3. Armleder brings up an interesting point when he says, “ It’s a dynamic process: From one moment, one context, one milieu to another, everything shifts.” I like that, and I agree. In being included in so many different movements, I think it's very possible for the artist to be surprised. Why this movement, why that one? How does the artwork fit into the confines of this movement's thinking? I think that it definitely broadens your understanding of your own work, and the idea that an artwork can mean so many things to so many people really impresses me.
4. I think the quote, "Most important, I've never believed that what I think about my own
work has anything to do with the work itself”, is how an artist should work. Although I think that your ideas and thought processes are inherent in the process of making the work, that no longer matters when the work is finished and up on the wall for the audience. After the work is finished, it ceases to be the playground for the artist. In an odd way, the artwork is sent to the viewer. Furthermore, the work becomes an entity of its own. Whatever the artist thought might show up within the work itself, but it's no longer his or her or zir business to dictate the thoughts of a viewer, nor is it their business to try and impress upon the viewer their thoughts of their own work. Letting the work become an entity without any pressing on the artist's part is really important. I think it adds to its longevity and gives it a life beyond your own and beyond what you can give it.
5. I agree with Armleder; I don't think an artwork can completely disassociate itself to the point that it's truly generic or neutral. One of the most inherent things about art is that it's a means of communication. It transfers intellectual processes as well as visual concepts. The only way an artwork could be completely neutral is to be non-existent. Not only that, but a human's conscious and subconscious is a product built up through influences, both inner and outer. An artwork is the outreach of a human's mind. I don't think it's possible for any product to be completely neutral, because it's created as a response to something: an event, a memory, a fleeting thought. Can an artwork be mindlessly produced? Yes, but I think what that artwork will say is a product of the artist's subconscious. It's still not neutral.
6. Armleder's “recycling of forms” is still relevant today because I think the concept behind them is universally and eternally applicable. Armleder talks about recycling the meaning the forms have become known for in order to set forth a message. He talks about how the form becomes more effective this way. In today's art, we still use concepts that contain the same meanings they held when they were first used. For example, look at how we see color; the intrinsic meanings we find with certain colors have been repeated through centuries. Look how red has a meaning. It's passion, blood, violence... so many others. In addition, there are certain forms that are so connected to certain things. The Christ figure spread out on a cross is a blatant example. The moment a figure adopts this pose in an artwork, the viewer will automatically connect the figure to martyrdom. Thus we continually recycle certain elements that have strong definitions, because they can strengthen the meaning behind our work.
8. By pseudo-intelligent idea, Armleder means that the idea only seems intelligent, but it fails in being truly intelligent. Rather than the traditional way of setting up exhibitions (as well as creating works), where the meanings of the works carry heavy symbols and allusions, he's setting his works up in such a random, unsophisticated way—a pseudo-intelligent way. And he's doing this simply because the viewer, rather than assuming that the meaning might just be pseudo-intelligent, would apply a deeper, bigger meaning to his stuff. This way of working is a bit baffling to me: I feel as though he's trying to emulate sophistry rather than twisting sophistry around. However, I appreciate the effect he's going for.
11. I think spoon-feeding an explanation to the audience is a bit condescending. It tells me that the artist doesn't think the audience is smart enough to find the meaning on their own, and even worse, it tells me that the artist doesn't trust the audience enough to think for themselves. I also think that confusing the audience is infinitely more exciting than explaining the meaning to them. If they're confused, it stands to reason that they will apply a meaning to the artwork, and that meaning will be more personal to them than anything I might come up with. Sometimes I mean for a rock to be a rock, but to the viewer, that rock might be the metaphorical earth that's crushing their shoulders. I think that's really exciting and more meaningful.
12. I really agree and empathize with Armleder's methodology, especially in the way he thinks of how his artwork will relate to his audience, and how he receives the thought processes of the audience itself. I think it echoes what I think my artwork should do and be received. Some of the things he talks about makes me raise my eyebrows, though. I especially mean his words about pseudo-intelligent ideas—I think the idea is good, but I also feel as though he's trying to fool the viewer. I suppose that's also part of the process of the pseudo-intelligent idea, but honestly I find it a bit arrogant.
Friday, June 10, 2011
the second pma visit
When I went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art for the second time, I almost couldn't find the original room of statues again. It was almost as though the curators had placed it out of the way, hidden in an alcove between galleries The room seemed like the briefest of passages, a transitioning moment manifested into this simple room. It was a small room, the kind where you would have to pass through it to get to another gallery. It felt like an in-between. It fit with my previous ideas of the exhibit, or even my own ideas of religion: I thought it might be a little holy room of altars. Perhaps the fact that it was basically shoved out of the way resonates with my own ideas of religion, at least in the way I relate to it personally. Not only that, but it fit with how fleeting the seasons are and how the room was the manifestation of that fleeting moment.
