Investigating Art and the Spiritual, Week 8: Ritualistic: Rouault, Joseph Beuys, Tom Friedman

Georges Rouault, Le Pierrot sage, 1943, oil on paper

Joseph Beuys, I love America and America Loves Me, action, 1972

Tom Friedman, Untitled, soap and hair, 1999.

Tom Friedman, Untitled, toothpicks.

Ritualistic: Rouault, Joseph Beuys, Tom Friedman

Why might ritual be important to a spiritually-attuned artwork? And especially why might it be important to glimpsing the spiritual (the transcendent) in early-modern artwork? Hadn't much of modernity moved past needing the reminders, repetition, reiterations; the keeping of “rites” or passages which earlier generations had considered so important? As mentioned before, there are some artists who merely suggest or casually point to a spiritual vein or aspect in their artwork; and there are others who display it on their artistic sleeves, so to speak, and establish it as the core of their practice (Klee, I’ve mentioned specifically, as falling within this category). The artist we'll begin with to examine that sideline of early-modernity is Georges Rouault. But firstly, a few more words on ritual itself and its importance as a means towards a spiritually-attuned artwork. Ritual is normally involved with specificity: specific in its place, time and manner in which it's done – appropriate technique, order and materials are all important to performing a ritual correctly. Writ large, a ritual is a practice (or rite/passing through) grounded in place and material, which removes us to things larger than ourselves; gives us a picture of purposes and realities outside of our regular routine, and reminds us that we are not the be all and end all of life. Prepositions are often used to describe the proper role of ritual: outside; beyond; above; between. Anthropologist Victor Turner says of ritual – be it ancient, traditional or modern – that it is “quintessentially, a time and place lodged between all times and places” (Suquet 151). With most traditionally religious rituals, the place where it is done is important, but even more important is the realization that, once begun, the ritual itself is essentially “time”-less and “place”-less – that is, an appropriate and powerful ritual is both specific and universal in its meaning, import and effect. It is a kinetic symbol; a symbol in action. Therefore, in an artist's work such as Rouault's, there are always certain aspects of it which will be consistently touching in their universality and timelessness (i.e. they touch our hearts and existence). There are, of course, critics, critiques and disparagements of ritual – those who say that it's antique in the worst way (a relic), is meaningless and rote; and should be dispensed with in order to let in fresh tropes and means. Interestingly enough, similar critiques were (and still occasionally are) leveled at the first artist who we'll look at, who used a fresh, re-imagined concept of ritual in the making of his art, and the forwarding of his beliefs.
Rouault was a lifelong, devout French Catholic, who surely became familiar with the pattern, style and meaningfulness of ritual early on. After his teacher Gustave Moreau died, Rouault began adopting the style for which he is best known even now: his thickly-applied and repetitiously layered paint; the recurring themes of grotesqueness in his use of prostitutes, clowns, acrobats and other figures which represent the extremities of human life and emotion. So, how is ritual made alive, active and prescient in the work of Rouault? I believe we can effectively divide his practice into three aspects which speak to and use ritual (and around which various techniques and formal elements will arrange themselves). Firstly, there is a ritual of technique (through particular means of creation); secondly, there is ritual of subject or theme (by what is depicted and addressed pictorially); and lastly, there is a ritual of repetition (directly ritualistic, to accentuate the two former aspects).
To illustrate what I mean by ritual of technique, we'll look firstly at his painting here in G 8, The Little Maid (by the way, this could be considered along with Acrobat and Dog, in G 19, which also shows a definite ritualistic technicality). To begin with a visual explication of what I'm after, let me show you what I mean by “raking light”, a technique used by conservators to gain a better sense of the actual topography, so to speak, of the painting's surface (proceed to demonstrate raking light). What had been fairly flat in the normal gallery light, suddenly takes on a new dimension; a new depth, explicating the actual process of applying paint, used by Rouault. In some ways, this recalls the technique and surface of Tobi Kahn's paintings – they have been built up so significantly over time, so as to seem nearly carved out or excavated from the paint – even though this is a definite additive process; not reductive. And that is a distinction which is important: an additive practice or technique in painting implies several points from which to choose: obsession; devotion; deliberation or decisiveness. For Rouault, it may have been a little of each of these, but I believe the dominant reason for the thickly repetitious layering-on of paint is due to his devotion firstly (ritual) and subsequently his decisiveness. That is, ritual is one of the means (tools) by which we reach a certain decisiveness or resolve, out of our residual indecisiveness of life. We pick this up like silt in our shoes by walking those well-trodden paths of doubt; denial and the idolatry of the new. So, ritual here seen in paint is firstly a devotion to a belief in line; used equally to remind, comfort, rejuvenate and reorient (in relation to the above disorientation). Besides layering of paint, however, we can note the devotional use of both luminous color, and the color being encased or “set” in a way, in visual “leading”, reminiscent of stained glass (probably a reminiscence of Rouault's first exposure to religious expression and ritual in the Catholic church buildings). The delineation we discussed last week in relation to Matisse and Prendergast, is here used towards a very different look and purpose (though harmony is still at work in Rouault as an impetus). The figure and objects (positive space); that which the “light” works through, is what is meant to be the subject; the carrier of emotion: the leading role, if you will. The “packaging” or delineation of the dark, leaded lines, on the other hand, is the “encouragers” of emotion: they are the core of the ritual; the place and material; the engine of that which Rouault and his work are conveying – or, the supporting role, to continue the theatrical metaphor. Thus, the thickly dark lines are often the very areas which are subjected to the most vigorous, ritualistic reapplication of paint, towards reiteration and reminder.

