In order for any subject to be of infinite study or value it must always be open to speculation and must never be fully explainable. So it is with the sublime. Both Kant and Burke submit that their respective understandings of the sublime are incapable of being fully explained with language. However, as it is essential to grasp key elements of the understanding of the sublime in order to truly understand the gravity of Friedrich’s work, how this paper begins is with a survey of the sublime.
Let us first interpret the sublime as what it is not. The sublime is not beautiful. Both Kant and Burke makes this argument time and time again. From their perception, what is beautiful cannot be derived from the sublime. That is because what is beautiful comes from a different source: pleasure. What is sublime cannot come from pleasure, Burke argues, it must come from pain. Not just any pain but pain that was not chosen to be endured. This specification on pain is telling as it differentiates between the pain that comes when pleasure is taken away for a time, or forever. That Burke argues, is called grief, something far less agonizing than pain: “The person who grieves, suffers his passion to grow upon him; he indulges it, he loves it: but this never happens in the case of actual pain, which no man ever willingly endures for any considerable amount of time.” Burke argues that the kind of pain that comes from the removal of pleasure is self inflicted. That kind of pain is what takes the place of the pleasure and, if not chosen to be forgotten, will turn into a perverse kind of love of pain. That is not the source of the sublime. The origin of the sublime must be a terror so unendurable that if the person had a choice, they would not endure it.
Kant makes the argument that the feeling of the sublime and the feeling of beauty cannot be the same. Beauty encourages one attitude and the sublime another. In his comparison of the feelings that are evoked when confronted with either the sublime or beautiful are as follows: “The sublime must always be great; the beautiful can also be small. The sublime must be simple; the beautiful can be adorned and ornamented. A great height is just as sublime as great depth, except that the latter is accompanied with the sensation of shuddering, the former with one of wonder… affability is beautiful, thoughtful silence sublime….Understanding is sublime, wit is beautiful. Courage is sublime and great, artfulness is little but beautiful. Veracity and honesty are simple and noble, jest and pleasant flattery are delicate and beautiful. Sublime attributes stimulate esteem, but beautiful ones love.” He continues the argument discussing how the sublime is a virtue, the acme of behavior and understanding, whereas beauty is the attribute that is more socially agreeable. From this theory, it is not too farfetched of an argument to make that beauty is the lesser of the two; beauty is jest, flattery, pleasantness, wit and the sublime is understanding, courage, esteem. From this, it almost seems as if beauty is a form of deception. It quietly leads us from sublime experiences into a space of ease and flattery. This is achieved through social grace and propriety, whereas the sublime is infinite and vast, as I will later argue.
The sublime is not ugly. It is an important fact to discuss that ugliness also has no place in the sublime. I posit that ugliness is more of an anomaly than others may think. I believe ugliness not to be the antithesis of beauty, nor do I believe that beautiful cannot exist without the ugly, nor do I agree with Adorno’s thoughts on the fact that ugliness is just beauty in waiting. For nothing is ugly for the sake of being ugly; it is made to imitate beauty. Ugliness is anything that has no function, and attempts to deceive the viewer into believing that it is beautiful. Ugliness rebels against beauty without reason. Things can rebel against beauty and, in its own way, become beautiful through the rebellion. The same way that things rebel against beauty is not necessarily ugly. However, ugliness occurs when a rebellion is made against beauty, and there is no logic or reason behind it. This means that the ugly lives independent of beauty, and beauty independent of it. This subtle difference in the definition of the ugly liberates beauty and the sublime from the burden of ugliness.
The sublime is not fantasy. In a compelling article of Julia Kristeva, she discusses the nature of terror, fear, and horror. She argues that fear and astonishment come not from the physical act, but from the fantasy of it. She uses a Freudian example from literature in which a boy is afraid of horses because of his fear that the horse may bite him; “’I am afraid of horses, I am afraid of being bitten.’ Fear and the aggressivity intended to protect me from some not yet localizable cause are projected and come back to me from the outside ‘I am threatened’ The fantasy of incorporation by means of which I attempt to escape fear threatens me none the less, for a symbolic paternal prohibition already dwells in me.” This Idea is compelling, as it discusses how authentic the fear needs to be. Although the boy has never been bitten by a horse, the idea of him being bitten by a horse is terrifying enough. Is this enough terror to root the idea of the sublime? It is possible as a great fear of the sublime is in its unknown faculties. What is unknown to a human is not unknown for long. Even without factual evidence, the human mind will fantasize about what could happen, or what could be. This illuminates the mind, but cannot give the true effect of the sublime. The fantasizing is important, however, as when the sublime is truly felt it dwarfs the fear-fantasy. Schopehauer discusses this concept as well in the section dedicated to the understanding of the ludicrous. He indicates that the ludicrous is “paradoxical” as it incorporates both reality and fiction. This frustration, he continues, between reality and fiction lead to incongruity of reason and logic. He ends the argument with an eerie study of laughter; how the more ludicrous the man, the greater the amount of laughter.
What the sublime is; eternal and dangerous. Aside from the accoutrements of the sublime, which are astonishment, terror and fear the two greatest traits of the sublime are eternal capacities and danger. First, the eternal capacities. In visual arts, as with Friedrich, the sublime is indicated by vast spaces of land, water or sky. Burke indicates that this is essential: “The starry heaven, though it occurs so very frequently to our view, never fails to excite an idea of grandeur. This cannot be owing to anything in the stars themselves, separately considered. The number is certainly the cause. The apparent disorder arguments the grandeur, for the appearance of care is highly contrary to our ideas of magnificence.” This is regarding the external atmostphere of the person, one can be consumed by vast amounts of space such as the starscape or seascape. But what is truly compelling about the infinite nature of the sublime is what it internally does to the person; “The mid is so entirely filled with its object , that is cannot entertain any other, nor by consequence reason on that object which employs it.” The mind itself is consumed. From these quotes, one can conclude that both space and mind become members of the infinite, that is when the sublime occurs. Secondly, the dangerous. The sublime moment cannot occur, even in its infinite vastness without an element of danger. One, when complacent (a trait, as Kant argues, derived from beauty), cannot fear for one’s life. Therefore, the human must feel as though he is in some kind of danger. Danger is the key that unlocks the gate which can admit the sublime into the presence of the mind and the soul. As Burke explains: “Whatever, therefore, is terrible, with regards to sight, is sublime too, whether the cause of terror, be endued with greatness of dimension or not; for it is impossible to look on anything as trifling, or contemptible, that may be dangerous.” This concludes that danger is both the avenue to the sublime, as well as beauty’s main tool to keep humans from experiencing the sublime. One often does not intentionally put oneself into danger, not when wit and jest can be perceived as pleasant and far more conveniently obtainable.
