Understanding (Modern) Art. -The Emperor has no clothes.

One of the enduring myths about the so called modern "art" is the need (?) to understand it. According to its apologists without understanding there is no real or proper appreciation of the painting/sculpture that one is looking at. In other words a process that naturally begins and ends at the heart must begin in our brain. That means we have already made a wrong start. I remember a quote from Renoir, a painter who is not a favourite of mine but who, nevertheless, hit the nail right on its head when he said: "... art is about emotion, if art needs to be explained it is no longer art." With these words in mind we may proceed to unravel this web of lies that pretends to create something out of nothing.

The innate desire of the European soul for an honest, truthful representation of Nature in all its aspects has resulted in what we call Western art; a process whose origins can be traced back to the XV century in Italy and that reached its zenith in the late XIX century with the striking realism developed by masters like Meissonier, Leibl, Bonnat and Repin. Like all genuine manifestations of an unpolluted culture, it does not need any explanation to make it understandable. It is a feeling born of a deep yearning for beauty and harmony. A typical Flemish or Dutch still-life of the XVII century could, and can be, fully appreciated and enjoyed without any need of obtuse explanations about its "psychological meaning" or the "state of mind of the artist"; misleading expressions that have served to confuse people, pervert our appreciation of art and, last but not least, to justify the production of hundreds of books, some of them fairly expensive, which are not worth the paper they are printed on.

Some could, or would, say that this is not exactly true; that many Dutch still-lives, for example, carry a subtle but clear religious message expressed through the use of certain emblematic flowers or objects. The purpose of these subtle allegories was to remind the viewer the basic tenets of the Calvinist faith. This kind of painting could only be fully appreciated by educated connoisseurs who were familiar with emblematic iconography. Whereas all this is very true, it does not detract from the fact that the primeval virtue of a Dutch still life was its intrinsic beauty (as it is still today). Those who try to use the case of the allegorical Dutch still-life as an example of sophisticated art in need of elucidation miss completely the point when they forget that this genre (still-life) was already a firmly established and thoroughly popular Netherlandish form of art. The fact that many wealthy and, usually, highly educated Dutch art collectors commissioned large and sumptuous still-lives, devoid of any religious or moral messages, makes very clear that the main reason behind their commissions was an aesthetic one.

Some could also say that most of European paintings that represent historical or mythological episodes fall into the same category; that is, they need to be "explained" since most of its narrative content remains a mystery to the average viewer who does not possess an encyclopedic knowledge. That is also wrong since the main reason that makes us to stop and stand in front of a painting is its beauty; expressed in its skilful composition, sound draughtsmanship and beautiful colouring. We do not need to know Greek mythology to enjoy Frederick Leighton's Daedalus and Icarus (Buscot Park, Oxfordshire) or Perseus and Andromeda (Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool), neither do we need to know who was Napoleon to admire his magnificent equestrian portrait by David known as Napoleon crossing the Alps (Louvre). It is irrelevant if we know, or if we do not, who was St. Matthew when we look at Carlo Dolci's beautiful painting St. Matthew writing the Gospel (Paul Getty Museum). Needless to say the same principle applies to sculpture. One does not have to be a Catholic to be moved by Bernini's masterpiece The Ecstasy of St. Teresa (Church of Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome), neither an expert in Greek mythology to admire his superb Apollo and Daphne (Galleria Borghese). We could go on indefinitely.

European traditional painting and sculpture have this attribute in common: They appeal to our senses because they are a mirror of Nature; therefore we can easily identify ourselves with the persons or objects portrayed, because they belong to the same three-dimensional world we inhabit. It is their formal beauty, conjured by the magical brush, or chisel, of the artist, that attracts us to them. The degree of knowledge of History, Classical mythology, Christian theology and symbolism that we may, have does not have any relevance in the actual enjoyment of the work of art in itself. It can only enhance our critical appreciation of it as a representation of a certain historical or mythological episode, but it would never replace or influence our aesthetic judgment. We would like it, or not, purely on emotional terms; and to do that we do not need any explanations or theories. There is nothing to "understand" but plenty to feel.

Because of its intrinsic ugliness and lack of purpose according to our traditional concept of beauty and decorum, the phenomenon known as modern art needs an intellectual structure or theory to support something that, left to itself, would disappear among derisory laughter. Hence this need "to understand" it. Once we have been foolish enough to accept the validity of such nonsense we are lending ourselves open to an unbearable barrage of words that have precisely the same purpose of the artillery shells employed in a real one: that is to leave you in a state of shock (if they did not kill you before). This display of pretentious intellectualism has a purpose: to convince you that you are ignorant and unable to "understand" modern art; therefore you need tuition. This will take the shape of flashy exhibition catalogues or "serious" art books that are a combination of Freudian nonsense and wishful thinking. Since modern art is about anything you can imagine except art (in the classical sense), it can be anything; in fact is anything you may want it to be. If we carry out a survey among 500 people that have been shown an abstract painting and asked them their opinion about the subject of it, most probably we would end up with 500 different answers ranging from: "It is my mother's cat ..." to "it is an expression of the artist's anger against the destruction of the rainforest ..." More likely, most of them would agree that "it is a beautiful painting" because there is nothing as embarrassing as to confess our ignorance; such is the effect of the modernist brainwashing techniques. Very few would have the courage to say: "it is rubbish" following the time-honoured practice of calling things by their name.