To illustrate the next connection between Rouault and ritual, let's move to G 11 (Clowns) to consider the idea of ritual of subject or theme. In an early (1953) review of a Rouault exhibit, the writer says “Rouault emerged from this period [after the death of Moreau his teacher] with a new style, his mark; violent paintings of prostitutes, clowns, jugglers painted in gouache and watercolor in a predominantly dark blue tone. The surfaces of many of these pictures were alive with a storm of violently expressive brush strokes, frequently at odds with the main forms, sometimes bounding them. The shadows and contours are often arbitrarily placed, vigorous gestures to nail down some feeling of disgust or horror. Yet underneath the furious surfaces these paintings have an extraordinary solidity. The figures sit heavy and firm in opposition to the movement about them” (Lansner 456).
Two words used in the page following this quote continue the two possible approaches to Rouault's work and technique: “obsessive”, and “repeatedly”. There is some gravitas, besides the loaded technical and formal choices, which clearly caused Rouault to continually revisit the subjects and themes of clowns, prostitutes, acrobats, etc; indeed, the head of Christ. But what might that be? Perhaps this is an iota of a direction: each one of these groups is involved in an entertainment or diversion: circuses are meant to entertain; escorts or prostitutes' services are meant to both divert and entertain – but each of these are also an exaggeration of their origins: the prostitute is meeting a natural need, unnaturally; the clowns and acrobats are certainly skilled, and of course entertaining, but they are so in an overly artificial way. They seem to be exaggerated surrogates for the real thing. In other words, the characters that Rouault chooses over and over to depict in his paintings are all involved in diversion of a vicarious manner. These characters are both antithetical to his depiction of Christ (considered a true vicarious figure; and also a repeated theme in Rouault's art) as well as ritualistic vehicles for Rouault to deal with his own feelings of discontent; disorientation; discomfort with the world around him. He dealt with a modern spiritual anguish, in an artistically modern way, but with a traditionally ritualistic manner. Lansner says again, “these subjects, particularly the degraded prostitutes, are only the necessary vehicles for Rouault's own intense feelings of revulsion” (456). And this anguish, both personal ennui and a malaise with the world condition, was revisited time and time again, through the figures of grotesqueness, carrying his emotions; acting out their opposites in a dark and subliminal manner, but effectual enough that Rouault kept calling upon them repeatedly. (Of the pieces by Rouault here at the Foundation alone, five of the seven incorporate one of the character types mentioned above). All of this, ironically, was pulled off with the greatest sense of “compulsive restraint”, the very opposite of what these exaggerated characters represented (Lansner 456). A final important point is Rouault’s strong identification with his revisited characters: he is never judgmental, but commiserating, and offers an alternative through the ugliness to a beauty beyond; within.
So, the third ritualistic aspect in Rouault combines these first two into one: the ritual of repetition. We've discussed this aspect in a sideways manner already, with the discussion of ritual of technique (being repeated to make a visual and metaphorical point), and the ritual of subject or theme (a deliberate revisiting of cathartic vehicles). In each of these, repetition was already an important element. But repetition should be talked about within its own relationship to ritual, outside of any particular means. This is because, as we've mentioned before, ritual is ritualistic partially by virtue of being repeated, and is most often repeated within a particular framework: specificity of time, place, materials and words if applicable; all arranged in a specific way. Here in Acrobats and Dog, in G 19, is an example of repetition’s power as ritual. An acrobat is an oft-visited theme for Rouault: a symbol of the bounded yet unbounded freedom within the paradoxical human dynamic. Acrobats follow a type of ritual according to a strict discipline; they soar, fly and spin – but they always come back down. (Transcendence is not useful if one never comes back “down” again.)
