Sunday, July 20, 2008
Intent
So, class is over. But I still want to use this space for continued musings on Art and the like. This is just me stating my intent to the universe. Expect some more entries soon.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Directed Entry: Creating Perspective
Discuss an example of a contemporary piece that uses the framework we discussed with "Girl in Blue Armchair." The perspective created at the point of production influences the perspective taken at the point of consumption.
It's easy for an artist to make a piece of artwork from their own perspective, since he or she is the one physically creating the piece. However, an artist can achieve a greater level of empathy when taking into account the perspective of the subject, manipulating the relationship between creator, subject, and viewer and inextricably weaving the audience's emotional reaction into the presentation of the piece through the gateway of the subject.
An example of contemporary work that uses this framework is the series of portraits photographer Seiichi Furuya took of his late wife Christine throughout their marriage. The three photos that stuck out in my mind from a viewing months ago at the SFMOMA are from three very different emotional periods in Christine's life, chronicling her journey from happy new wife, to quiet introspection, to outright depression. The photos are intimate in their depiction of Christine, and you can't help but empathize with both her joy and pain.
Izu, 1978 from the series Portrait of Christine by Seiichi Furuya
The first photo, taken in Izu is almost cliché in its resemblance to a casual snapshot; but that casualness is what draws the viewer in. You can almost see the moment beforehand, husband and wife walking along the beach, him stopping to take a snapshot so they can remember this happy moment. His happiness is reflected in her stance, her face, her smile, and he in turn reflects joy back at her. They're like a pair of mirrors facing each other, repeating the emotion between them into infinity; and by stepping in front of the print, we in take Furuya's place and are caught in the same infinite web of joy that was captured on film so long ago.
Graz, 1979 from the series Portrait of Christine by Seiichi Furuya
This second photo might be the best example of embodying the perspective of the subject. Much more intimate and introspective than the first photo, here we have Christine fully submerged in the bath with only her face showing. The black and white print also lends to the intimate feel of the photo. Looking into her eyes and contemplating the multi-faceted look on her face, it's easy to lose oneself in the emotion of the moment. With no human connection except this close up view of Christine's face to tie us to the portrait, we're all but forced to experience the photo from her perspective; and to experience the range of emotions she must have been feeling at the time this photo was taken.
Venice, 1985 from the series Portrait of Christine by Seiichi Furuya
This last photo by Furuya is the most powerful of the three. Taken the year Christine threw herself to her death, it is a stark look at her depression. Again, the photo is cropped close with only Christine to focus on. With no other point of reference, we can't help but curl up with her, feeling the darkness pushing in on all sides while her surrounding box of light gets smaller and smaller. Out of the three photos mentioned here, this is the only one where Christine is not looking out at the viewer. In a way that dismissal of her audience--and her dismissal of Furuya, who photographed her--reinforces her dismissal of all things good in the world. There's nothing posed, false, or contrived about this shot. There's only raw emotion, which coupled with the minimal accessories, leads one to fall into this specific moment of Christine's misery.
I think in order to create a piece of art which can be viewed from the perspective of the subject rather than the artist, the artist must be willing (and skilled enough) to let go of the more assertive aspects of themselves and embody the subject they're trying to depict. In the case of Furuya, he let go of himself in his love for Christine, and managed to capture her beautiful essence on film, sharing her life with us in a very matter-of-fact manner after her tragic end. It is in this simple presentation where we as audience members can also be free to lose ourselves in this woman--what she saw, what she felt--for the moment letting go of objectivity, and experiencing each photograph from her unique perspective.
It's easy for an artist to make a piece of artwork from their own perspective, since he or she is the one physically creating the piece. However, an artist can achieve a greater level of empathy when taking into account the perspective of the subject, manipulating the relationship between creator, subject, and viewer and inextricably weaving the audience's emotional reaction into the presentation of the piece through the gateway of the subject.
