1833) and, in particular, for the iconic and internationally recognized The Great Wave at Kanagawa. I had the good fortune to view the exhibit at the Arthur M. Sackler Gallery in Washington, DC, in 2012. Although Hokusai began his formal training as an adolescent, he didn't produce his most famous artwork until after he turned 60, though he considered 70 a more accurate indication of hitting his creative stride. Hokusai, who called himself “the old man mad with painting,” said: From the age of five, I have had a mania for sketching the forms of things. From about the age of 50, I produced a number of designs [many of which were published], yet of all I drew prior to the age of 70, there is truly nothing of any great note. At the age of 73, I finally apprehended something of the true quality of birds, animals, insects, fishes, and of the vital nature of grasses and trees. Therefore, at 80, I shall have made some progress; at 90, I shall have penetrated even further the deeper meaning of things; at 100, I shall have become truly marvelous; and, at 110, each dot, each line shall surely possess a life of its own. Although he yearned for “yet another decade—nay, even another five years,” Hokusai never managed to reach his desired 110. Still seeking an ultimate truth in art, he died at the age of 89, having created some of his best work in his later years, despite being afflicted intermittently with paralysis. We know that Western artists have also continued working into their "twilight years." I am grateful to Judith Selby for sending me this link to rare 1915 films of Monet, Rodin, Degas, and Renoir (with hands crippled by arthritis) as old men still painting or sculpting. Maybe something similar will turn up for women artists as well. http://hyperallergic.com/238615/rare-1915-films-show-rodin-monet-renoir-and-degas-in-their-twilight-years/ Reading Hokusai's words and watching the films make me wonder why we think we have to make headlines in the art world when we're just out of art school, barely into our twenties. Is it simply the ambitiousness and bravado of youth, with a headlong rush toward success? Sure, there can be genius at an early age. We've all read about prodigies, perhaps most often in music. But is raw talent at 21 enough to make a great artist? How many first-time best-selling novelists are able to go a second and third round? What transpires during decades of experience can shape and hone that early talent into mastery. Maybe the snail or tortoise, rather than the hare, has something to teach us. I am also reminded of the difference between flowers and trees. Like immediate acclaim, a gorgeous but fragile bloom can fade all too quickly, while a redwood tree can grow to overwhelming heights in hundreds of years. I don't know enough about Hokusai as a young man to determine whether he, too, felt a sense of urgency about his artistic ability and output. Perhaps the wisdom of his statement can only come to any of us in retrospect. When we look back over our lives, we can see the stages of our creative journey and understand how we traveled to where we are now. And, in that awareness, don't we also realize how much we can still keep going? Isn't that the bottomless joy of art-making? Comments and Questions:
When you reflect on your life in art, what do you remember about the various times--the frustrations and satisfactions--and what kept you going? Do you feel your art-making is deeper or more interesting than it was 5-10-20 years ago? What's the difference? As I write this post, "Painting Set Free," an exhibit of British painter J. M. W. Turner's art, is closing at the De Young Museum in San Francisco. I wouldn't bring it up (especially because you won't be able to view it) except that the focus of the show raises an interesting question: Do artists produce their best work during their later years or does gradual debilitation brought on by aging lead to lesser creativity? The exhibit emphasizes Turner's late work, from 1835, when he turned 60, until his death 16 years later. According to the curators, it was during this final stage of his life that Turner produced some of his "most audacious and innovative pictures." He experimented with canvas formats and pioneered free and spontaneous techniques in both oil and watercolor. That doesn't sound like an artist who has lost his game to senescence. When I walked through the galleries of the De Young, I found myself drawn to several small watercolors from 1841, despite the power obvious in the large oil paintings. This series of three pictures, "Fire at the Grand Storehouse of the Tower of London," seems to capture the essence of the scene without having to insert sharp details. Here's one. [I apologize that the photo isn't of higher quality, but large gallery crowds made shooting difficult.] Turner had the ability to bring dynamism to the scenes he painted. For example, imagining myself in the middle of the storm in the oil painting below could induce vertigo! Although not a stormy setting, there's still a feeling of movement and aliveness in the next oil painting, "Sunrise with Sea Monster." In both paintings, swirling colors, rather than "objective" representation, evoke the scene. I have noticed this sense of paring down while also innovating in other artists as well. For some, physical limitations may make certain activities challenging or impossible, but it doesn't stop them in their tracks. Take French artist Henri Matisse (1869-1954). In his 70s, he developed a cut-paper technique that resulted in both powerful and delightful work. He called it "drawing with scissors," for scissors became his primary tool. As an invalid following surgery for duodenal cancer, Matisse worked from his wheelchair or bed until he was 81. He called the last fourteen years of his life une seconde vie ("a second life"). In December 2014, I was fortunate to be invited by a friend to view "Henri Matisse: The Cut-Outs" at the Museum of Modern Art in NY. The curators considered this body of work "a brilliant final chapter in Matisse’s long career." The simple-looking cut-outs "reflect both a renewed commitment to form and color