In a way, the repetition of a ritual is a dialing-back for the human psyche: we return for a time to previous state of timelessness and place-lessness. Dug deeply into a ritual in the here and now, we may dig right through to a fresh realization or fresh understanding. This, it must be stated, is the ideal for ritual. Some things and means called ritual have become rote, tired and powerless, through negligence or lack of skill. Indeed, some may say this about traditional art; others may claim modern or contemporary art to be this way. Unless we repeat a ritual for the right reasons, this seems to be an inevitable result of our efforts. Instead of repetition additively creating a place, texture and understanding for transcendence, we create instead a “rut”, which we get stuck in, repeating an empty, hissing note.
In the Rouault works we've seen continual repetition of mark-making and paint-application; searching for an assurance of transcendent possibility. We've also seen continual repetition of subject or theme, to therein understand ourselves and our emotional needs and foibles more clearly. Finally, while we have revisited briefly here the idea of “additive” practice in Rouault, let me mention the related but different ritualistic act we might see in some of the African figurines here in G 22. Several of these figurines you may notice have what seems at first glance to be broken off, or splintered limbs. But upon closer inspection, the breaks look very old, so that the broken edges have a similar patina to the undisturbed surfaces. This is partially due to a belief among some tribes that, if they broke or carved off a tiny scrap or splinter of this figurine, which to them was possessed of a life power, a portion of that figure's power would go with them, and benefit, heal and protect them. In contrast to the Rouault ritualistic technique, this one is clearly reductive, rather than additive. However, an analogous sentiment or belief is active here: rather than mentally or visually internalizing a concept through repetition on a surface (paint), the devotee is actually taking and themselves tangibly possessing a portion of that figure's power for alteration – on their person, and at their disposal. And actually, the community, through their mutual belief and action, is together acting to make this an even more powerful ritualistic activity. So, not only does the actual look of the Rouault works mimic and have some affinity with the look of the African figurines, but also a similar ritualistic response is happening; one additive and the other reductive: in both instances, the human core realizes the transformative power in a repetitious act (reminder/rite), both psychologically and physically.
Now that we've considered Rouault fairly thoroughly, let's discuss an artist of the latter part of the 20th century, who was immersed quite deeply in the concepts, practices and especially the possibilities of ritual in artwork; ritual to repair, revitalize and remind: all appropriate functions of true ritual, and connected with what Rouault was involved with, in his own more comparatively traditional manner. That artist is Joseph Beuys, a German artist who dealt with such diverse expressions such as Joseph Cornell-style box constructions; actions; as well as more traditional mediums such as watercolor, graphite and sculpture. Most famous for his real-time actions, Beuys considered himself to possess a shaman-type expression, sharing a message of healing and reparation to all people, all of whom he considered to be artists – everyone to a person. In his actions, which were replete with what were highly-loaded and symbolic materials and objects, he interacted with those materials and occasionally animals or other people, to create a sculpture-in-time, as it were, with a definite message and meaning. A few examples of his occasionally unusual but very deliberate material choices are fat (tallow), felt, honey, copper, iron and wax. He saw each of these materials, especially fat, as deeply symbolic and almost alchemically (tenuous/fugitive) engaged entities. For example, whenever he used the material of fat, it was directly related to a desire to instigate a dynamic of warming, and also a sense of change or organic fluctuation. Fat itself easily moves from solid to liquid with a slight temperature change; it is also paradoxical in that it is mildly repulsive to some as a pure material, but desirous in that it is consumed and craved after. We all are, after all, keepers of fat, if you will. Therefore, it is a material of highly transmutable and almost fugitive (easily changed/capricious) properties. It is influenced easily; and easily influential. Ritual for Beuys was a theatrical opportunity for invoking change and healing, within