An example of contemporary work that uses this framework is the series of portraits photographer Seiichi Furuya took of his late wife Christine throughout their marriage. The three photos that stuck out in my mind from a viewing months ago at the SFMOMA are from three very different emotional periods in Christine's life, chronicling her journey from happy new wife, to quiet introspection, to outright depression. The photos are intimate in their depiction of Christine, and you can't help but empathize with both her joy and pain.
Izu, 1978 from the series Portrait of Christine by Seiichi Furuya
The first photo, taken in Izu is almost cliché in its resemblance to a casual snapshot; but that casualness is what draws the viewer in. You can almost see the moment beforehand, husband and wife walking along the beach, him stopping to take a snapshot so they can remember this happy moment. His happiness is reflected in her stance, her face, her smile, and he in turn reflects joy back at her. They're like a pair of mirrors facing each other, repeating the emotion between them into infinity; and by stepping in front of the print, we in take Furuya's place and are caught in the same infinite web of joy that was captured on film so long ago.
Graz, 1979 from the series Portrait of Christine by Seiichi Furuya
This second photo might be the best example of embodying the perspective of the subject. Much more intimate and introspective than the first photo, here we have Christine fully submerged in the bath with only her face showing. The black and white print also lends to the intimate feel of the photo. Looking into her eyes and contemplating the multi-faceted look on her face, it's easy to lose oneself in the emotion of the moment. With no human connection except this close up view of Christine's face to tie us to the portrait, we're all but forced to experience the photo from her perspective; and to experience the range of emotions she must have been feeling at the time this photo was taken.
Venice, 1985 from the series Portrait of Christine by Seiichi Furuya
This last photo by Furuya is the most powerful of the three. Taken the year Christine threw herself to her death, it is a stark look at her depression. Again, the photo is cropped close with only Christine to focus on. With no other point of reference, we can't help but curl up with her, feeling the darkness pushing in on all sides while her surrounding box of light gets smaller and smaller. Out of the three photos mentioned here, this is the only one where Christine is not looking out at the viewer. In a way that dismissal of her audience--and her dismissal of Furuya, who photographed her--reinforces her dismissal of all things good in the world. There's nothing posed, false, or contrived about this shot. There's only raw emotion, which coupled with the minimal accessories, leads one to fall into this specific moment of Christine's misery.
I think in order to create a piece of art which can be viewed from the perspective of the subject rather than the artist, the artist must be willing (and skilled enough) to let go of the more assertive aspects of themselves and embody the subject they're trying to depict. In the case of Furuya, he let go of himself in his love for Christine, and managed to capture her beautiful essence on film, sharing her life with us in a very matter-of-fact manner after her tragic end. It is in this simple presentation where we as audience members can also be free to lose ourselves in this woman--what she saw, what she felt--for the moment letting go of objectivity, and experiencing each photograph from her unique perspective.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Viewer vs Participant
When I heard our paper assignment was to visit the DeYoung or Legion of Honor museums and write about the pieces in the collections, I was fairly pleased. I love museums and have been looking for an opportunity to explore SF's fine art museums since moving here about a year ago. So, needless to say, I was excited when I walked in the doors of the Legion of Honor Tuesday morning.
The first thought the came to mind once the excitement had died down was the relative size of the museum. I don't know if was because I had built this up to be some big thing in my mind, or if it was because one of the last museums I went to was the Met in NYC--but, the Legion of Honor is tiny. Unless I somehow missed the secret rooftop gallery, out of the many museums I've frequented, I think the Legion of Honor is one of the smallest.
The second thing that caught my attention was the abundance of signs warning patrons to not touch the artwork. I realize such signs are present in every gallery, but for some reason, I seemed especially attuned to their presence this day. Round each corner I turned, beneath every work of sculpture, from the corner of my eye I would spy the ubiquitous plaques displaying over and over "please do not touch." And it got me to thinking about how the casual artgoer's relationship with the medium is mostly visual. We experience the world with all five of our senses; how are we to fully immerse ourselves in a work of art if we're forced to refrain from making use of three to four of them in our observation? Obviously, I understand the dangers of allowing people's five year olds to come up and rub their little gooey faces all over a 200 year old Goya, but there's something to be said for fully experiencing art, as opposed to just looking at it.