With this description of the sublime in mind, two questions need to be asked; how is this definition of the sublime relevant to Friedrich’s work? If this is an accurate definition, why was Friedrich compelled to paint the terrible sublime rather than clever pastoral landscapes as his contemporaries did? The purpose of the rest of this paper is to answer these questions. The relevance is simple, although bold; Friedrich’s work is not beautiful. Almost his entire body of work sacrificed beauty in order to make room for a serious study of the sublime. Although it is common to find Christian symbols in his work, his study of the sublime is too progressive to be denied attention. He was compelled to paint such landscapes that expose tragedy and horror because of its infinite possibility. He will entertain the idea of the “ineffable Beyond” which fueled the theme of his body of work.
7/10/2011
Art in Abundance: The Role of Museums in Society Today
Art in Abundance: The Role of Museums in Society Today
Art museums are among the few spaces where honest commentary can be made. The role of art
museums in society today is to facilitate a space where individuals in a society can interpret,
make decisions, and receive an emotional reaction to art objects uninhibited by a predetermined
analysis.
Although it is tempting for a museum staff to interpret the art on their own, it is the mark of an
excellent staff that allows their own personal biases to be set aside in order to let the art speak for
itself. How the art objects are lit, where they are situated in a space, the sequence of the exhibit:
these seemingly simple decisions create an opportunity for exhibit designers to be a part of the
art-process. These decisions provide the very foundation on which the viewer’s critical moment
of reception stands. An exceptional museum distinguishes itself by perceiving the subtle
differences between the word “simple” and the word “plain.” Although used synonymously, the
slender difference between these words is where the great interpretation of art lies. I use the word
“plain” here to denote the idea that lighting, climate, and sequence is a matter of happenstance
and the plain decisions do not affect the outcome of the reception of the art or art object. The
word “simple,” as I see it in relation to the exhibit, is the careful understanding that lighting,
climate, and sequence are simple but subliminal contributors to the viewer’s art experience.
When an art object is delivered to the museum, it should be the priority of that museum to place
the object in a space which will not convey any pre-conceived notions about how the object
should be interpreted. In fact, the role of the museum is to inspire the patron to remove the lens
of the world; the lenses of art theory, history, philosophy. If a museum facilitates the removal of
the lenses, rather than their installation, then what can occur is what the German art critic Hans
Robert Jauss would call the “pregnant moment” or, rather, the moment in which the vessel of the
art object can be poured, unrestrained, into the viewer who is ready to receive the image without
any filtration. Once those lenses are removed, a purified art experience can occur: one that
enlightens the patron’s intimate intellectual and emotional faculties.
Essentially, what a museum does as opposed to any other space, is ask a question while
refraining from answering it. Whether the patron arrives at any conclusion - or even if the patron
understands his or her role in the art process is irrelevant; what is necessary is that a space be
conducive to any eventuality, even if nothing happens at all.
During a recent visit to Glasgow, Scotland I visited the Glasgow Museum of Art which I believe
emulates the principles of the role of museums in society today. Much of the museum’s spaces
are open, well lit and quiet. However, the age of the architecture also facilitates smaller spaces,
such as the narrower hallways that make patrons feel that they are in the process of discovery
when moving from room to room; they make the conscious effort to finish their experience in the
first room, and prepare themselves for what may be encountered in the next room. Another
example is the building’s rotundas that can be accessed on any floor. Each rotunda is comprised
of several doors that can be opened to reveal a space the size of a closet and contain one piece of
art. The conscious act of opening and closing a door - starting and finishing an art experience -
can resonate with a patron and gives that patron the option of intimately reacting to a piece,
knowing that he or she is the only person who can view it at a time.
I, too, strive to emulate the principles I feel are important for museums to uphold. For my senior
thesis, I was asked to design an exhibit that focused on the Parowan Gap, which is a National
Monument of Native American petroglyphs. Art students were invited to submit artwork, and
English students were invited to submit poetry. I wanted each experience, the act of reading and
the act of looking, to be separate. Our campus gallery is divided into two rooms and I chose to
interpret the poetry through
lighting. I printed the poetry
on vellum, then strung up a
series of backlighting and
hung the poems roughly 18
inches from the wall. When
the lights were dimly lit, it
produced the effect that the
poems were emanating light; almost as if they were their own petroglyphs on a fire-lit cave wall.
The interpretation of how to light poems is simple, but certainly not plain.
Art museums are vital to the progression of society today, yesterday and tomorrow. There are
fewer and fewer spaces in which a vast number of individuals can enter, and feel that they have
all received a personal experience. For this purpose, the role of museum in society today is to ask
questions, but provide no answers.
Art museums are among the few spaces where honest commentary can be made. The role of art
museums in society today is to facilitate a space where individuals in a society can interpret,
make decisions, and receive an emotional reaction to art objects uninhibited by a predetermined
analysis.
Although it is tempting for a museum staff to interpret the art on their own, it is the mark of an
excellent staff that allows their own personal biases to be set aside in order to let the art speak for
itself. How the art objects are lit, where they are situated in a space, the sequence of the exhibit:
these seemingly simple decisions create an opportunity for exhibit designers to be a part of the
art-process. These decisions provide the very foundation on which the viewer’s critical moment
of reception stands. An exceptional museum distinguishes itself by perceiving the subtle
differences between the word “simple” and the word “plain.” Although used synonymously, the
slender difference between these words is where the great interpretation of art lies. I use the word
“plain” here to denote the idea that lighting, climate, and sequence is a matter of happenstance
and the plain decisions do not affect the outcome of the reception of the art or art object. The
word “simple,” as I see it in relation to the exhibit, is the careful understanding that lighting,
climate, and sequence are simple but subliminal contributors to the viewer’s art experience.
When an art object is delivered to the museum, it should be the priority of that museum to place
the object in a space which will not convey any pre-conceived notions about how the object
should be interpreted. In fact, the role of the museum is to inspire the patron to remove the lens
of the world; the lenses of art theory, history, philosophy. If a museum facilitates the removal of
the lenses, rather than their installation, then what can occur is what the German art critic Hans
Robert Jauss would call the “pregnant moment” or, rather, the moment in which the vessel of the
art object can be poured, unrestrained, into the viewer who is ready to receive the image without
any filtration. Once those lenses are removed, a purified art experience can occur: one that
enlightens the patron’s intimate intellectual and emotional faculties.