Since modern art is no more than "a high sounding nothing", to use Metternich's famous expression, this nothing needs a perpetual choir of apologists and elucidators, the noisier the better, to ensure that the crowds of pretentious fools that visit modern art exhibitions, and buy the ridiculously expensive catalogues, keep doing so. On the other hand it must be said that this whole farcical structure rests on solid foundations: the unbearable stupidity of the snobbish Western middle-class nitwit that would die before admitting he does not understand a word of what is said in that useless art book he, or she, has just purchased and that would end on the coffee table, to the sheer delight of like-minded visitors (isn't it magnificent...?). Once this people are forced into a tight corner, in a metaphorical sense of course, they either fell apart or start getting angry at you. The fact is: these people are living in a state of perpetual contradiction. Let's begin for the expression modern art which is an oxymoron, because art (according to The Concise Oxford Dictionary) means: "Skill, especially human skill as opposed to nature; skilful execution as an object in itself; skill applied to imitation & design, as in painting etc." The only skill exercised by the modern "masters" is the one applied to marketing and public relations, because without the support of a huge network of subservient art critics, cynical art dealers, powerful museums and institutions that have great interest in its promotion, this glorified high sounding nothing would have disappeared long time ago destroyed by its own sick nature.

It's not just what I see before me in the museum, I come to a conclusion about an artwork based on the three qualities the artist--and the artist alone--owns when he decides to take brush to canvas (or whatever means he is using to construct an artwork): that is to say, the concept, technique and execution.

Looking at an artwork, we don't necessarily know who or what the artists's muse was----although a still life, landscape, or a portrait hints at that; it's nice to feel the serenity such paintings inspire.

Now I would not necessarily admire Broken Kilometer by de Maria, but there is an inventiveness about the work that titillates one's fancy. It stimulates the mind, makes all kinds of questions come to the fore, mostly, "What in heaven's name gave the artist his inspiration?" And it surely makes the viewer laugh in its sheer uselesness. In that, it has some value.

The massive Guernica makes an impact just in the sheer size of the canvas Picasso chose to make his anti-war statement. Trying to dissect the abstractions created, Picasso was making an ugly subject more ugly.

The botticelli may have the meanings you attribute to it. More importantly however it's a good looking painting. (if you like that style)

The Picasso: your comment about the woman and child. There's a woman and child in that mess?

Obviously the picasso would never make it over the sofa

The statutes however are wonderful.

I come to a conclusion about an artwork based on the three qualities the artist--and the artist alone--owns when he decides to take brush to canvas (or whatever means he is using to construct an artwork): that is to say, the concept, technique and execution.

You are absolutely right. I just choose different words: form and content. The content is the concept; the form is the technique and execution thereof. Or, as I say in a more down-to-earth manner, what the work looks like (form) and what it means (content). All are essential.

I'm glad your interest is piqued by the Broken Kilomter. I'm not sure he had a great sense of humor, but maybe I'm wrong. I think you may be more open-minded than I am.

Are you an artist?

Neither did Emma in the back seat.

Ed Kienholz has actually done some pretty intense works. They evoke a great deal of feelings, from nostalgia to horror, and they are often quite political. (Yeah, leftist politics.)

Kienholz State Hospital and Sollie. Both in the late 1960s, or thereabouts.

Both of these were built rooms in which you looked to see these lonely, depressed men. I saw them at a retrospective where one work, Roxy's was about a house of prostitution in New Orleans, a place where fathers took their young teen-age sons for their first experience. Very dreary, room-sized piece with the "women" characters as slot machines, etc. Some viewers had children with them; the exhibiton should have been rated PG-13 or R. Very intense. But that piece has stayed with me. He communicated what he wanted to. It was a good piece of art, as are all his pieces.

I tend to "enjoy" more positive pieces as a rule. But you don't forget a Kienholz.

Do you even like the later Michelangelo Pieta? Pretty abstract, I think, as Jesus seems to sink into the grave. And yet I think I like it better; it's more emotional, despite the abstraction.

The earlier one is far better. It looks like what it should be. The later one looks as if it's not quite done yet. As I mentioned in one of the earlier threads I really like Rodin (Hope I spelled that right) primarily because of his attention to detail. The guy did wonderful things with hands.