One of the most memorable exhibits where I've had the chance to immerse myself in the artwork was an installation piece at the Mass MoCA titled Corpus by Ann Hamilton. The piece was the entirety of a large, expansive room, the walls bare white and windows covered in pink translucent paper. Speakers shaped like megaphones dangled from the ceiling in two rows, lowering in and out, emitting a garbled, ethereal mix of sound. Following the speakers were pneumatic devices dropping onion paper from above at random intervals, each release marked by a quiet hissing sigh. The floor was littered with paper which had accumulated over the weeks since the installation's opening, crackling as visitors shuffle through the space and adding their presence to the aural landscape. This installation was not something you just viewed with your eyes, but an experience you partook in with your ears and skin and nose as well (and I'm sure you could probably taste the onion paper if you really wanted), and as such had an almost sacred quality to it.
In a work like Corpus you become a participant in the art, as opposed to simply a viewer. As mentioned in lecture, Delecroix stated that 'a piece of art should serve as a bridge between the spectator and the artist,' but I feel that can't be fully accomplished without experiencing the piece on more than just a visual level. You need to get your face right up to the canvas, feel the brush strokes, smell the paint, listen to your hands moving over the surface. Follow the patterns and pathways the artist described so many years ago. Only that kind of detailed survey of will bring you anywhere close to the mindset of the artist who created the piece. If I ever get the inclination to create art for the masses, I hope that's the kind of work I'll make--the kind where you can immerse yourself fully in the art, and take away a little piece of the artist with you.
The first thought the came to mind once the excitement had died down was the relative size of the museum. I don't know if was because I had built this up to be some big thing in my mind, or if it was because one of the last museums I went to was the Met in NYC--but, the Legion of Honor is tiny. Unless I somehow missed the secret rooftop gallery, out of the many museums I've frequented, I think the Legion of Honor is one of the smallest.
The second thing that caught my attention was the abundance of signs warning patrons to not touch the artwork. I realize such signs are present in every gallery, but for some reason, I seemed especially attuned to their presence this day. Round each corner I turned, beneath every work of sculpture, from the corner of my eye I would spy the ubiquitous plaques displaying over and over "please do not touch." And it got me to thinking about how the casual artgoer's relationship with the medium is mostly visual. We experience the world with all five of our senses; how are we to fully immerse ourselves in a work of art if we're forced to refrain from making use of three to four of them in our observation? Obviously, I understand the dangers of allowing people's five year olds to come up and rub their little gooey faces all over a 200 year old Goya, but there's something to be said for fully experiencing art, as opposed to just looking at it.
One of the most memorable exhibits where I've had the chance to immerse myself in the artwork was an installation piece at the Mass MoCA titled Corpus by Ann Hamilton. The piece was the entirety of a large, expansive room, the walls bare white and windows covered in pink translucent paper. Speakers shaped like megaphones dangled from the ceiling in two rows, lowering in and out, emitting a garbled, ethereal mix of sound. Following the speakers were pneumatic devices dropping onion paper from above at random intervals, each release marked by a quiet hissing sigh. The floor was littered with paper which had accumulated over the weeks since the installation's opening, crackling as visitors shuffle through the space and adding their presence to the aural landscape. This installation was not something you just viewed with your eyes, but an experience you partook in with your ears and skin and nose as well (and I'm sure you could probably taste the onion paper if you really wanted), and as such had an almost sacred quality to it.
In a work like Corpus you become a participant in the art, as opposed to simply a viewer. As mentioned in lecture, Delecroix stated that 'a piece of art should serve as a bridge between the spectator and the artist,' but I feel that can't be fully accomplished without experiencing the piece on more than just a visual level. You need to get your face right up to the canvas, feel the brush strokes, smell the paint, listen to your hands moving over the surface. Follow the patterns and pathways the artist described so many years ago. Only that kind of detailed survey of will bring you anywhere close to the mindset of the artist who created the piece. If I ever get the inclination to create art for the masses, I hope that's the kind of work I'll make--the kind where you can immerse yourself fully in the art, and take away a little piece of the artist with you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