Essentially, what a museum does as opposed to any other space, is ask a question while
refraining from answering it. Whether the patron arrives at any conclusion - or even if the patron
understands his or her role in the art process is irrelevant; what is necessary is that a space be
conducive to any eventuality, even if nothing happens at all.
During a recent visit to Glasgow, Scotland I visited the Glasgow Museum of Art which I believe
emulates the principles of the role of museums in society today. Much of the museum’s spaces
are open, well lit and quiet. However, the age of the architecture also facilitates smaller spaces,
such as the narrower hallways that make patrons feel that they are in the process of discovery
when moving from room to room; they make the conscious effort to finish their experience in the
first room, and prepare themselves for what may be encountered in the next room. Another
example is the building’s rotundas that can be accessed on any floor. Each rotunda is comprised
of several doors that can be opened to reveal a space the size of a closet and contain one piece of
art. The conscious act of opening and closing a door - starting and finishing an art experience -
can resonate with a patron and gives that patron the option of intimately reacting to a piece,
knowing that he or she is the only person who can view it at a time.
I, too, strive to emulate the principles I feel are important for museums to uphold. For my senior
thesis, I was asked to design an exhibit that focused on the Parowan Gap, which is a National
Monument of Native American petroglyphs. Art students were invited to submit artwork, and
English students were invited to submit poetry. I wanted each experience, the act of reading and
the act of looking, to be separate. Our campus gallery is divided into two rooms and I chose to
interpret the poetry through
lighting. I printed the poetry
on vellum, then strung up a
series of backlighting and
hung the poems roughly 18
inches from the wall. When
the lights were dimly lit, it
produced the effect that the
poems were emanating light; almost as if they were their own petroglyphs on a fire-lit cave wall.
The interpretation of how to light poems is simple, but certainly not plain.
Art museums are vital to the progression of society today, yesterday and tomorrow. There are
fewer and fewer spaces in which a vast number of individuals can enter, and feel that they have
all received a personal experience. For this purpose, the role of museum in society today is to ask
questions, but provide no answers.
Andre Kertesz and Jan Van Eyck
Andre Kertesz and Jan Van Eyck
It is surprising to see what element and principles of design that seem to survive the passing generations. In the case of Jans Van Eyck, a Flemish painter working in the age of the Renaissance, and Andre Kertesz, a functioning photographer at nearly the beginning of the age of photography, the same elements and principles of design can be discovered. Much can be said about the differences and similarities of this Renaissance painter and modern photographer in an elegant way. For this paper, I will discuss three distinctive ways in which Jans Van Eyck and Andre Kertesz can be compared. The first comparison can be made in the mystery of the figures in their respective works. The second comparison is the attention to detail. And the third is in the choice of medium.
Jans Van Eyck’s work was revolutionary in use of symbols. Undoubtedly, Renaissance painters used symbolism in their work, but it seemed that nearly everything in Van Eyck’s work carried two or three meanings. In the case of The Arnolfini Portrait, the symbols seem to be infinite. The Arnolfini Portrait is one of the most debated and discussed images in art history. Because of its peculiar nature of symbolic structure and the mystery of its figures, The Arnolfini Portrait becomes one of the great works of Van Eyck. It is a common idea that the figures are Givanni Arnolfini and his wife. It is also commonly believed that this is supposedly a portrait of their wedding day, or perhaps a recreation of their wedding way. Some historians argue that this was not so, but it was rather a memorial of his wife who had died in childbirth. Therefore it was a portrait of both a dead and a living person. Some agree, but do not necessarily agree with the assumption that she was pregnant, but that the act of raising her dress, she is symbolically proving her purity to the saints. Because of the slippery nature of the history of the figures and their fate, the piece begins to convey a bleakness or misery for was has happened, or for what will surely come; the early death of a beautiful woman.
This theme can also be found in Andre Kertesz work. Kertesz began his photographic career as a romantic, much like Julia Margaret Cameron. His work quickly turned into a study of intimacy, The Tender Touch is one of the most famous early photographs. Because of its popularity, he became widely recognized as an artist, and as his love for modernism grew, he too experimented with such elements of design as line, shadow, space, and proportion. Much to the enthusiasm of the art community, he was convinced to move from Europe with his deeply beloved wife, Elizabeth, to New York. He received mediocre praise. This was devastating to Kertesz, but the companionship of his wife was a great comfort. Unfortunately, she died at a young age of cancer which devastated Kertesz. Shortly after her death, he found two busts made of glass in a thrift store, and photographed them habitually. Suddenly, it becomes clear that these figures remind Kertesz of him and his wife. Much like Van Eyck, his famous portraits are possible memorials, and take on bleakness as they document the death of a beautiful woman.
It is true that both artists use attention to detail, but they use it in entirely different ways. In Van Eyck’s Arnolfini Marriage symbolism compels Van Eyck to consider every object in his composition, whether it be the number of candles lit, to the way the backs of figures would look in a convex mirror, to the fur lining and fabric on each figure; everything has a reason. Even in his simpler portraits such as the Portrait of a Man in a Turban, the folds of the fabric, the hanging of the skin on a skull, it all has a distinct purpose. Even the nonobjective background does something sobering to the figure.
So it is with Kertesz. Although his work does not have as much to look at, what is being portrayed has a distinct purpose. In his photograph La Fourchette only two objects are being displayed, but more is being portrayed than just two objects. The piece becomes about the arch of the fork, the line it makes, the shadow it casts. The color is reduced to a tone, which prioritizes the architecture of the plate and fork in relation to one another.
The final comparison this paper will discuss is the use of medium. Jas Van Eyck, in The Arnolfini Marriage began using the revolutionary medium of oil rather than the commonly used tempera. This new medium, foreign to Van Eyck, must have stretched his capability. So it was with Andre Kertesz. As Photography made its long journey from being used for science to being used for art, Kertez was doing his part in order for photography to make its transition. He began readjusting his eyes to the modern sensibility and focused his perception of art accordingly. The photography medium was almost unforgiving in this aspect. So both artists struggled in their craft to redefine their artistic sensibilities.
