A Slap in the Face (continued)

Francois Boucher, The Fountain of Love 1748

Jan Steen - Courting Couple || this is probably one of his early pieces, its oil on panel. It is commonly referred to as "Merry Couple".

Both of these images strike a chord with me. I found them while I was browsing through Baroque art on the internet, and I immediately became drawn to them only to look away and purposefully avoid them. I felt irritated by the images, even jealous, but not by the skill of the artist or the style like I normally would. It was the subject matter that really got to me. Why are both of the couples in these pieces so unfairly happy? It is as though they do not have a care in the world, or like the world doesn’t even exist around them. I almost remember what that felt like. I almost remember, and that is part of why these images have such a strong effect on my emotions. The other reason is that I have not allowed myself to really be upset about a very difficult time in my life that I went through recently. I have forced myself to pretend that I am okay, that life goes on and I don’t have time to stop and cry, I smile so my Mom doesn’t worry; it has gotten so bad that I can’t even cry when I am alone anymore. This is not to say that when I am out and about and I am happy that I am faking it- oh no, I have had lots of wonderful, glorious, blissful moments where life manages to distract me from myself. It is the moments that I am alone, or hear a specific song on the radio, or see something that brings back a memory that I feel it.

There have been many moments lately that I have just waited for the tears to come, but they don’t. That is not normal for me at all. Instead I am left with this ache, this gnawing ache in my chest. I see these images and the emotions and feelings and pain only deepen, but I still don’t cry. I still don’t let it out. I just hold it in, pass on by, don’t let it phase me. You could say that I am afraid of letting myself down. I told myself I would never fall in love, but I did. I fell hard and fast, for the first time in my life envisioning some sort of romantic future for myself and another person. I saw myself sharing, compromising, loving. It was beautiful, and honest, but it wasn’t easy. There was a distance, and we had to fight to see each other. There was relational chaos between our loved ones around us. We both fought for so long, but in the end he gave up on us. I can’t say that I blame him, because I still am not sure that I was ever worth the trouble. I somehow hardened myself even worse than before I met him. I tell myself I never wanted love like that anyway.

Somewhere from seeing this art, reading the quote I posted in the first part of this, deciding to blog about my personal experiences with these two paintings and share a little bit of my life, I have finally found my tears again. I discovered how much I actually miss what we had, no matter how wrong or right it might be, and no matter how crazy people might think I am. I am not saying that I would ever go back, but I genuinely miss how things were and who I was before I felt so completely broken. I have no idea where to go from here, or how to fix it, or if I even can. I don’t even know if I want to. As much as I try to just “be an adult” about it, Mom is worried about me. She says I’ve changed. That is the scariest part.

The hardest part about all of this is that I almost saw it coming. I guess almost isn’t ever good enough.

Have you ever really wondered why you might not like a painting for a reason other than what it looks like? Have you ever felt this way about art? If you are willing to share your experiences with art and how viewing it and getting through all of your negative emotions can be therapeutic, or not therapeutic depending on your views and experiences, I welcome you to do that now. Have a virtual cookie and make yourself comfortable here. We can go deep, or we can stay in shallow waters- the choice is yours. I would really like to read your opinions though, if you wouldn’t mind posting.

Contemplating Art

What does it really mean to contemplate something? I like words, and I know through reading from context that “contemplating” is a form of thinking/looking. I want to really do it justice though, so for the sake of my researching I am looking up the definition. This is what I have discovered according to dictionary.com:

–verb (used with object)

1. to look at or view with continued attention; observe or study thoughtfully: to contemplate the stars.

2. to consider thoroughly; think fully or deeply about: to contemplate a difficult problem.

3. to have as a purpose; intend.

4. to have in view as a future event: to contemplate buying a new car.

–verb (used without object)

5. to think studiously; meditate; consider deliberately.

With this knowledge how am I supposed to contemplate art? How does contemplating art connect to reacting physically to a piece of art? As a viewer I think that the first two definitions are most important, but as an artist I could use all of these definitions. Right now, as a student of Art History, I am going to focus more on the first two (as a viewer).

If I were to contemplate The Letter by Vermeer (1666 Oil on canvas) I would probably begin with the overall theme, or even the subject matter closest to me. At first I would be drawn to the two women, but in an effort I would contemplate the image piece by piece. I would see the papers in the front right hand corner and I would wonder if the woman played by ear, as if to somehow explain the tossed look of the papers and why they are not beside or in front of her. I would think that she used the sheet music as a learning tool, but probably quickly memorized the music since it does look used but she isn’t using it. I would see the curtain and I would think she was playing in solitude, or at least looking for peace while she played, before she was interrupted by what I would guess was “the help”.