Bacchus as Autumn was particularly the biggest draw for me; my fervent interest in mythology had made me stop and examine the room in the first place, and I had a personal link to Bacchus. Along my spine I have a tattoo of a quote by Dionysus in The Bacchae. I almost passed it by the first time I saw this room, mostly because it blended into the wall. The statues were as alabaster as the walls; the only thing that distinguished them from the room were the indigo shadows that cast them into three dimensional space. It was almost as though the statues had once been part of the wall, and now they were slowly emerging to take a life of their own. Maybe the curator didn't plan it that way, but I thought the invisibility effect was far more effective. Had the statues been in a room painted in burgundy, or some other bold color, I probably would have passed the room by. It would have looked like a standard gallery full of statues, an ordinary exhibit that might not even have stopped me. Instead, I was fascinated by the way the room seemed to escape the notice of passerby.
Other than the occasional security guard and a couple of stragglers who seemed more interested in the exhibits lying ahead, I was solitary. I remember that I thought the room a sort of altar, a quiet place where the remnants of the past remained. There was a gentle hush that had settled in the room, and it was almost as attractive to me as the concept that Bacchus as Autumn personified. Like Bacchus of mythology and of classic depiction, this Bacchus was a young man, barely pubescent, smiling and brandishing a bunch of grapes as well as a libation dish. I think I said before how I found this interesting, how autumn was a season of harvest as well as the death of many living things. I still find it interesting that a young man, a young god even (for Bacchus was definitely a deity that arose much later than the original pantheon), was chosen to personify such a penultimate season.
The statues stood at each corner. I wonder what the effect would have been had the statues been placed somewhere other than the arbitrary four corners, or if the room had not been square. If the room was round, for an example, and the statues had their own little alcove to stand in, the exhibit would have looked a great deal more impressive. As it was, it almost felt like the placement of the statues were an afterthought. I'm not going as far as to say that the room felt as though the curator had haphazardly placed the statues there. There had been great care to place the statues in the corner, facing the room and each other. But it seemed like such an uncreative solution, and such a mundane, arbitrary way to display the statues. It definitely gave off the feeling that this gallery wasn't a gallery, but instead something to briefly glance at as you make your way through the museum.
Bacchus as Autumn was particularly the biggest draw for me; my fervent interest in mythology had made me stop and examine the room in the first place, and I had a personal link to Bacchus. Along my spine I have a tattoo of a quote by Dionysus in The Bacchae. I almost passed it by the first time I saw this room, mostly because it blended into the wall. The statues were as alabaster as the walls; the only thing that distinguished them from the room were the indigo shadows that cast them into three dimensional space. It was almost as though the statues had once been part of the wall, and now they were slowly emerging to take a life of their own. Maybe the curator didn't plan it that way, but I thought the invisibility effect was far more effective. Had the statues been in a room painted in burgundy, or some other bold color, I probably would have passed the room by. It would have looked like a standard gallery full of statues, an ordinary exhibit that might not even have stopped me. Instead, I was fascinated by the way the room seemed to escape the notice of passerby.
Other than the occasional security guard and a couple of stragglers who seemed more interested in the exhibits lying ahead, I was solitary. I remember that I thought the room a sort of altar, a quiet place where the remnants of the past remained. There was a gentle hush that had settled in the room, and it was almost as attractive to me as the concept that Bacchus as Autumn personified. Like Bacchus of mythology and of classic depiction, this Bacchus was a young man, barely pubescent, smiling and brandishing a bunch of grapes as well as a libation dish. I think I said before how I found this interesting, how autumn was a season of harvest as well as the death of many living things. I still find it interesting that a young man, a young god even (for Bacchus was definitely a deity that arose much later than the original pantheon), was chosen to personify such a penultimate season.
The statues stood at each corner. I wonder what the effect would have been had the statues been placed somewhere other than the arbitrary four corners, or if the room had not been square. If the room was round, for an example, and the statues had their own little alcove to stand in, the exhibit would have looked a great deal more impressive. As it was, it almost felt like the placement of the statues were an afterthought. I'm not going as far as to say that the room felt as though the curator had haphazardly placed the statues there. There had been great care to place the statues in the corner, facing the room and each other. But it seemed like such an uncreative solution, and such a mundane, arbitrary way to display the statues. It definitely gave off the feeling that this gallery wasn't a gallery, but instead something to briefly glance at as you make your way through the museum.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
36th chamber of shaolin
The similarities between Shaolin and art school are really striking, particularly because in order to learn martial arts at the temple, San Te had to go through difficult trials and tribulations to make himself great. Similarly, art school is exactly the same. You get challenged to improve your artistry by going through different classes with different teachers. It's almost exactly how San Te's training was set up; he went through different chambers, learned different skill sets, and learned from different masters. I suppose that in this way artists are akin to monks. We're both reverent toward our respective religions (monks to Buddha, and artists to our art.) Not only that, but artists also spend a lot of time practicing, whether it's sketching or contour drawings or whatever so that they could stretch their skills. The monks in training at the Shaolin temple did frequent exercises as well. They ran on barrels, carried water while trying not to stab themselves, fought by candlelight, and so on.