Art: The Ever Broken Promise of Happiness
Art: The Ever Broken Promise of Happiness
The act of looking at an object that hangs on a wall or is positioned on the ground or suspended in the air can be one of the most organic and intimate experiences that the human senses can encounter. Whether one is surrounded by other human beings or entirely alone, it does not matter: the senses are engaged in looking and perceiving the object. But can the viewer call what he or she is looking at art? Perhaps. In order for the object ot be appropriately assigned the word “art” it must surpass our understanding. The object must communicate with us through our senses, but at the same time offer us a chance to transcend our senses and immerse us in the mystery that is before us. Simply put: art is the object that should confounds us. When one is in a constant state of indecision and frustration, the true art experience can occur. The purpose of this essay is to explore what it means to be confounded and to discuss the sifting process that occurs when this concept of confounding the viewer is applied to art. This essay will also discuss the difference between art, and objects that have an element of artfulness.
When one approaches this object two things occur; our senses engage the object and almost immediately thereafter, the object will ask a question: “what am I?” Almost as if given a riddle, the viewer will seek to answer the question. If it is quickly identified, understood within the realm of the viewer’s discourse, then the mystery is solved and the viewer can move on. If, however, the object causes the viewer to pause, to reconsider their discourse, and to furrow their brow, then what occurs inside the mind of the viewer is art at its best. Because the viewer is not trying to answer the question “who am I?” in the sense that it was asked by the object, but the viewer asks his or herself “who am I?” Thus, the mystery is turned inward, and the battle between reason and passion begins.
A practical application can be applied to this question of mystery when looking at a painting that tells most, but not all, of the story. H.G. Gadamer was curious about what questions we ask when we look at any aesthetic. He stated: “Interpretation… always contains a basic reference to the question that has been asked on one. To understand a text means to understand a question .”(Jauss, pg. 65) As one looks at art, it is important to look at the questions that unwind in one’s mind. The Bather boasts a classic subject; the female nude. Her back is to us, her head turned slightly
on its axis and her body is slouched, leaning to the right. From what the posture of her body says, it seems that her body is exhausted, perhaps defeated. Apart from her posture however, so much is left to be answered. Her arm is wound in a cloth that tumbles to the floor… why? And although the viewer’s eyes can scan the length of her vulnerable and naked body, it is clear that her nakedness is not for the benefit of the viewer (compared to the The Grand Odalesque) The viewer is catching her off guard, thus her unflattering posture. But all of this, including the genius of proportion, color, line, shape and proximity, does not make this art. What makes this art is her face, which is obscured from the viewer. If we could only see her face, we could better understand what she is thinking, why her body is slouched. Her body would cease to confound us.
Conversely, there are objects that boast themselves to be art, which are the very opposite to the word and the greatest, and most abominable, poseurs are conceptual artists. Since the early 1950s, and after the great wave of Dada, the floodgates were opened and suddenly everyone could make art. If an art dealer were able to display it, it was credible. The devastating problem is that everyone does not have a solid understanding of the elegant friction and mystery that must occur between art and viewer in order for it to be considered art. Therefore, the concept of what was being displayed was displayed and the concept alone was supposed to be cute enough. Piero Manzoni was the author of this concept, and is to blame for the genesis of conceptual art. In his work The Artists Breath the viewer comes into contact with a balloon that was blown up by the artist and attached to a wooden block. The idea is that his breath is what is worth money… so adorable.
The problem is that this pieces asks nothing from anyone, it does not confound one’s senses. Therefore it is not art. It does, however, have elements of artfulness. It still possesses color, and shape. It has the ability to cast interesting shadows and reflect light. Thus it has elements of artfulness but as Immanuel Kant suggests: “Courage is sublime and great, artfulness is little but beautiful.” (Kant, pg 51) This balloon is little but beautiful. It has some artfulness, but not enough to make it art. The attempt (and failure) of making it art is what makes this work kitsch. This work is on display with some of the greatest art in the 20th century at the Tate Modern in London, England. And even its proximity does not make it art.
It is important to distinguish conceptual art with Dada, because Dada is a great force in art. The concepts of Dada is like an eel in water; easy to see but impossible to catch with any naked hand. Dada uses simple, almost trifling objects (as in conceptual art) but their purpose is w what makes them extremely important. Figures four and five are perfect examples of art at its finest. Figure four, Marcel Duchamp’s Bicycle Wheel and Stool is a study on what does it mean to be functional, Man Ray’s The Gift asks the same question. Both pieces take simple objects and fuse them together, thus rendering both objects useless. The frustration between functioning and the loss of function is what makes both of these pieces so appealing, and so appalling. The logic of it is lost, and in its loss we see the question “who am I?” being posed. Theodor Adorno writes: “The logic of art, a paradox of extra-aesthetic logic, is a syllogism without concept or judgement. It draws onsequences from phenomena that have already been spiritually mediated and to this extend made logical.(Adorno, pg 79)” These pieces look to create logic, then dismantle it. The destruction is where the art is.
What confounds us is what is just beyond our realm of understanding, and that is where art is. The frustration is where we find ourselves and where viewing art becomes an intimate and organic experience. Questions asked hundreds of years ago are still as mysterious as when they were asked. That’s what makes good art good, and objects that are artful kitsch.
The Art of Ownership vs. The Art of The Steal
The Art of Ownership vs. The Art of The Steal
On a winter day in 1923, an exhibit opened in the heart of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Hanging on the walls were pieces of art by Auguste Renoir, Paul Cezanne, Pablo Picasso and others. The exhibit was a masterpiece 30 years in the making. At the center of this exhibit was Albert C. Barnes; a wealthy doctor who discovered a synthetic material to reduce the number of venereal diseases in infants. After years of steeping in the art communities of Paris and London, Barnes had returned to his home in Philadelphia with a collection of art that would usher in the great wave of Post-Impressionist and Modern art into the United States. The doors in downtown Philadelphia were opened wide. No one came. Art critics would later describe the art exhibited as “primitive,” “nasty,” and “unpleasant.”
From that day on, a mild mannered doctor turned from an art lover into an art controversy that is almost 100 years in the making. It is important to survey the events that transpired in which the Barnes collection was purchased, exhibited, hid, hung, stolen, reclaimed and then auctioned off. Through that survey, many questions can be raised on a legal, ethical, moral and spiritual level. The intention of this paper is to disclose the events that transpired in the life of the Barnes foundation, evaluate the ethics of business interfering with the art process, and to discuss the concept of what it means to own something. Furthermore, the documentary The Art of the Steal will also be referenced, as the film has interviewed most of the parties involved.