and an inventiveness." Turner and Matisse are not the only artists who flourished late in life. In his 70s and 80s, the Venetian Tiziano Vecelli, whom we know as Titian (c. 1488/1490–1576), originated free brushwork, which was adopted by artists from the Spanish painter Diego Velázquez (1599-1660) and the Flemish Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640) to 20th-centry Expressionists. French-American sculptor Louise Bourgeois (1911-2010), who found widespread acclaim only late in life, continued to create art into her 90s. Clearly, while physical stamina decreases, creativity doesn't have to. Experience and perceptions that come with time can turn into advantages. One of them might be a certain ease or letting go that could lead to greater art. What is it that an older artist might feel easier about? What is it that she or he lets go of, allowing something else to emerge? Because there are too many artists to discuss here, they will appear in future posts about art and aging. Among them are artists who rejoiced in their work until they passed away and others whose depression and pain led them into a dark passage before death. Still, their art remains a testimony of their fervor to continue being engaged until the end. For anyone who thinks becoming a senior automatically spells diminished creativity, here's an encouraging quote from The Success and Failure of Picasso, by John Berger: There is not, I think, a single example of a great painter--or sculptor--whose work has not gained in profundity and originality as he [or she] grew older. Questions and Comments:
How do you experience your own art-making as you age? Are you frustrated by certain limitations or do they stimulate you to find new ways of approaching your art? Which artists do you admire for their work later in life? What is it about that artwork that captures your attention? What feels different from earlier work? "Art must do something more than give pleasure: it should relate to our own life so as to increase our energy of spirit," says art historian Sir Kenneth Clark (1903-1983) in Looking at Pictures. If so, what are we to make of art that arouses disgust? When we stand in front of an art object, we can respond in a wide range of emotions: wonder and awe, delight and joy, anger to the point of rage, sadness to the point of sorrow and grief, anxiety and fear, excitement, or serenity. Our experience can be one of pleasure or agitation, even disgust. Yet, disgust is not a word I have associated with art. It has crept into my thoughts gradually while learning about certain unusual, at least for me, artworks described by neuroscientist Anjan Chatterjee, M.D., in The Aesthetic Brain: How We Evolved to Desire Beauty and Enjoy Art. Because they caused an outcry, I'm curious about the intentions of these artists. Did they mean to provoke disgust among viewers? Were they poking fun at the art world? Did they want to shake people out of their comfort zone? What statement were they trying to make and did they succeed? In 2007, Sotheby's auctioned off a tin can for 124,000 Euros. Italian artist Piero Manzoni (1933-1963) literally produced what was inside this can, one among 90, and labeled it, in Italian, French, German, and English, "Artist's Shit Contents, 30 gr freshly preserved, produced and tinned in May 1961." Was he thumbing his nose while questioning the nature of art objects? British artist Chris Ofili created a painting of the Virgin Mary, adding female genitals cut from pornographic magazines and applying elephant dung to some parts of the figure. During its exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum of Art in 1999, New York City's then mayor Rudolph Giuliani, raised in a devout Catholic family, found it "horrible and disgusting." Another Catholic viewer was so offended that he dumped white paint and smeared it over the face and body of Ofili’s The Holy Virgin Mary. Yet no amount of such disgust has kept Ofili from being awarded the prestigious Turner Prize. A third example offered by Chatterjee is American artist Andres Serrano, who received an award from the Southeastern Center for Contemporary Art in 1987, despite the reaction his work evoked. His cibachrome photograph called Piss Christ shocked and disgusted some viewers because a crucifix floats in an ethereal golden liquid, the artist's own urine. Other works include corpses, semen, blood (including menstrual blood), feces, human breast milk. Serrano's photographs have sparked protests, hate mail, and vandalism. It's understandable that certain individuals might consider Piss Christ objectionable, an insult to the religion they embrace. However, Serrano, raised a strict Roman Catholic, considers himself a Christian, and his photographs have been exhibited in the Episcopal Cathedral of Saint John the Divine in New York City. Lest we think that only men play with their body fluids to create art, there's English conceptual artist Helen Chadwick (1953-1996), who was shortlisted for the Turner Prize in 1987. She is perhaps most famous for Piss Flowers (1991–92), bronze sculptures cast from cavities left in the snow from warm urine. Though employing unconventional and sometimes repulsive materials, her body of work is considered to have aesthetic beauty even when also distasteful. Though excrement, blood, and urine are certainly not standard fare for fine artists, maybe their use makes sense for some artists, especially those who seek to bridge the gap between art and life. After all, natural elements pertain to everyday living. Then what makes them disgusting in artworks? Is it the thought of handling the blood or feces that arouses disgust? Or is it the juxtaposition of religious symbols and icons with waste? I've never seen these works on exhibit, so I don't know what emotions they would elicit in me. Would it be repugnance, horror, amusement, anger, or puzzlement? Not being able to look at the pieces close up to discern details, I notice only shapes and colors in internet photos, so I'm not appalled. Would seeing and knowing the particulars change that impression? In Unnatural Wonders: Essays from the Gap Between Art