I like your taste; Rodin is awesome. But he also moves away from exact details toward expressiveness. Take a look at the Adam as changed in the Gates of Hell, at the top. Adam has no hands and has been repeated for emphasis. He seems to be pointing down, down to the Hell below. Pretty dramatic, especially considering his fall from grace.

He also allows blobs of the bronze to stay on the pieces after casting (i.e. the blobs are not polished off). This is a bit like the painterly brushstrokes of van Gogh; it gives more emotional power to the pieces.

Rodin's Gates of Hell, Adam, Balzac Note how Adam's hands have changed for the triple ensemble at the top of the Gates of Hell. Also note the blobs on Balzac, especially on the bridge of his nose.

Finally, I think the swarming bodies on the main doors are a great image of the struggle of Hell.

The Voynich Manuscript! There's a great essay by Terrence McKenna about the Voynich in which he calls it "the perfect occult artifact; the book nobody can read" and as such, it can be anything we imagine it to be. Actually translating it (if indeed it's not just a very clever hoax) is likely to be a disappointment.

"I come to a conclusion about an artwork based on the three qualities...concept, technique and execution.

That is a nice way of saying it. But, IMO, while the concept of Broken Kilometer *may* be clever, the artistic skill is not evident. The technique and execution might be sort of OK in terms of carpentry, but I can't see that from the picture.

My point is that while I contemplate all artworks in the light of the criteria, the three individual values are sometimes not all well-represented in a single work. One or two of the three may stand out more than the others.

In Broken Kilometer, the artist concentrates on neatness as the aesthetic---the work's neatness is a standout in its execution----neatness inspires serenity in the viewer. It is rather amusing to contemplate the artist dreaming up the concept. Maybe he's a runner, and gets through it by breaking up the mileage in sets as he runs, to accomplish his goals? Which might also have motivated his choice of materials---he might do his running on a boardwalk (grin).

Quite a while ago I lived in the DC area. So on one particular Saturday I was down on the mall walking through the museums. I'm not really an artsy type but when you're in the capital and you have time it's almost a duty to check out the national galleries.

Well this particular weekend happend to be during the Rodin exhibit where they had the "Gates of Hell" assembled. I don't remember if it was the first time or the first time in a long time but it was an awesome exhibition. Opened with a sculpture garden out in the foyer of pieces from his time frame. Don't remember any of the artists but the sculpture was wonderful (I do like sculpture). The exhibit included his hand studies and sketches and most of his works. (All the pieces to the gates, Burghers of Calais, The Kiss (perhaps my favorite of all time) and lots more. I spent the better part of the day there.

Any of those pieces would go over the sofa. Of course I'd have to really raise the ceiling to get the "Gates of Hell" in.

while the concept of Broken Kilometer *may* be clever, the artistic skill is not evident

With all the minimal works (of Serra, Judd, etc.), the artist often uses a factory to make the works. I'm sure de Maria did that too. Sometimes they can call up the factory and say "I want six sheets of steel, 6' on each side, made into a cube." And they get a piece that Tony Smith called Die.

Then they write PAGES about these works, as if to justify them. "Die" could refer to a single dice, a coffin (since it is 6'), etc. Very clever. But without technique displayed by the artist, as per your criteria.

A smaller one of those "Die" things would make a great end table, in fact I contemplated making a couple cubes for end tables in our living room, about 25 or so inches on a side. I might have called them art, in a minor and basic way, since learning the cube, etc. is basic to art anyway, but surely not great art. As I keep saying, even the masters art can be reduced to basic geometric shapes. I do admit, though, that cubes would look rather better than most end tables, which is saying something. But do they belong in a museum in and of themselves? Perhaps as end tables, but not IMO as art pieces. Of course just the scale of that one you posted kind of gets your attention. But I don't think that just because someone is goofing with you a little, his stuff gets to be great art.

I will say that the craftsmanship of art doesn't have to be the work of the artist per se. Architecture is surely an art, but the technique part is carried out by the contractor. But there is a little more skill involved in designing a building than in designing a cube or a broken kilometer.

Meanwhile, once again, I offer the E and F series of locomotives by EMD, designed during the streamline and art deco era of the 30's, when even toasters could follow that aesthetic. I'm unable to Google up the name of the designers of the body style for the locomotive, but you can bet that they thought of themselves as artists. With justification. My opinion is that the E and F locomotives are vastly more deserving of a place in the MOMA than the "Die" or the "Broken Kilometer." Of course, for all I know, MOMA does have an EMD design, at least in image form.

"Maybe he's a runner, and gets through it by breaking up the mileage in sets as he runs, to accomplish his goals? Which might also have motivated his choice of materials---he might do his running on a boardwalk (grin)."

Well, I'm kind of delighted by the way your mind works on this. Kind of gives it some more meaning, anyway. Still not good art, though, IMO. The columns are a nice touch.

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