Alfred Barnes has always been a curious man to art historians. His life was spent in a low class portion of Philadelphia where he worked hard to put himself through school by participating in boxing matches. He became rich after discovering a safer synthetic of silver nitrate. And as his popularity and prestige grew, so did his circle of friends. He became involved with art through a friend, who introduced him to Henri Matisse and other influential artists. As his interest in art grew he began purchasing art in excess. He began with the founders of post-impressionism and modernism; Renoir and Cezanne, but quickly added several influential artists to his collection. Quickly, he had one of the most ambitious private collections of any American citizen.
Ethically and morally, it’s impossible to place a value on what the collection is worth. From an art historian’s viewpoint, Matisse’s Joy of Life completely reorganized how art was devised with his use of complimentary colors. It seems like such a simple thing to contemporary eyes, but the Joy of Life is the genesis of many elements and principles of design. That, ethically, cannot be given a dollar value. But it is important to recognize that the piece itself has a categorized value. It must be this way, if not; there is no reason for it to exist.
It is surprising to note that most artists are befuddled by their own success. Artists create from a realm just beyond human understanding, and cleverly translate their concept into an art object that can be seen. But it seems to rarely occur to many artists that there may be social success to making such art-objects. And because these aesthetic experiences are successful, the next logical step is to preserve the art-object so that the viewership of it can continue indefinitely. The most important way to preserve the art-object is to give a monetary value to it that ensures it will be secured and preserved for as long as possible. Investment is the bulletproof glass that encircles the art from neglect and ruination. Artists, for an unknown reason, struggle with that concept. But the money that is exchanged in order to possess the object is merely a legal transaction. The exchange of money only gives the buyer the responsibility to uphold the art-object’s standards of preservation. Ownership of the art is an entirely different thing.
In no uncertain terms, the viewer of the art owns the art. The act of looking morally purchases access to the intimacy that the art is trying to express to one viewer, at one time, in one space, for one purpose. If individuals cease to look at any particular piece of art, it ceases to have value; both monetary and morally. Also, it ceases to fulfill its duty as an art-object. The act of looking at art is tricky, because there are no standards for looking at art. Anyone can do it; poor, rich, ignorant, educated, man, woman, deaf, paralyzed. And many scholars claim that those who look at art with ignorant eyes are, in effect, ruining the art. Those ignorant people are also referenced in The Art of the Steal, they are those who understand the politics of posing as art-aficionados but when it comes to art, they look through it; not at it. This is not an uncommon notion, Elizabeth Prettejohn references her colleagues who say:
“they [the ignorant viewer] read into the forms of the work those facts and ideas for which they are capable of feeling emotion, and feel for them the emotions that they can feel- the ordinary emotions of life… Instead of going out on the stream of art into a new world of aesthetic experience, they turn a sharp corner and come straight home to the world of human interest. For them the significance of a work of art depends on what they bring to it; no new thing is added to their lives, only the old material is stirred.” (Prettejohn, pg 173)
This is not ownership of the art, this is renting it out for a while. The art-object is present for all to see, it gives every viewer a shot at doing something new with their past experience and their perception of the world. Whether the viewer accepts the invitation, is only known to the viewer. Even though many may see it, only a few truly own it.
Even though the viewer owns the art, the man responsible for the art was in control. Once Barnes returned back to his home town of Philadelphia, he exhibited the art in 1923. After the poor showing and bad reviews, Barnes was devastated and quickly closed the exhibit. He then instigated a plan where he would store the artworks in a building he would erect and turn into a school. Thus the Barnes Foundation was made. A building was erected, the art was hung, and students and teachers were selected. After a few years passed, America caught up with the European trend of art and people became vastly interested in the work that Barnes had acquired. Remembering bitterly how the work was initially received, Barnes guarded his collection jealously, and only allowed his students to view it. Two days out of the week, Barnes opened the foundation to the public, only allowing a few people in at a time, and mostly just upon initiation. He wanted to preserve the reverent nature of looking at art. And in order to do that, he felt he needed to reduce the frequency and number of times the art could be viewed.
The art is arranged in a curious way in the gallery. It is hung in the salon style, meaning that the art is hung from knee to ceiling. Other objects aside from the paintings are hung alongside, such as key locks and trinket boxes. Furniture and sculpture fill the room. It’s critical to note that when art is hung in this way, it means that the viewer is no longer having an organic experience. The reception of the art is glazed over by the interpretation of those who hung the exhibit. It is clear to the viewer of The Art of the Steal that the way Barnes hung the work was as important as the work itself. One patron discusses the act of roaming the Barnes gallery as “He arranged it in a way that makes the art speak to one another.” The issue that is raised is that art should not speak to one another: it should speak to the viewer. In the documentary, a former teacher discusses the fact that other museums with white walls offer what is known as a “shopping experience” where people who know nothing about art can pretend to patronize. That statement seems like fact, but is in actuality an opinion that is not commonly shared among the high-art community.
White walls, wood floors and nothing else facilitates a space where nothing comes presupposed. In that lack of presupposition, the art viewer is liberated to interpret and feel as they choose. Barnes’ gallery does the work of interpreting the art for the viewer, so all the viewer really has to do is arrive. The act of seeing things is so often taken for granted. But when individuals take a pilgrimage to see something deliberately, it becomes a sacred experience. Ideally, even the art viewer comes with metaphorical white walls and wood floors within themselves. Theodor Adorno discusses that experience when he says “the spectator must not project what transpires in himself onto the artwork in order to find himself confirmed, uplifted, and satisfied in it, but must, on the contrary, relinquish himself to the artwork, assimilate himself to it, and fulfill the work in its own terms. In other words, he must submit to the discipline of the work rather than demand that the artwork give him something.” (Adorno, pg 255. Italics added.) Yellow walls, key locks, and furniture do not accommodate that sacred experience of looking at something, and fulfilling it on the viewers own terms. This is one of many moments where it is clear that Barnes understood little of what it means to exhibit art. But, of course, at the time of the foundation’s conception, the art still belonged to him, and his aesthetic experience was his to control. Julian Bonds, a friend of Barnes simply stated “It was his art, why couldn’t he do what he wanted?”
After the death of John Johnson and the subsequent theft of his work that was willed to never be moved from his home, Barnes became scared that after his death his art would quickly be sold to inner city museums and his art-experience would be lost. Thus he began drafting a will that would secure the foundation after his death. In the will, he stipulates that the Barnes collection could never be moved from its location at the school, that the gallery could only be opened two days a week to a limited number of patrons, that no art could ever be sold, no art could ever be loaned and that the Barnes Foundation would always remain a school and would not be turned into a museum. An endowment of 10 million dollars was established and the foundation ran off its profits of $200,000 a year. His arch-nemesis was the Annenburgs; owners of the publication the Philadelphia Inquirer and patrons of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Barnes believed the PMA to be “a place for artistic prostitution” and greatly feared that his work would make its way there via the Annenbergs.