I would notice the basket and wonder if the maid was doing laundry when she received the letter to pass on to the woman and just carried it wither her, placing it on the ground to talk to the more regal woman. I would wonder about the letter, and what it said. I am unsure of the content because the maid looks almost pleased, whereas the woman receiving the letter looks unsure or shocked in a less-than-pleased way. It could be a love letter, or a letter from a loved one saying it’s over. Something else I would notice is how casually they are both carrying themselves. Could it be possible that even though there is probably a contrast in status these two women are friends? Or perhaps the reason the maid looks so pleased is because she has something to rub into this other woman’s face, and the other woman is normally very ignorant. By seeing the shoes on the floor at the entryway to the door and the broom I would guess that this room was possibly cleaned not long before the well-dressed woman entered to play in it. She was either asked to remove her shoes, or did it by choice. Possibly. I would imagine that I would do a lot of interpreting while I contemplate, as you have seen, because I can’t seem to keep my mind from interpreting things around me.

After some time I would be left feeling like I am inside the painting, with a physical warmth in my body if it is a welcoming scene or a colder feeling if it is less welcoming. The more I would contemplate meanings, techniques, actions, and color in the paintings or other pieces of art the more I would feel it’s presence around me. Some works of art just seem to reach out and touch me, demanding their attention. This is a much more subtle way that I “feel” the art on me. It is almost like feeling with my eyes, as if I were to run barefoot across grass, knowing it is there, and feeling it’s life more with each step.

Bernini: My Almost Boyfriend

Bernini: My Almost Boyfriend
(except he’s dead)

I remember gasping in awe at my first sight of “The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.” I have not been fortunate enough to see it in person, but the imagery I saw in Simon Schama’s film was breathtaking. From this work of intricate detail and exquisite emotion I fell for the sculptor. I was living in the 1600s, and I was painting his portrait because I loved him so. When Bernini was only eight years old he received his first tip, and was called “the next Michelangelo.” The man was debonair, suave, intelligent, well-to-do, gorgeous, and charismatic. He was, put simply, “Mr. Charming.”

Bernini had it all, including an enemy. This came as no shock to me, because I was placing Bernini on a pedestal of heroism. Every hero in the story has a nemesis, and this nemesis fit the bill. He was grumpy, anti-social, very jealous, and his name was Borromini. On some level, I liked him immediately- even though I was being swept away by Bernini. Borromini was a very talented architect, and became horribly upset when Bernini was selected to come up with the designs for St. Peter’s Basilica in 1624. Borromini was better suited for the job, but they chose the popular one.

At this turn of events I started to develop a funny taste in my mouth toward Bernini, and it turned quickly sour when he sprinkled salt in Borromini’s wound by asking for his help.  Ha! I would not be very happy if my talents were tossed aside for somebody more popular, only to be asked for help without credit afterward. My fantasy was quickly fading, and it does not get better.

In 1637 Bernini was at the height of his affair with Costanza, the wife of his assistant. He sculpted a bust, and it is said to be carved with a passion like that which he felt for her. Mr. Perfect isn’t so perfect, after all. He began to hear rumor that Costanza and his younger brother Luigi were having an affair, and he became very angry. Not many people knew about his horrible temper, but it becomes very obvious that he has one. When he sees his brother leave Costanza’s house one evening, he violently chases his brother to St. Peter’s Basilica where he nearly kills him. He also hired somebody to slash the beautiful face of Costanza.

It was when I realized these things that I determined Bernini was not my perfect boyfriend anymore, but that I still had a lot to learn from him. As an artist he was so full of passion and life! He was so full that it must have found a way to ooze out of him into his work. His art was breathed to life by something inside of him, not only his tremendous skill. He put sweat, personality, and blood into his masterpieces. He seemed arrogant at times, but the twinkling part of me that was so fixated by him at the beginning of the film still likes to think of it as determination. He knew what he wanted, and he would do anything to get it. He was determined to be the best, and to be the best he had to act like it.

Even when times seemed terrible, even when he was publicly humiliated and no longer being commissioned by the church, he never stopped creating. He never gave up on his dreams. He never stopped doing what he loved. Even though he did some crazy things, I would like to learn that from him. As well as Borromini lived his life, though not as successful as Bernini, he gave up by committing suicide. At least Bernini kept fighting to create and share intense emotions with the world.