and Life, American art critic and philosopher Arthur C. Danto (1924-2013) brings up the subject of an all-too-human yet baffling propensity, that of being torn between revulsion and the desire to gaze at what disgusts us. We shrink and turn away while also being captivated by lurid images of violent rape, of Christ's agonizing crucifixion, of bloodied bodies that have been brutally slashed, ripped, or exploded in war. Art aside, why do we slow down and rubberneck at a devastating accident? What is disgust anyway? In one of his essays, Danto admits to brooding on it as an aesthetic category. He points out that, in French, goût (taste) and dégoût (disgust, distaste) are convenient antonyms. According to English naturalist Charles Darwin (1809-1882), disgust is a specific feeling of being excited by what is out of the ordinary in how our food appears or smells. And that is circumstantial, for we're not disgusted when food is smeared across a baby's face, but we are when it's all over an adult's visage. As Danto notes, "Like beauty, disgust is in the mind of the beholder," and it depends on acculturation. He cites, for example, the research of psychologist Jon Haidt at the University of Virginia on whether or not disgust is registered in situations in which the body's envelope is breached or battered. The study's subjects uniformly expressed disgust, but among a group of fifty authenticated feral children, not one showed disgust. Danto writes, "Disgust is a defensive reflex, connected with fear...." He also speculates that most of us would find the live and video performances of American artist Paul McCarthy disgusting. In a 1974 video, Painting, Wall Whip, he used his head and face to smear his body with paint, ketchup, mayonnaise, raw meat and, even feces. Two years later, in Class Fool, McCarthy flung himself around a ketchup-spattered classroom at the University of California, San Diego until he was dazed and injured, after which he vomited several times and inserted a Barbie doll into his rectum. The piece ended when the audience could no longer bear to watch him. His performances begs the question: What was his intention? "My work came out of kids' television in Los Angeles," he has said. "[It] is more about being a clown than a shaman." Then is it art or circus? Does it "increase our energy of spirit"? Does it entertain us? From the look on students' faces in the classroom, no one seemed especially inspirited, edified, or entertained. In his essay about disgust and Paul McCarthy, Danto refers to German philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724-1804), whose view was that beautiful art can represent as beautiful those "things which may be in nature ugly or displeasing." On the other hand, that which is disgusting is a kind of ugliness that can't be made aesthetically satisfying. But some artists would contend that beauty is no longer essential to art and aesthetic satisfaction is not the point anyway. Is disgust, then, a valid idea for art? Questions and Comments:
What makes a work of art disgusting? If it's disgusting, is it still art? Is there artwork that you consider disgusting? What about it disgusts you? Is finding artwork disgusting any different from finding it beautiful or pleasing? What's the difference? There are times when things don't run as smoothly in my studio as I'd like. I might feel frustrated for any number of reasons. I don't yet fully know how to execute a technique to good effect. I'm missing just the right fabric, thread, or tool to complete a project. I'm just not seeing clearly enough to get the overall composition to sing. And thus I've not been able to accomplish what I'd hoped to that day. Or maybe I find myself getting cranky because of some bodily discomfort. Then I pause and remind myself that none of this is worth complaining about. I reflect on some of the most masterful individuals who have not let any real disabilities ever get in their way. Neurologist Oliver Sacks, primatologist Jane Goodall, and artist Chuck Close have all been wildly successful in their fields while coping with, among other things, prosopagnosia (face blindness). Close and fellow artist Robert Rauschenberg (and how many others?) have struggled with dyslexia since childhood. It makes me wonder how many artists have had undiagnosed brain conditions that affected their visual processing system. But, rather than disabling them, the conditions enabled them to move beyond the expected and traditional and discover novel ways of creating art. What may appear as a limitation can turn into an advantage. For example, Rauschenberg became known for exploring new combinations--without regard for the usual boundaries between different media--that put him on the cutting edge of the art world. After an examination of Rembrandt's self-portraits, in 2004 Harvard neurobiologists Margaret Livingstone and Bevil Conway suggested that the Dutch painter was so walleyed as to be stereo-blind (without binocular vision). Stereopsis requires precise alignment of the eyes and is necessary for depth perception. However, if you're an artist trying to depict a 3-D scene on a flat surface, the most common advice is to close one eye in order to flatten what you see. So walleyedness, instead of being considered a disorder that is only disabling, actually enables individuals who have it to "enjoy an unusually wide field of vision due to the divergence of their eyes." Looking at photographs of other artists--including Willem de Kooning, Jasper Johns, Frank Stella, Pablo Picasso, Alexander Calder, Marc Chagall, Edward Hopper, and Winslow Homer [I did not come across any mention of women artists]--the researchers proposed that they, too, probably had a significant misalignment of their eyes and stereoblindness. They saw differently. We might think there's no way to be an artist--visual or literary--without sightedness but, again, rather than despair as their sight faded away, some have discovered greater creative strength. English poet John Milton (1608-1674) began to lose his sight around the age of thirty, becoming completely blind by his early forties. Yet his most acclaimed