After the abbot said, “It's peaceful in this temple but outside is turbulent”, it reminded me of that Art in America lecture we went to. I remember how they talked about the job marketplace for artists fresh out of art school, and how art school doesn't really help you to prepare for the business aspect. When you're in art school, you only really worry about getting through all of your work. There's structure, and it's all about how much effort and skill you put into things. Teachers lay down rules. Students abide by them (and sometimes, exceed them.) But after art school, it's not quite so nice. Rather, it's whether or not you can even find a job that matters a bit more. And if the job market doesn't concern you, then you're left to your own devices. An open field, without project restrictions from another person, is far more turbulent.
In art, what I think it means to challenge the master is to take whatever you've learned and then to take it completely beyond what the master could dream of. By this I mean that if the master taught you how to draw, then to challenge the master is to somehow turn the drawing into something unheard of, perhaps something completely different from a drawing. I also think that the master is not always necessarily your actual art teacher, but also yourself. All the doubts, the insecurities, and the mental mindsets that might hinder you are a type of master. They rule your conscious, and they inhibit you in your art. To break through that is to challenge the master.
The 36th Chamber in the movie was an interesting concept when adhered to art school. In the film, it is a suggestion from San Te for the monks to reach out beyond the safe confines of the temple. In art school, it's how we work—art is a method of communication by its nature. Martial arts, on the other hand, are physical discipline (although in a way, beating someone's head in is a loud way to communicate...) The whole of art school is a 36th Chamber, then; just as San Te leaves the temple to help the masses, we take our art to spread our ideas.
I think after I get out of art school, my art will have definitely improved beyond where it started. I think it's very likely that it won't look like it does now, and I will probably be on a path that's really different. Either that, or I'll be closer to where I want to be but I'll have taken a better road there. I'm not really sure where I'll be, as long as I've progressed far.
After the abbot said, “It's peaceful in this temple but outside is turbulent”, it reminded me of that Art in America lecture we went to. I remember how they talked about the job marketplace for artists fresh out of art school, and how art school doesn't really help you to prepare for the business aspect. When you're in art school, you only really worry about getting through all of your work. There's structure, and it's all about how much effort and skill you put into things. Teachers lay down rules. Students abide by them (and sometimes, exceed them.) But after art school, it's not quite so nice. Rather, it's whether or not you can even find a job that matters a bit more. And if the job market doesn't concern you, then you're left to your own devices. An open field, without project restrictions from another person, is far more turbulent.
In art, what I think it means to challenge the master is to take whatever you've learned and then to take it completely beyond what the master could dream of. By this I mean that if the master taught you how to draw, then to challenge the master is to somehow turn the drawing into something unheard of, perhaps something completely different from a drawing. I also think that the master is not always necessarily your actual art teacher, but also yourself. All the doubts, the insecurities, and the mental mindsets that might hinder you are a type of master. They rule your conscious, and they inhibit you in your art. To break through that is to challenge the master.
The 36th Chamber in the movie was an interesting concept when adhered to art school. In the film, it is a suggestion from San Te for the monks to reach out beyond the safe confines of the temple. In art school, it's how we work—art is a method of communication by its nature. Martial arts, on the other hand, are physical discipline (although in a way, beating someone's head in is a loud way to communicate...) The whole of art school is a 36th Chamber, then; just as San Te leaves the temple to help the masses, we take our art to spread our ideas.
I think after I get out of art school, my art will have definitely improved beyond where it started. I think it's very likely that it won't look like it does now, and I will probably be on a path that's really different. Either that, or I'll be closer to where I want to be but I'll have taken a better road there. I'm not really sure where I'll be, as long as I've progressed far.
6 ft x 6 ft drawing final
Couldn't find a space large enough to take decent photos, so my 6 ft and my 5 ft drawings were taken in portions.
emily rooney
When I first entered Emily Rooney's gallery, I liked the simplicity of the overwhelming white of the walls and the ceiling juxtaposed to the various items scattered on the floor, lying on top of a black spread. There were black and white photographs of women on the walls as well. These women were featured heavily in the movie in the back room, where a low chanting could be heard echoing through the gallery.