the message and manipulation of a limited set or group of materials, each of which had or carried a particular, significant body of meaning. And as he manipulated them, that desire, message or vehicle would be made more obvious. It was almost as if an alchemist was letting an audience in on the process, watching him work; there existed an explication of sorts by watching the action, but also a persistent and intriguing mystery, even though the materials may have been explained. In this way, the ritualistic expression in Beuys was both highly personalized (his way of working), and universally applicable (the egalitarian or workaday materials, requisitioned by Beuys's personality). All this to say, despite his desire to reconnect us to the natural world, the hovering spiritual world, and indeed to our own disenfranchised selves, there is a persistent, lingering mystery surrounding him and his work, which either serves to give him an aura of an artistic holy man, or a complete and utter madman and poseur – both of which he has been defined as being. This is related to Rouault’s desire to withdraw from the world, and so to engage life from a place of ritual, to re-engage with the imaginative natural world. To sum Beuys up, perhaps better than I have so far, is this quote from an article comparing anthropologic ritual and Beuys:
“All of Beuys work is oriented toward the idea of the 'transformational process of human consciousness' and of its relation to the world, by the effect of the methods that can show reality in a different light. It comes as no surprise that Beuys's strategy should have something in common with archaic rituals, if we accept that many of them are 'ways of saying and doing,' aimed at transcending the given and at conjuring up, through some 'exceptional perception,' a form of 'presence which common perception lacks.' Suquet goes on to say, “The imperceptible, the seminal reason of things, throbs at the very heart of the concrete. Archaic thought perpetually dwells on the matter that the world is made of, and so does Beuys. It is through matter that what cannot be represented can be experienced. The equilibrium of man's relation to the world lies in this experience that reveals to us the unpresentable from which we proceed and that comprises us. Creating the conditions for this revelatory experience – within the bounds of meaning, time, and space – is the aim of many archaic rituals and Beuys's work” (Suquet 151).
So as Rouault's work is involved with rituals of technique, theme and repetition, Beuys’s work takes the idea of a ritual seriously, to the point of actually performing a ritual, in the milieu of modern art. And his careful, material-specific preparation of a space in which to act, corresponds to what we noted as important to a ritual; an action or rite within a controlled space and time, which allows us to transcend that enclosed and defined place, to experience psychological, spiritual and ideally physical renewal and reorientation, and then a subsequent return to where we began, with the ability (and materials) with which to repeat the ritual as necessary for our equilibrium and well-being. How much we are open to the possibilities, in both Rouault's and Beuys's expressions, depends to a large deal on us. In other words, do we feel a need to respond to these invitations to contemplative, transforming ritual?
A third and final artist who we'll visit briefly, and who works with a ritualistic sensibility – again with common, banal materials, but this time with their own symbolic possibilities, uninfluenced by the artist – is Tom Friedman. (I will mostly introduce you to Friedman's work and thought, and you may investigate further if you are interested.) Friedman deals with some of the same ideas of ritual, repetition and intellectual and psychological prodding as our first two artists, but with a slightly more American, casual spirituality; more individualistic and 21st century: as if to say, if you respond to his obsession with materials fine, but if you don't there's no skin off the artist's back. Friedman employs household items or materials, such as glue, straws, pencil shavings and pencils, string, aspirin tablets, sugar cubes, laundry detergent and sheets of paper...engaging them on their own terms, but also mining them for any metaphorical, ironic or spiritually-questioning possibilities, in such ways as to make your household chores never be the same again. To really help explain Friedman's work, and its role in our discussion of ritual, let me read a portion of an interview with him: (read Hainley, et al, 11—13). (Quote on its way...)