poetry, including Paradise Lost, emerged on the other side of blindness. Inward insight replaced outward vision. Argentine poet Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) has described the various and paradoxical effects of his own deteriorating sight in "Blindness" (in his collection Seven Nights). He did not let blindness intimidate him: He did not consider the result of an inherited eye disease a tragedy but an opportunity. Borges also imagined that when Homer lost his sight, he "gained a much deeper sense of time and, with this, a matchless epic power." Born in Genoa, Niccolò Paganini (1782-1840) was the most celebrated violin virtuoso of his era. According to The Violinist's Thumb, by Sam Kean, he "almost certainly had a genetic condition [possibly Marfan syndrome or Ehlers-Danlos syndrome] that gave him freakishly flexible fingers. His connective tissues were so rubbery that he could pull his pinky out sideways to form a right angle to the rest of his hand" and stretch his hands far beyond normal range. Just as stereoblindness can be an asset rather than a flaw for some artists, abnormal flexibility can be an enviable advantage when playing an instrument, especially a violin. Unfortunately, the disorder caused serious health issues that plagued Paganini but didn't diminish his passion for music. Beginning with my father, I've long admired people who don't let the curveballs thrown their way keep them from staying in the game. That's why I am inspired by the stories of artists with disabilities in Chronicles of Courage: Very Special Artists, by former ambassador Jean Kennedy Smith and George Plimpton, co-founder of the Paris Review. Art has kept them going despite their physical challenges and those challenges have spurred them on to even more creativity. Some of the individuals interviewed are familiar: American portraitist Chuck Close, whom I mentioned earlier and about whom I've written in some of last year's posts; American author Reynolds Price (1933-2011); abstract expressionist sculptor Mark di Suvero, born in Shanghai to Italian parents who later immigrated to the United States; and Mary Verdi-Fletcher, the first professional wheelchair dancer in the United States and founder of The Dancing Wheels Company & School in Cleveland, Ohio. The other people in the book also contribute thoughtful observations that have shifted my perception of "disability." Texas artist Randy Souders, who uses a wheelchair, notes: "My disability is a little more obvious than others, but it's all in the eye of the beholder. I have great vision, yet I have friends who can't see anything without their glasses. But I'm the one who is labeled disabled." Reading the inspirational stories of two dozen artists coping with physical issues they were born with or incurred through accidents made me realize that, in a way, each of us deals with different abilities and limitations. To me, these and many other artists appear enabled rather than disabled. Maybe we need to change the word, as my husband has suggested, to "diffability." All of us are differently enabled and disabled. It then becomes a question of how we face the hand we're dealt, how we respond creatively to restraints we never bargained for. Do we let our circumstances stymie our creativity or impel us to express it even more passionately? In A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward an Undivided Life, Parker Palmer writes: "Wholeness does not mean perfection: It means embracing brokenness as an integral part of life...we can use devastation [disability] as a seedbed for new life." Questions and Comments:
What diffability do you deal with? Does it hinder your creativity or has it stimulated even greater creative expression? How? What artists do you admire for their ability to overcome the hand they were dealt? How has their experience inspired your own life as an artist? One of the women interviewed in Chronicles of Courage said, "I think people with disabilities are forced to look at themselves harder than most people do. Therefore, they can reach down deeper and be creative. Sometimes this occurs to me--that people without handicaps have a handicap." Would you agree or disagree with her and why? Anyone with a dog knows that canines are born with a greater ability to smell. While we have 5 million scent receptors, 300 million abound in a bloodhound's nose. But when it comes to seeing color, we enjoy a far greater range. We can't ask and they can't say, but dogs reputedly have dichromatic vision, seeing only part of the color spectrum whereas we have trichromatic vision, taking in the whole spectrum. Given this difference, I shouldn't have been so surprised when I read the first page of Jeanne Heifetz's When Blue Meant Yellow: How Colors Got Their Names. I had no idea that the human eye can distinguish 7,295,000 shades of color. Since I found that figure mind-boggling, I did a bit of research to check on its accuracy. But that's hard to pinpoint. How many colors can we see?: Anywhere from 100,000, at the very low end, up to 10 million and possibly way beyond that. Heifetz, a weaver with a lifetime love of words and colors, delves into the etymology of colors we use to describe everything from nature's gorgeous array to a painter's palette and the hues of clothing. The explanations are brief. Some are curious or charming; others are obvious; and still others are culturally specific or historically relevant. Take "baby blue." It turns out that the custom of dressing boys and girls in blue and pink respectively is fairly modern. I learned that the famous Blue Boy by British painter Thomas Gainsborough (1727-1788) actually has a companion called Pink Boy. For hundreds of years, in most Catholic countries in Europe, children wore blue from head to toe because it was associated with the Virgin Mary. But in non-Catholic countries, infants were dressed in white. In 1918, "the generally accepted rule" was pink for boys and blue for girls. The reasoning behind this? Surprisingly, pink was considered "a more decided and stronger color" and thus more suitable for a boy. Blue was deemed "more delicate and