On July 24th, 1951 Barnes dies instantly in a car crash much to the dismay of his colleagues. But tears were quickly dried as the fate of the Barnes was now put into question. The collection was passed to Violette Di Mazia, a “disciple” of Barnes who taught French at the academy. She honored the wishes of Barnes and after thirty years, she too passed away. The Annenbergs became hostile toward the foundation and sued them under the pretense that the foundation was abusing their power as a non-profit organization and asked the courts to force the foundation to be turned into a museum. They lost that battle in court. A trustee of the Barnes foundation said that “The Barnes Foundation was a handmade thing in a machine world” which succinctly conveys the feelings that were brewing between the two art communities.
After Di Mazia’s death, the rights to own the collection were given to a board of five trustees, and after the fifth trustee died, the rights to appoint new trustees were given to a college named Lincoln University. The university was under financial difficulties, but nevertheless, ventured to find a board that would work with the foundation. They filled it with many influential art historians, and one lawyer as the president; Richard C. Glanton. Glanton’s business savvy was undeniable and he even indicated that he had no intention of “someone else ruling, while I reigned.” He understood the dire financial straits that plagued the foundation. He discovered the building as unlivable, and that the art was in jeopardy of damage because of it. This inspired him to take several steps that shocked the local art community and the other trustees. At Walter Annenburg’s suggestion, Glanton devised a plan to deaccession a few pieces of art that would be sold in order to bolster the foundation’s dwindling endowment. This was met with great criticism, so he fired the other trustees and hired new ones. When it was seen that it would be a bad political move to sell the art, he suggested that the art be put on tour for two years while the improvements on the Barnes could be made. It was approved, and the Barnes was shut down.
Both of these suggestions were in direct opposition to the will. But when art is put into physical jeopardy, it doesn’t matter. The business of art is the very thing that saves art. The creation of art must have a symbiotic relationship with the business of art as business ensures its destiny, whereas the creation of it ensures its demise. In terms of art conservation and restoration, any beginner in that field can testify that art is made to fall apart. Canvas, oil, tempera, iron, even a urinal is not made to last forever. So it is in the interest of the art to be tagged monetarily and to be auctioned to businesses and other interest groups that deem it expensive enough to invest in. If an investment is made, then capital will be set aside to ensure that the investment is not damaged. That means that it can be preserved for other viewings at other times.
With that in mind, it is clear to see that Glanton did the ethical thing. He didn’t do, perhaps, the legal thing; but certainly the ethical one. On its tour in Paris and Germany, Barnes was “met as the conquering hero” to the art community. And it is well deserved. The art that so many had only seen in poorly reprinted books was now available to them in a museum that could be accessed by all. There is no question that some patrons are caught up in the perception of art-patronage, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that those who deliberately came to see saw what they needed to see. And a man’s selfish will is a simple price to pay for millions to benefit.
In order to solidify this argument, let us consider what would have happened if the Barnes had been left to its own devices. The art would most certainly be ruined, if not destroyed. The natural lighting would pale the art; even oils can’t withstand that much exposure. The canvas would buckle on the stretcher bars and the medium would crack. Millions on top of millions of dollars would have to be invested in order to restore the paintings. Millions they didn’t have. Thus the art would fall into obscurity, the intimate connections that inspired the creation of the art would be forgotten, and the objects would eventually turn back into dust.
Albert Manguel discusses what would happen next perfectly: “If neither metal or marble will last, why not accept their transience as being, in itself, a monument?” He continues with a story Kiplin tells regarding a memorial for a soldier named Kurban Sahib and in order to memorialize him, it was required for one to look at his house. However a traveler indicates: “the house is not there, nor the well, nor the big tank or the fruit trees, nor the cattle. There is nothing at all… the rest is like a desert here –or my hand – or my heart. Empty… all empty!” (Manguel, pg 252) Then Manguel says the most important thing: “Emptiness, as the Romans understood when they razed Carthage, is also a memorial.”
It is clear that emptiness would have been memorialized in the case of the Barnes Foundation, and not the art that could have been saved. The empty rooms, the empty hallways, the empty frames would have all stood as a memorial that one man’s pride trumps a million peoples true intimate ownership. Business is, on many occasions, unethical. It’s unavoidable. Money and ignorant patronage can also contribute to the decline of art. But in this case, business tactics were the only thing that saved the art that needs to be seen.
On a winter day in 1923, an exhibit opened in the heart of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Hanging on the walls were pieces of art by Auguste Renoir, Paul Cezanne, Pablo Picasso and others. The exhibit was a masterpiece 30 years in the making. At the center of this exhibit was Albert C. Barnes; a wealthy doctor who discovered a synthetic material to reduce the number of venereal diseases in infants. After years of steeping in the art communities of Paris and London, Barnes had returned to his home in Philadelphia with a collection of art that would usher in the great wave of Post-Impressionist and Modern art into the United States. The doors in downtown Philadelphia were opened wide. No one came. Art critics would later describe the art exhibited as “primitive,” “nasty,” and “unpleasant.”
From that day on, a mild mannered doctor turned from an art lover into an art controversy that is almost 100 years in the making. It is important to survey the events that transpired in which the Barnes collection was purchased, exhibited, hid, hung, stolen, reclaimed and then auctioned off. Through that survey, many questions can be raised on a legal, ethical, moral and spiritual level. The intention of this paper is to disclose the events that transpired in the life of the Barnes foundation, evaluate the ethics of business interfering with the art process, and to discuss the concept of what it means to own something. Furthermore, the documentary The Art of the Steal will also be referenced, as the film has interviewed most of the parties involved.
Alfred Barnes has always been a curious man to art historians. His life was spent in a low class portion of Philadelphia where he worked hard to put himself through school by participating in boxing matches. He became rich after discovering a safer synthetic of silver nitrate. And as his popularity and prestige grew, so did his circle of friends. He became involved with art through a friend, who introduced him to Henri Matisse and other influential artists. As his interest in art grew he began purchasing art in excess. He began with the founders of post-impressionism and modernism; Renoir and Cezanne, but quickly added several influential artists to his collection. Quickly, he had one of the most ambitious private collections of any American citizen.