To see a documentary on Joseph Beuys, in seven parts, please visit the following links:

Joseph Beuys documentary, Arena-1987, Parts 1 – 7 Links:

Part 1:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9_rYiBm_Qk

Part 2:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xk-zzCjGQy0&feature=related

Part 3:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VL3wHr0FbVI&feature=related

Part 4:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ZgZTHbHUAI&feature=related

Part 5:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zajVX_nPufU&feature=related

Part 6:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMIWBO-MB8Y&feature=related

Part 7:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5HSugkIBy4k&feature=related

And for more images of Tom Friedman's work, visit:

http://www.gagosian.com/artists/tom-friedman/

Investigating Art and the Spiritual, Week 7: Harmonious: Matisse, Charles Prendergast, Robert Mangold

Robert Mangold, Violet/Black Zone Study, 1996




H. Matisse, The Music Lesson

Charles Prendergast, Figures on a Mule

Robert Mangold, title unknown

Robert Mangold, titles unknown


Harmonious: Matisse, Charles Prendergast, Robert Mangold

Harmony, when first approached (and indeed when first looked up in the dictionary) seems to reference a musical sensibility first of all. And this sense will in fact be important as we investigate how spiritually-attuned artwork addresses (or utilizes) the idea, execution and look of harmony. And indeed, music plays a crucial part in the well-being of the spirit and the psyche, and the promotion of all levels of harmony: the notes play on our spirits as surely as they are played on an instrument; and as surely as the elements of a well-crafted artwork play upon our emotions. A first implication of something possessing harmonious elements, is that that thing must be composed of various components among which harmony is accomplished – otherwise, the harmony will not be contained or internal within the piece, and not emanate from it. An impetus for harmony may come from a single thing, but true harmony requires numerous constituents. In fact, both definitions of harmony I found in the dictionary used the word “parts”. In addition, the root from the Greek from where “harmonious” is derived, is the word for “joint”, as in elbow, shoulder, etc. This suggests our first implication, and suggests another: a joint is not only two parts, but it is two parts which may work together, to accomplish more than the individual part may – together, a joint (harmony) can encourage success; a means towards a better end. Our forearm and bicep can accomplish much more than just the forearm; and combined with the parts of the hand, wrist and fingers – the possibilities for working in harmony are almost endless. A third implication is a shift from here – for harmony to be derived, and thus for it to achieve something (even if only greater harmony) their goal needs to be a common one. If a joint (partners desiring harmony) work against each other – nothing will be achieved. On the other hand, what Jehovah said about those working on the tower of Babel, in the book of Genesis: with a common language, “nothing will be impossible for them”. So common cause and common belief – towards a particular end, even, like I said, if only more harmony – are necessary. (This brings to mind some of the early American utopian experiments, especially one named “New Harmony”, in Indiana.)

There are numerous signifiers in art that can point towards harmony, and a harmonious desire. We will turn to that next. And as I mentioned, music; dance; as well as pattern and repetition, will play their parts here in their investigation of spiritual harmony through artwork. Each artist we examine will utilize the idea and tool of harmony somewhat differently, but commonalities will arrange themselves around some themes: harmony within oneself (our individual parts); harmony with others (direct communal harmony as individual parts); and harmony with nature (a different party altogether, but inextricable connected to us – and often requiring reconciliation).