dainty" and thus prettier for a girl. By the end of World War II, however, a reversal took hold that is still with us today. Then there's "gray." It's derived from the Old English graeg, which is related to words in Old Norse, German, and Swedish for "dawn." So gray probably referred to the pale colors at sunrise. Similarly, the word for gray among the Native American Klamath people of southwestern Oregon also comes from a word for "the morning dawns" (pä'kgtĭ). "Jade," which we generally think of as a shade of green, can be anything from white to black. Oddly, the color of this gemstone originates from Spanish: piedra de la ijada ("stone of the flank"). That's because it was thought to be a remedy for kidney ailments. In China, jade has dozens of picturesque names, including "melon peel," "date skin," "chicken bone," "coarse rice", "sky-after-the-rain," "purple of the veins," and "fish belly." Indigo may have the most extensive ancient history. Egyptians employed it to dye the cloth in which they wrapped mummies, as early as 4,500 B.C.E. The Greeks called it indikon pharmakon ("Indian dye"), coming from the place where the Indus River flows. The Tuareg people of the African Sahara have been known as "the blue people" because they dyed their veils and robes with indigo, which rubbed off on their skin. The tale that I found the most delightful comes from Liberia, in West Africa. According to the legend, Asi was the woman who first learned the secret of indigo dyeing. "Hungry for color," she envied the veda bird, which obtained its color by rubbing against the sky. In the time of this story, people could actually touch the sky because it hung so low. They were even able to rip off pieces and eat them. While food filled their bellies, eating sky filled their hearts. Asi reasoned that if she consumed enough sky, it would turn her skin and hair as blue as the bird. Initially, God punished Asi for selfishly wanting the color only for herself. But when she requested that it be available for all her people, the water spirit instructed her in how to dye with the indigo plant. Asi brought back the process to her village. Then, once the women knew how to impart the beautiful blue color to their clothes, God pulled the sky high up and out of their reach. Though the people can longer ingest the sky, they have the color of indigo to satisfy their hearts. Already intrigued by these stories about colors, I also read Blue: The History of a Color, by Michel Pastoureau. It has changed how I view color, for he asserts that it is not only a natural phenomenon, but a strikingly social one as well: "It is society that 'makes' color, defines it, gives it its meaning, constructs its codes and values, establishes its uses, and determines whether it is acceptable or not. The artist, the intellectual, human biology, and even nature are ultimately irrelevant to this process of ascribing meaning to color." He adds that we can too easily and incorrectly project our own contemporary conceptions and perceptions of color onto images and artifacts of the past. Take blue. During the Middle Ages, it was considered a warm color, but today we label it cool. Centuries earlier, the Romans held it in the lowest regard because it was "the color of the barbarians." Having blue eyes was close to being looked upon as a physical deformity or a sign of bad character. But in the high Middle Ages, blue morphed into an aristocratic, fashionable, and prestigious color, deemed by some as the most beautiful. Today, according to Pastoureau, it is by far the favorite color of Europeans. In some cultures, it is not the color itself that is crucial but the various qualities it can have. For example, in Japan, it's more important to know whether a color is dull or shiny. Consequently, while a variety of white certainly exists in Europe (such as in the cloth above in Sweden), there are many more words for white--to denote shades from the most somber to the most luminous--in Japanese than in European languages. In sub-Saharan societies, it is more valuable to distinguish whether a color is dry or damp, soft or hard, smooth or rough, joyful or sad than it is to separate red tones from brown and yellow or green and blue. In certain tribes in Benin, located between Togo and Nigeria, the vocabulary for brown is extensive, but it is not identical for men and women. What does Pastoureau conclude from all this?: "Color is not a thing in itself, much less a phenomenon related only to sight." From now on, when I view paintings, sculptures, monuments, textiles, ceramics, and so on, I'll be wondering what the people who created them thought of the colors they worked with during their particular era. How differently might I interpret or understand that art were I to know more about the meaning and status those colors held then, compared to how they're appreciated or depreciated in our own time? In retrospect, I think I took color for granted in certain ways. After Pastoureau's history of blue, I'm curious to go beyond the delight I experience in seeing and feeling a color. I'd like to learn more about how it came to be (through minerals, plants, creatures?), what it represented, and the multiple ways it's been described. Question and Comments:
What are your favorite colors? Do you know the stories behind them? Has your favorite color changed during the course of your life, just as it has during human history? What colors do you associate with particular cultures or geographical areas? Why do you think those colors are specifically there? On a recent trip to the SF Bay Area, I made a quick visit to the San Jose Museum of Quilts & Textiles before heading to a meeting. In one of the galleries, the title of a large piece by Hadar Sobol, an Israeli-born artist who presently lives in New Jersey, caught my attention: "The One Who Brings Forth Something from Nothing is Not Deficient." According to Sobol, it is from a quote by Kabbalist Rabbi Azriel of Gerona (1160-1238). It struck me because of something I read at the beginning of The Lives of the Muses: Nine Women & the Artists They Inspired, by American writer Francine Prose (1947- ). The title also reminds me of contradictory ideas about the void and emptiness. But, first, a question: When gazing at a work of art, do you wonder what inspired the artist to create it? Curiosity about what's behind a painting, sculpture, cantata, or poem is common. Prose posits that this desire "to explain the mystery of inspiration, to determine who or what is the 'moving cause' of art, resembles the impulse to find out a magician's secrets." But it's a fool's errand, for while magic can be explained, art is another matter. How can the artist ever "fully account for the alchemical process that turns anatomical knowledge and fresco technique into the Sistine Chapel"? Yet that hasn't stopped humans from attributing the genesis of art to any number of sources, especially divine intervention. The Greeks selected goddesses--the nine muses of poetry, drama, dance, and so on. Other traditions attribute inspiration to their God/Divine Spirit/gods. And then there are all those artists and writers who have found it in a particular woman. (Can you think of a male muse?) Prose points out that, nowadays, almost anything can serve that role, including a change of scenery--another city, country, or continent. Consider Agnes Martin and Georgia O'Keeffe in New Mexico, Paul Gauguin in Tahiti, Henri Matisse in North Africa. Prose likens the experience of creating to "a mystical visitation or spirit possession." Isn't it also similar to a dream? In all three cases, we might summon, even entreat, something to come, but we have no control in making it do so. In a sense, as Rabbi Azriel said, we make something out of nothing, that is, without knowing where or how it originates. (Perhaps the rabbi suggested that God is the source, but I haven't read his writings.) This is where the idea of the void or emptiness is relevant. For some, it's a vast black hole; for others, it's a space pregnant with infinite possibilities. We start with a blank sheet of paper and it becomes a novel. Pieces of cloth and thread turn into a wall hanging. A figure emerges from an undifferentiated mass of driftwood. A mound of clay transforms into a vessel. Prose remarks, "It's as if the magician had no idea how the rabbit got into his hat." Of course, we do know that creating takes practice, skill, perseverance, awareness with a keen eye, receptiveness, and more. We do know that images, sounds, feelings, thoughts, touch, smells, and tastes leave impressions. But, ultimately, how they combine to develop into a work of art is anybody's guess. Somehow, something emerges from what seems to be a place of nothingness, but actually teems with seeds of creativity. I can recall an experience that speaks to this mystery. A talented friend was kind enough to teach me a technique for creating circles with several fabrics. I found myself selecting only batiks from my stash of textiles. I couldn't have said why; I simply chose what I was drawn to. Once I accumulated a slew of them, I moved them around on my design wall until eventually the composition felt right. As I stood back to view them, I suddenly realized that I had unconsciously created the atmosphere of living on the Pacific coast. Daily I witness the sun rise and set. I also watch the phases of the moon. There on my wall were the changing colors that I notice in the sky and the ocean. For me, this is the alchemical process Prose refers to. Can I elucidate what happened internally? I don't have a clue. Nevertheless, it's what imbues art-making and the surprises it yields with a magical quality. However, while it's possible to see what's behind a magic trick, I don't know how to explain what's behind the magic of art. And I don't have a goddess or god to cite as my inspiration. How often do we think we know what we want to create, yet what emerges is unexpected, like a dream? Questions and Comments:
Do you feel that your art is something that comes out of nothing? How does the rabbit get into your hat? What are your sources of inspiration? Have they changed over time or do they remain constant--nature, a place, a person or an animal, emotions? I find it stimulating to read artists' descriptions of their art and their particular process in creating it. I enjoy the wide range of influences, aspirations, and inspirations as well as perspectives on why they're engaged in art in the first place. I come across these descriptions in art magazines, books, online interviews, and regular communications from Artsy Shark on a broad array of artists. One such email, featuring San Francisco painter Lena Levin, made me pause at her declaration: Art is not an act of self-expression, but an act of surrender to something greater than yourself. I puzzled over what this means, for the word "surrender" often conjures up the proverbial white flag when one side in a battle cedes to the other. But as artists, what are we surrendering to? What is that something greater that we're willing to yield to: A demand for social justice? A spiritual belief? A sense of generosity toward the world? A call to protect the environment? The voices of countless artists who have come before us? A need for beauty, for calm, for wholeness? I suspect it's different for each artist. In the case of Chinese artist Ai Weiwei (1957- ), it is definitely human rights, in particular, freedom of expression. He says, "It is the responsibility of any artist to protect freedom of speech--that is the soul of creativity." Visiting Alcatraz Island, once a notorious federal penitentiary but now part of Golden Gate National Parks, made it clear that Ai Weiwei blurs the line between art and activism. A dear friend treated me to the ferry ride and exhibition "@Large: Ai Weiwei on Alcatraz" in late April, just before its 7-month run ended. (It should be permanent.) It was unlike any other visit to an art installation I've ever experienced. For one thing, I'd never been to Alcatraz before. I was familiar with its history--such famous prisoners as Al Capone and Robert "The Birdman" Stroud as well as the occupation of the island (1969 to 1971) by 89 Native Americans who called themselves Indians of All Tribes (IOAT). Yet it is the island's