Ethically and morally, it’s impossible to place a value on what the collection is worth. From an art historian’s viewpoint, Matisse’s Joy of Life completely reorganized how art was devised with his use of complimentary colors. It seems like such a simple thing to contemporary eyes, but the Joy of Life is the genesis of many elements and principles of design. That, ethically, cannot be given a dollar value. But it is important to recognize that the piece itself has a categorized value. It must be this way, if not; there is no reason for it to exist.
It is surprising to note that most artists are befuddled by their own success. Artists create from a realm just beyond human understanding, and cleverly translate their concept into an art object that can be seen. But it seems to rarely occur to many artists that there may be social success to making such art-objects. And because these aesthetic experiences are successful, the next logical step is to preserve the art-object so that the viewership of it can continue indefinitely. The most important way to preserve the art-object is to give a monetary value to it that ensures it will be secured and preserved for as long as possible. Investment is the bulletproof glass that encircles the art from neglect and ruination. Artists, for an unknown reason, struggle with that concept. But the money that is exchanged in order to possess the object is merely a legal transaction. The exchange of money only gives the buyer the responsibility to uphold the art-object’s standards of preservation. Ownership of the art is an entirely different thing.
In no uncertain terms, the viewer of the art owns the art. The act of looking morally purchases access to the intimacy that the art is trying to express to one viewer, at one time, in one space, for one purpose. If individuals cease to look at any particular piece of art, it ceases to have value; both monetary and morally. Also, it ceases to fulfill its duty as an art-object. The act of looking at art is tricky, because there are no standards for looking at art. Anyone can do it; poor, rich, ignorant, educated, man, woman, deaf, paralyzed. And many scholars claim that those who look at art with ignorant eyes are, in effect, ruining the art. Those ignorant people are also referenced in The Art of the Steal, they are those who understand the politics of posing as art-aficionados but when it comes to art, they look through it; not at it. This is not an uncommon notion, Elizabeth Prettejohn references her colleagues who say:
“they [the ignorant viewer] read into the forms of the work those facts and ideas for which they are capable of feeling emotion, and feel for them the emotions that they can feel- the ordinary emotions of life… Instead of going out on the stream of art into a new world of aesthetic experience, they turn a sharp corner and come straight home to the world of human interest. For them the significance of a work of art depends on what they bring to it; no new thing is added to their lives, only the old material is stirred.” (Prettejohn, pg 173)
This is not ownership of the art, this is renting it out for a while. The art-object is present for all to see, it gives every viewer a shot at doing something new with their past experience and their perception of the world. Whether the viewer accepts the invitation, is only known to the viewer. Even though many may see it, only a few truly own it.
Even though the viewer owns the art, the man responsible for the art was in control. Once Barnes returned back to his home town of Philadelphia, he exhibited the art in 1923. After the poor showing and bad reviews, Barnes was devastated and quickly closed the exhibit. He then instigated a plan where he would store the artworks in a building he would erect and turn into a school. Thus the Barnes Foundation was made. A building was erected, the art was hung, and students and teachers were selected. After a few years passed, America caught up with the European trend of art and people became vastly interested in the work that Barnes had acquired. Remembering bitterly how the work was initially received, Barnes guarded his collection jealously, and only allowed his students to view it. Two days out of the week, Barnes opened the foundation to the public, only allowing a few people in at a time, and mostly just upon initiation. He wanted to preserve the reverent nature of looking at art. And in order to do that, he felt he needed to reduce the frequency and number of times the art could be viewed.
The art is arranged in a curious way in the gallery. It is hung in the salon style, meaning that the art is hung from knee to ceiling. Other objects aside from the paintings are hung alongside, such as key locks and trinket boxes. Furniture and sculpture fill the room. It’s critical to note that when art is hung in this way, it means that the viewer is no longer having an organic experience. The reception of the art is glazed over by the interpretation of those who hung the exhibit. It is clear to the viewer of The Art of the Steal that the way Barnes hung the work was as important as the work itself. One patron discusses the act of roaming the Barnes gallery as “He arranged it in a way that makes the art speak to one another.” The issue that is raised is that art should not speak to one another: it should speak to the viewer. In the documentary, a former teacher discusses the fact that other museums with white walls offer what is known as a “shopping experience” where people who know nothing about art can pretend to patronize. That statement seems like fact, but is in actuality an opinion that is not commonly shared among the high-art community.
White walls, wood floors and nothing else facilitates a space where nothing comes presupposed. In that lack of presupposition, the art viewer is liberated to interpret and feel as they choose. Barnes’ gallery does the work of interpreting the art for the viewer, so all the viewer really has to do is arrive. The act of seeing things is so often taken for granted. But when individuals take a pilgrimage to see something deliberately, it becomes a sacred experience. Ideally, even the art viewer comes with metaphorical white walls and wood floors within themselves. Theodor Adorno discusses that experience when he says “the spectator must not project what transpires in himself onto the artwork in order to find himself confirmed, uplifted, and satisfied in it, but must, on the contrary, relinquish himself to the artwork, assimilate himself to it, and fulfill the work in its own terms. In other words, he must submit to the discipline of the work rather than demand that the artwork give him something.” (Adorno, pg 255. Italics added.) Yellow walls, key locks, and furniture do not accommodate that sacred experience of looking at something, and fulfilling it on the viewers own terms. This is one of many moments where it is clear that Barnes understood little of what it means to exhibit art. But, of course, at the time of the foundation’s conception, the art still belonged to him, and his aesthetic experience was his to control. Julian Bonds, a friend of Barnes simply stated “It was his art, why couldn’t he do what he wanted?”
After the death of John Johnson and the subsequent theft of his work that was willed to never be moved from his home, Barnes became scared that after his death his art would quickly be sold to inner city museums and his art-experience would be lost. Thus he began drafting a will that would secure the foundation after his death. In the will, he stipulates that the Barnes collection could never be moved from its location at the school, that the gallery could only be opened two days a week to a limited number of patrons, that no art could ever be sold, no art could ever be loaned and that the Barnes Foundation would always remain a school and would not be turned into a museum. An endowment of 10 million dollars was established and the foundation ran off its profits of $200,000 a year. His arch-nemesis was the Annenburgs; owners of the publication the Philadelphia Inquirer and patrons of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Barnes believed the PMA to be “a place for artistic prostitution” and greatly feared that his work would make its way there via the Annenbergs.