The first artist we’ll look at will be Henri Matisse. Now, even Lipsey admits that Matisse, if not fully agnostic, spoke little about a spiritual content or concepts within his artistic practice. (This can also be said about the last artist we'll look at, Robert Mangold). This however, does not dissuade us from noticing a very real pattern of desiring of (generally) a spiritual nature in his art, and more specifically a desiring and implication of true harmony in his expression. In fact, Lipsey states a belief that “the spiritual potential of equilibrium is easily overlooked. Nothing sticks out, no brows are furrowed, no weighty vows are taken, no grinding remorse is experienced. Yet the balance in Matisse's pictorial world is not slack or routine; it gives the impression of being earned over and over again by a return to first principles and rediscovery of wholeness” (Lipsey 263). And connected to this, Matisse himself said, “What I dream of is an art of balances, of purity, of tranquility, with no anxious or worrisome subject, which would be, for all cerebral workers – for the businessman as well as the man of letters, for example – a soothing, calming influence on the mind, something like a good armchair that relaxes his physical fatigue” (Lipsey 250). (Notice any inklings of an early Barnes in that last quote?) In the first Matisse we'll look at, The Music Lesson in G 19, there is a strong current of harmony which pulls from two harmonizing elements we've noticed: the harmonious nature of a community (here Matisse's family), and the harmonizing nature of music (and actually, addresses how they might be connected, by showing two members of the family involved in making music together). In fact, a third element of harmony is implied here as well, which is internal harmony, which is harmony within oneself. Observe each of the figures of Matisse's family – each one is (besides the mother and son at the piano) absorbed with their own activity, and seem to exude an inner harmony, while at the same time implying harmony among the various family members – they are happy to be with each other, it seems, as Matisse has included all of them within his framing of the picture. In fact, some think that he included the violin as his own presence within the family portrait. (Framing, incidentally, will be come important as we continue, in achieving a sort of harmony; for one, within the painting itself, but also as a tool which encourages a harmonious feel or spirit within the painting's scene). But firstly, a few more words on the use of musical themes in spiritually-attuned art, and its use in the encouragement of harmony. Music, among many other things, draws together; attracts; it soothes, comforts, encourages and inspires; it levels out, democratizes (like all good art). Think of the story of how young David was hired as a skilled harpist to comfort the tortured soul of the Israelite King Saul. When music is present in an artwork's composition, much of this is inferred. We know that, as in many families, there was conflict in Matisse's. But music in The Music Lesson could perhaps be an emotional linchpin for an otherwise tenuously-relating group of people. In other words, music served to make them more of a family. Matisse may actually be implying this by the inclusion of his violin – music, he might be saying, is one thing that unites; helps hold us together as a family; soothes our emotions; draws commonality (mother and son, e.g.). And that is how I (he might go on) as the progenitor of both this family and painting, have chosen how to convey that harmonizing impulse. More could be said about this painting and its implied harmony: for example, by the inclusion of a garden – the touchstone, often, for human and nature harmonization – but music especially plays a large part in this piece and its harmony.