history of incarceration that made it an appropriate setting for Ai Weiwei's artworks. Installed in different buildings across "The Rock," they speak to the loss of freedom for people who have had the courage to express their beliefs. Ai Weiwei himself is one of them. As an outspoken critic of the Chinese government, he was detained for nearly three months in 2011 and is still not allowed to travel outside his country. Because of this restriction, he could not come to Alcatraz. Working with his team of assistants, he had to develop the artworks in his Beijing studio and supervise installation via computer and other media. Although "Alcatrazed" in China, he found that the imposed constraints actually increased his commitment to art as an act of conscience. For him, "art is a starting point, not a final result." In 33 Artists in 3 Acts, he tells author Sarah Thornton, "Limiting an individual's movement through time and space is a crime but, for me, it is also a joke. The Internet lets me travel. Technology is beautiful in the most impossible conditions. Technology allows freedom." The installation occupied four locations. There were three artworks in the New Industries Building. To create the beautifully colorful "With Wind," Ai Weiwei incorporated the traditional delicate yet fearsome Chinese dragon kite. As a mythical symbol of power, it usually connotes imperial strength, but for Ai Weiwei, it represents personal freedom. Other kites are stylized versions of iconic birds and plants of nations that have violated human rights and civil liberties. Ironically, Alcatraz has become an important habitat for birds and a site for gardens. "Trace," in the room next to the kites, contained portraits of more than 175 people from regions across the globe. Constructed from plastic LEGO® bricks and laid out on the concrete floor, all these faces are of individuals who have been held because of their affiliations or views. For Ai Weiwei, "These are nonviolent people who have lost their freedom because they expressed their ideas...In truth, they are heroes of our time." As I leafed through the books containing photos of these prisoners and read about their specific plight, I felt physically disturbed. One woman was incarcerated in Sudan simply because she wanted to marry someone of a different faith. The contrast between the two installations was palpable: The brightly colored, light kites floated freely through the air while the stationery faces were down on the ground. The third installation in this building was "Refraction," a massive sculpture of a bird's wings, the "feathers" constructed of reflective panels used on solar cookers in Tibet, whose people and their culture are under siege by the Chinese government. Then I walked to the Cellhouse. In A Block, I listened to "Stay Tuned," a sound installation of music, poetry, and spoken words by persons imprisoned for voicing their convictions. Standing in front of the narrow and low prison cells, I felt overwhelmed to the point of tears. Despite their suffering, people were able to create moving and beautiful art. Among them were Robben Island singers, who were activists during South Africa's apartheid era; Tibetan singer Lolo, who called for Tibetan unity and independence from China; Czech composer Pavel Haas, who wrote eight musical pieces while in a Nazi concentration camp ("Study for String Orchestra" was performed by prisoners in Terezín in 1943). When I entered the hospital area of the Cellhouse, I walked into two small psychiatric observation rooms, one resonating with the chanting of Tibetan monks, the other with that of Hopis. The sense of isolation--no way to look out and see anything beyond the four walls--left me feeling claustrophobic. I could easily imagine the despair mental patient-prisoners had probably experienced there. In the cells of another part of the penitentiary's hospital, I encountered the artwork "Blossom," in which Ai Weiwei filled such common fixtures as toilets, sinks, and tubs with fragile porcelain bouquets, a counterpoint to the harsh conditions endured there. The last stop was the dining hall of the Cellhouse, where "Yours Truly," the final part of the exhibition, encouraged a global conversation. My friend and I were invited to select postcards already addressed to individual prisoners of conscience and write any message we thought to offer them. We sat down and filled out a bunch. When I questioned whether they'd ever reach the prisoners, a young docent shared some stories that buoyed our hopes. We learned how much those postcards mean to people in isolation. When the cards do manage to find their way to some prisoners, they help sustain them, for they demonstrate that someone cared enough to let them know they've not been forgotten. Some critics question whether Ai Weiwei is "a political artist or an artful politician" or argue that he "makes great use of the role of the artist" more than "great art." He counters such remarks wryly: "Art always has uses. It is as if art were supposed to be irresponsible!" At the Alcatraz exhibition, there is a placard that sums up his stance on art and its usefulness in activism: Today the whole world is struggling for freedom...In such a situation, only art can reveal the deep inner voice of every individual with no concern for political borders, nationality, race, or religion. Questions and Comments:
Is there something greater that you surrender to in creating art? How do you describe it? If you believe art is useful in issues of social justice, how can it play a direct/indirect role? Do you consider yourself an artist-activist? If so, how do you express that? What is it about categories that get us all riled up? Earlier this year, there was a bit of a flap over "Man-Made: Contemporary Male Quilters," an exhibit at the Craft and Folk Art Museum in Los Angeles. Some commenters were irked that the pieces were highlighted and applauded because they were made by men. Historically, who was cheering when women created quilts? Presumably, they were simply engaged in a basic domestic activity, not art! In an interview, Executive Director and curator of the show Suzanne Isken stated that she doesn't consider women's work or men's work better than the other. Her idea for the exhibition evolved as a way of posing a question without necessarily offering an answer: "Is there a male aesthetic? What does it mean when a man makes a quilt?" While the male quilters have their individual ways of approaching these questions, I'm not concerned here with their responses, but with the whole issue of categorization. In Rendez-vous with Art, Philippe de Montebello, director of New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art from 1977 to 2008, states: Art history reflects the Western compulsion for...wanting to set things apart, classify them, put them in some sort of order, and then study them and interpret them." Yet artists don't want to be placed in boxes. When American [see, I'm already labeling] painter Richard Diebenkorn (1922-1993) moved between abstract and figurative art, there was a hue and cry. But he didn't pay attention. He wasn't interested in being pinned down. When someone tried to group Diebenkorn with two colleagues into a particular art -ism, he rebelled and broke away. French painter Édouard Manet (1832-1883) didn't want to be called an Impressionist. American artists Dorothea Tanning (1910-2012) and Georgia O'Keeffe (1887-1986) rejected the designation of "sexual symbolist," and Canadian painter Agnes Martin (1912-2004) dismissed having her work classified as "Minimalist." Russian-American painter Mark Rothko (1903-1970) refused to be identified with any art movement. In Conversations with Artists, he tells American critic and poet Selden Rodman (1909-2002), "You might as well get one thing straight: I'm not an abstractionist." We describe artists according to the medium they work in. But we also mention their nationality, and sometimes their political persuasion or religious identity. I wonder, though, when Roman Catholicism dominated art in Europe, was it called Catholic art? Was Leonardo da Vinci considered a Catholic artist? By its title, "The Stations of the Cross" (1958-66), one might conclude that Barnett Newman (1905-70) was a Christian painter, but he was raised Jewish. By his name, you might immediately surmise that sculptor Sir Anish Kapoor (1954- ) is an Indian artist. In fact, he was born in Bombay (Mumbai) to a Hindu father and a Jewish mother whose family immigrated from Baghdad. While living in Israel, he decided to become an artist and then moved to England. How shall we identify him? Do we need to? Can we simply point to a work of art and call it "art" without a categorizing adjective? Can we refer to an artist as "artist" without qualifying him or her nationally? Of course, our heritage, our spiritual training, our education and upbringing, and the places where we live/have lived all contribute to who we are, how we think, and what we believe is important in creating art. Still, I can't help but wonder: What's behind those labels? Are we trying to better understand the art through the person's background? Do we want to know whether that individual belongs to a group we're comfortable with? Are our artistic interests and choices dependent on our political, social, and religious preferences or prejudices? I don't want to get into a treatise about inequality. (I briefly touched on this topic in the last post of March.) Others have eloquently addressed the issue with respect to gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, religion, and so on. But it begs a query: Why use a label to distinguish art? Does it matter whether a man or a woman created it? If we don't know the identity of the writer or sculptor, do we as readily opine that the book we're reading or the sculpture we're viewing has a feminine sensibility or a masculine strength? Does it make a difference whether the person is African-American or Latino or Asian? Do we care whether the artist is gay or straight? Do we need to know that the painter is Buddhist, Catholic, Jewish, Baptist, Muslim, Hindu, Yoruba, or Baha'i? Does our response to the art change when we know these characteristics? Or does knowing these characteristics help us discern meaning in the artwork? I imagine the answer varies from person to person. It also has to do with how the human brain processes information. I don't remember the neurological fine points, but I can summarize what I've read about categorization. Through all of our senses--hearing, seeing, touching, tasting, smelling--we take in endless details from our environment. Then the brain goes to work sorting them: What is familiar and safe versus different and possibly dangerous? When we can find a category to which something new is similar, then that item conveniently drops into an existing label. For example, we see a certain shape or feel an intense heat and know what to do to protect ourselves. The process of categorizing enables us to react appropriately and thus navigate through our world. According to an article in Scientific American, the brain's structure evolved to be able to distinguish prey and aggressors from other kinds of objects. Even though most of us no longer need to make that distinction because we obtain our food in a store, we're still wired for categorization. And it carries over into art. Questions and Comments:
When you look at a work of art, whether it's created with fiber, marble, paint, clay or wood, what's your first impression--design, color, meaning/message? Or do you wonder about the artist's gender, ethnicity, religion, politics, sexual orientation? If so, what does that information offer you vis à vis the art? Do you find yourself categorized as a male/female (or other designation) artist? If so, has that hindered or enhanced your public presence? Has it annoyed you or made you smile? Do you appreciate being grouped with similar-seeming artists? |
Mirka KnasterI am a fiber/mixed-media artist with a decades-long career as a writer. Working with textiles and handmade paper from around the world and exploring the heart of art evoke my joy daily. *Blog continues on my website. Click link below for my recent posts.
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