There was a single red line connecting several pieces together. It reminded me of a Japanese folktale concerning a red string of fate that bound soul mates together. The myth said that the red string, connected through your ring finger, led to the ring finger of your soul mate. Love seemed to be a theme in many other pieces as well; there was a sculpture leaning against the wall spelling out '/ ♥ u 4 E', which automatically brought to mind the term '4EVA'. The sculpture even resembled the font of a carving some teenager would make in tree bark, proclaiming love for another adolescent. The heart and the letters were choppy (for lack of a better term) as if the writer had met with some resistance with the material, much like carvings in wood.
Several of the display pieces were reminiscent of religious rituals. I was reminded particularly of the ritual in Buddhism where potential Dalai Lama candidates choose artifacts to prove their holiness. There was a spread that reminded me strongly of this; the darkened bronze objects seemed almost reverent solely by their shine as well as the careful placement. They reminded me strongly of religious objects, and I was further reminded by the incense that was part of her display. There was also another piece that reminded me strongly of a Catholic baptism, a granite table that had an empty basin. It was simply a wooden table, neatly built, but the surface was inlaid with smooth marble. (Perhaps it was alluding to Jesus, the son of Joseph the carpenter as well as Christian baptisms.) These pieces showcased ideas of rebirth as well as purity, themes that seemed to be extrapolated in the materials of the objects themselves. Many were recycled objects, such as the melted vinyl records. In between them were little ceramic pots that were bursts of pure color against the monochrome.
The movie was a series of looping scenes. When I first walked in, I saw the same women in the photographs facing each other in the video. The movie progressed through their relationship; in one scene they were kissing and embracing each other passionately, in other scenes they were shown alone. One woman danced, pirouetting slowly on one leg. In between the women was an old man with glasses, chanting loudly. It seemed to be working on themes of loneliness and isolation, as well as the more obvious theme of homosexuality. I wonder if the movie was a commentary on the social isolation queer teens face on a daily basis. I wonder also if the red thread of fate I mentioned before is supposed to refer back to the women in the movie, although I think it less likelier than my first theory (Japanese lore, after all, isn't a common facet of American education.) I think it fascinating that Emily Rooney combined themes of love, rebirth and purity with homosexuality and loneliness. Is she suggesting that the loneliness of queer people should be thought of as a trial, after which comes a rebirth? Perhaps she is suggesting that love in itself is pure and a rebirth. Overall, I found it interesting to interpret.
There was a single red line connecting several pieces together. It reminded me of a Japanese folktale concerning a red string of fate that bound soul mates together. The myth said that the red string, connected through your ring finger, led to the ring finger of your soul mate. Love seemed to be a theme in many other pieces as well; there was a sculpture leaning against the wall spelling out '/ ♥ u 4 E', which automatically brought to mind the term '4EVA'. The sculpture even resembled the font of a carving some teenager would make in tree bark, proclaiming love for another adolescent. The heart and the letters were choppy (for lack of a better term) as if the writer had met with some resistance with the material, much like carvings in wood.
Several of the display pieces were reminiscent of religious rituals. I was reminded particularly of the ritual in Buddhism where potential Dalai Lama candidates choose artifacts to prove their holiness. There was a spread that reminded me strongly of this; the darkened bronze objects seemed almost reverent solely by their shine as well as the careful placement. They reminded me strongly of religious objects, and I was further reminded by the incense that was part of her display. There was also another piece that reminded me strongly of a Catholic baptism, a granite table that had an empty basin. It was simply a wooden table, neatly built, but the surface was inlaid with smooth marble. (Perhaps it was alluding to Jesus, the son of Joseph the carpenter as well as Christian baptisms.) These pieces showcased ideas of rebirth as well as purity, themes that seemed to be extrapolated in the materials of the objects themselves. Many were recycled objects, such as the melted vinyl records. In between them were little ceramic pots that were bursts of pure color against the monochrome.
The movie was a series of looping scenes. When I first walked in, I saw the same women in the photographs facing each other in the video. The movie progressed through their relationship; in one scene they were kissing and embracing each other passionately, in other scenes they were shown alone. One woman danced, pirouetting slowly on one leg. In between the women was an old man with glasses, chanting loudly. It seemed to be working on themes of loneliness and isolation, as well as the more obvious theme of homosexuality. I wonder if the movie was a commentary on the social isolation queer teens face on a daily basis. I wonder also if the red thread of fate I mentioned before is supposed to refer back to the women in the movie, although I think it less likelier than my first theory (Japanese lore, after all, isn't a common facet of American education.) I think it fascinating that Emily Rooney combined themes of love, rebirth and purity with homosexuality and loneliness. Is she suggesting that the loneliness of queer people should be thought of as a trial, after which comes a rebirth? Perhaps she is suggesting that love in itself is pure and a rebirth. Overall, I found it interesting to interpret.
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