Another dominant element that Matisse utilizes in his paintings that evokes, or even reaches back to an important precedent for desire for harmony, is that of mythological themes. And this harmonizing element will allow us to continue on into our next artist – but first a few more words on Matisse. Let's look next at Joy of Life, to investigate this. In fact, this important painting again combines mythological themes with two other elements that we've already mentioned: music, and of course nature. By mythological themes, I refer to a particular type of Arcadian state; a Garden of Eden, with an idyllic spirit of freedom; the utopian harmony of a former, more pristine state, prior to inter-human wrangling – the kind of idea that was both attractive and insidious as exoticism in certain times. There are implications of classical myth in the playing of the Pan flutes, and in the agora-like philosophizing groups, free-thinking in free time. The overall feel, too is as said, of an idyllic space in which music, dance and free-thinking is both the result of, and the cause of, a great harmony; a self-perpetuating harmony of a self-reliant, enclosed place (as nature is occasionally viewed). This form of mythology seems to have acted as a touchstone of ageless consistency for balancing out or harmonizing Matisse's pictorial and aesthetic relationship with the seen world – it is an idealized standard of sorts; a visual and metaphorical pitch-pipe. Here too, is the place to reiterate how Matisse utilizes groups of figures, again encouraging the concept of harmony in his artwork. It can be seen in this painting, and in the last one, and combined with the further harmonizing of music; music shared between people, or the mere implication of space for sharing of those elements, such as we see here in the Joy of Life. That providing of space, whether natural or domestic, which we can see in this painting and the last, is in and of itself an important element of a spiritually-encouraging harmonizing. Space implies the availability of freely-associated or created communities – peaceful relationships that mediate; modulate; bring sanity and calmness to one's soul.

On this note, let's move to G 16 to look at Charles Prendergast's work on panel, Figures and Mule . We last mentioned appropriate space as being evocative of or facilitating to a harmonizing nature in Matisse's work. As far as color, the almost-shocking yellows, pinks and greens also serve to heighten the senses, and illustrate the unique opportunities afforded in this space of freedom: the color is at a high pitch. Space also plays an important role in Charles Prendergast's works on panel. Not unlike (and perhaps even more so than) his brother Maurice's works, Charles' utilizes a clearly frontal and flattened picture area – all the figures, foliage, even the crafted and geometrically undulating hills and streams are up in the front – delineated strongly by carving of the gesso layer. Here is an even more idealized natural space, to the point of almost feeling alien or other-worldly – but not negatively; heaven rather than Hades, or purgatory. There are several other elements, as well as connections to Matisse, which illustrates a sense of harmony as well. Firstly, like some of Matisse's works, Prendergast has created a new-world mythology; an Eden where figures, angels, animals and plants all are interacting and cooperating incredibly harmoniously. It is like a gilded, Transcendentalist version of Edward Hick's Peaceful Kingdom paintings. And even though Prendergast has populated it with varied figures, it is a type of personal yearning at the same time it is universal: an on-going Eden left from before the Fall, a place one may return to and re-mine for its spiritual treasure of peace, and co-laboring among sundry groups and elements. To convey this “treasured space” sense, Prendergast has utilized a material treasured for its value, and beauty as well as its metaphorical, mystical properties: gold. And mixed with the baser materials of paint, bole (an undercoat for applying gold leaf) and plaster/gesso, Prendergast is enacting a type of psychological alchemy; seeing if what is depicted may produce a gilded spirit as well as surface – and by using gold, suggesting that it might very well do so!

There are other signifiers of a desire for harmony: music in some of Prendergast’s paintings; charity between beasts and humans, as well as celestial beings – but by far, the most important formal signifier may be the clarity with which he conveys and crafts all of this within his framed Arcadia. By virtue of his talent, work and materials, Prendergast has both made all elements of the picture incredibly clear and therefore valued – each leaf, flower, limb, feature and detail of the panel is afforded equal value – and this I think conveys an incredible sense of and desire for harmony of a spiritual nature. Each detail is given equal clarity; and thus nearly equal devotion and time to craft. This may speak not only to the conscientious craft and technique of Charles Prendergast, but also to the spirit in which it was conceived and made. Along with this, the integral frame, also gilded, holds it together as a package; a place-away; a transcendent place of harmony, peace and good-will to all who desire it – not only for Charles Prendergast the person and artist, but also for all viewers who spend their own time perusing the space he has crafted so lovingly.