On July 24th, 1951 Barnes dies instantly in a car crash much to the dismay of his colleagues. But tears were quickly dried as the fate of the Barnes was now put into question. The collection was passed to Violette Di Mazia, a “disciple” of Barnes who taught French at the academy. She honored the wishes of Barnes and after thirty years, she too passed away. The Annenbergs became hostile toward the foundation and sued them under the pretense that the foundation was abusing their power as a non-profit organization and asked the courts to force the foundation to be turned into a museum. They lost that battle in court. A trustee of the Barnes foundation said that “The Barnes Foundation was a handmade thing in a machine world” which succinctly conveys the feelings that were brewing between the two art communities.
After Di Mazia’s death, the rights to own the collection were given to a board of five trustees, and after the fifth trustee died, the rights to appoint new trustees were given to a college named Lincoln University. The university was under financial difficulties, but nevertheless, ventured to find a board that would work with the foundation. They filled it with many influential art historians, and one lawyer as the president; Richard C. Glanton. Glanton’s business savvy was undeniable and he even indicated that he had no intention of “someone else ruling, while I reigned.” He understood the dire financial straits that plagued the foundation. He discovered the building as unlivable, and that the art was in jeopardy of damage because of it. This inspired him to take several steps that shocked the local art community and the other trustees. At Walter Annenburg’s suggestion, Glanton devised a plan to deaccession a few pieces of art that would be sold in order to bolster the foundation’s dwindling endowment. This was met with great criticism, so he fired the other trustees and hired new ones. When it was seen that it would be a bad political move to sell the art, he suggested that the art be put on tour for two years while the improvements on the Barnes could be made. It was approved, and the Barnes was shut down.
Both of these suggestions were in direct opposition to the will. But when art is put into physical jeopardy, it doesn’t matter. The business of art is the very thing that saves art. The creation of art must have a symbiotic relationship with the business of art as business ensures its destiny, whereas the creation of it ensures its demise. In terms of art conservation and restoration, any beginner in that field can testify that art is made to fall apart. Canvas, oil, tempera, iron, even a urinal is not made to last forever. So it is in the interest of the art to be tagged monetarily and to be auctioned to businesses and other interest groups that deem it expensive enough to invest in. If an investment is made, then capital will be set aside to ensure that the investment is not damaged. That means that it can be preserved for other viewings at other times.
With that in mind, it is clear to see that Glanton did the ethical thing. He didn’t do, perhaps, the legal thing; but certainly the ethical one. On its tour in Paris and Germany, Barnes was “met as the conquering hero” to the art community. And it is well deserved. The art that so many had only seen in poorly reprinted books was now available to them in a museum that could be accessed by all. There is no question that some patrons are caught up in the perception of art-patronage, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that those who deliberately came to see saw what they needed to see. And a man’s selfish will is a simple price to pay for millions to benefit.
In order to solidify this argument, let us consider what would have happened if the Barnes had been left to its own devices. The art would most certainly be ruined, if not destroyed. The natural lighting would pale the art; even oils can’t withstand that much exposure. The canvas would buckle on the stretcher bars and the medium would crack. Millions on top of millions of dollars would have to be invested in order to restore the paintings. Millions they didn’t have. Thus the art would fall into obscurity, the intimate connections that inspired the creation of the art would be forgotten, and the objects would eventually turn back into dust.
Albert Manguel discusses what would happen next perfectly: “If neither metal or marble will last, why not accept their transience as being, in itself, a monument?” He continues with a story Kiplin tells regarding a memorial for a soldier named Kurban Sahib and in order to memorialize him, it was required for one to look at his house. However a traveler indicates: “the house is not there, nor the well, nor the big tank or the fruit trees, nor the cattle. There is nothing at all… the rest is like a desert here –or my hand – or my heart. Empty… all empty!” (Manguel, pg 252) Then Manguel says the most important thing: “Emptiness, as the Romans understood when they razed Carthage, is also a memorial.”
It is clear that emptiness would have been memorialized in the case of the Barnes Foundation, and not the art that could have been saved. The empty rooms, the empty hallways, the empty frames would have all stood as a memorial that one man’s pride trumps a million peoples true intimate ownership. Business is, on many occasions, unethical. It’s unavoidable. Money and ignorant patronage can also contribute to the decline of art. But in this case, business tactics were the only thing that saved the art that needs to be seen.
Binh Dahn
“We Die a Little, They Die a Little”
Perspectives on a Recent Exhibition of Binh Danh's Work
In a room that accommodated only ten people, Binh Danh conversed with a select group of students regarding his recent work with chlorophyll prints: the transfer of photographic images onto live plants through the process of photosynthesis. A negative of a photo is attached to a living plant leaf and as photosynthesis occurs, the clear portions of the negative allows light and keeps that portion of the leaf alive, whereas the darkened portions of the negative blocks the light and ultimately terminates the photosynthesis process. The result is a positive image on a living plant.
Danh’s common focus for his work is death. His recent body of work has been to transfer images of Vietnam refugees whom were mass murdered on a small island onto chlorophyll prints. He indicated what would happen if the people in these pictures were forgotten: “we die a little, they die a little.” Perhaps, Danh posits that nothing ever truly dies. As his work on chlorophyll prints evolves it appears that his intention is not to kill plants, but to alter their purpose.
His work is not unique in that respect: he joins a long line of artists whom have endeavored to alter the purpose of objects, such as Man Ray’s The Gift. The great difference between the two artists is Ray’s aim to render objects useless, which is the opposite goal of Danh: to liberate the viewer’s pre-conceived notions about a leaf by adding more function rather than reducing it.
The most compelling thematic element of his work is the tendency for objects that are eternally produced- such as leaves with the changing of the season- to evolve so that it mimics contemporary life. As seen in his piece Camouflage, the leaf mimics American camouflage used to hide soldiers in the Vietnam jungle. The irony is that this particular camouflage was used to mimic the surrounding leaves and by printing man-made camouflage patterns onto the leaf, the leaf is made to mimic itself. Danh imprints the inorganic pattern onto something organic, which puts the purpose of both the camouflage and the leaf into question. And one is compelled to ask: what is hiding from what?
A final aspect of his exhibit was his play with the word “loss.” The entire exhibition was chlorophyll prints for dead soldiers, murdered refugees, and forgotten Vietnam landscapes. Everywhere it seemed as though loss was his overlying theme. It was easy to mistake it as such, however, he mentioned a stack of letters his parents carried with them on their way to America: “I could tell that a worm had eaten through several of the letters, and I wondered what happened to the paper, because I know it didn’t disappear.” The overlying theme of the exhibition was not loss, but metamorphosis. Through the use of Danh’s chlorophyll prints, leaves and images are only altered because nothing disappears.
4/30/2011
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