Since we have now mentioned the integral frame, and therefore the idea of delineation, packaging, and other forms of framing, let's continue with that idea, in front of a Matisse, again. Looking at Le Danse, here in the balcony, a thematic continuation can be seen, in the form of an arch, and subsequently, a repeated arch. One may protest that this was simply the space which Matisse was given, by Dr. Barnes, and that he had to aesthetically deal with it regardless – but I think both Matisse's spatial acuity and willingness, as well as Barnes' insight into the motifs and technique of Matisse, easily move us beyond that protest. In other words, an arch ended up being a natural boon for Matisse, and may even predict his later commissions for more directly religious spaces. The second thing the arch suggests, which is reiterated by the careful outlining of the forms with subsequent “edging” brushwork, is the neatness and care with which the dynamic dancers are flattened and delineated by the deliberate brushwork. This serves both to allow their activity to contrast, and fine-tunes, in a way, the poignancy of their expressive dancing. This is not unlike the seeming effective incongruousness of his later cut-paper pieces being incredibly and unexpectedly vivacious and animated. So, here as in many other Matisse works, the delineation and reiteration of edges and therefore shape/form show a care to harmonize not only internally within the composition, but also psychologically and spiritually – for are these not integrally connected, as we've been seeing repeatedly – the physical/formal with the spiritual/psychological?

Along with Matisse in the “internal compositional” harmony which seems to suggest a yearning, however verbally unexpressed, for a spiritual harmony, is the work of Robert Mangold. Among artists reticent to expound on their work, Matisse must be counted – but Mangold must surely be near the top of this list as well. In the spirit of mid-century trained Abstract Expressionists, Mangold adamantly refuses to talk about his work in any contextual, metaphysical or symbolic way – he insists all that is necessary is there, within the piece itself. So, why include Mangold in a discussion of how formal means may point to spiritual concepts? Well, in a way my response nearly answered it. The clues are already there for us to pick up on, so let's take Mangold at the rules of his own game. On the face of them, Mangold's paintings are formal arenas – color, shape, line and layering of paint are all extremely important, and really, are all we have to begin working with. The first thing we may notice, piqued as we are for it, is the arched shape of many of his canvases. Inspired by a painting by Pontormo, Mangold has incorporated this shape repeatedly. To me, this seems to suggest a search; a yearning for not only a compositional harmony, but also an “overarching”, and comprehensive, corresponding life harmony. An artist (almost) always does a piece (and here it's a series!) for more reasons than are evident “on the surface”, regardless of how they may protest. Case in point: Mangold responding to the classical harmony within the Pontormo. Someone reaching back for inspiration and answers belies a desire for something which is not in immediate grasp. An arch (as we discussed briefly in front of the Kulmbach last week) suggests a stability; an internal, pre-existing harmony, to which the rest of the formalism that Mangold introduces responds to (the ovals, for instance, or the color relationships) and move along with towards an even tighter, more peaceful, self-perpetuating (as in Prendergast) harmony among all elements, and I believe the artist and viewers themselves.

Investigating Art and the Spiritual, Week 6: Revolutionary: Redon, Pippin, Matthew Ritchie

Matthew Ritchie, Proposition Player, 2005 (aerial view)

Matthew Ritchie, Proposition Player, 2005 (detail)

Revolutionary: Redon, Pippin, Matthew Ritchie

The concept of a revolution most often brings to mind a political revolution – in the guise of Karl Marx, who said fundamental change can only be brought about by the revolution of the proletariat masses against the government. And this type of revolution is normally seen as a one-time occurrence – something permanent, violently replaced by something else permanent. And yet, as a spiritual idea, that of hope in renewal, revolution has a somewhat different meaning or connotation. Revolution in this sense is meant as more of a “revolving”; to go or come around again; a pattern of re-cycling. It connotes the opportunity for our continual personal renewal and refinement, within the continually returning possibilities for such, much like the seasons, birth and life, etc. In this sense, the future comes from the past; and life comes from death – death never being the complete end it is often seen as, and the future not necessarily being brand-new as is often implied. For the seed to be viable, the fruit needs to die and rot away. The concept of revolution could also be seen as having the further permutations of continual refinement, or of a tearing down/razing – related, but one more negative towards a positive end, and the other more positive overall (a gradual tweaking or refinement). But put simply, to effect spiritual change, a revolution is often refreshing in three senses: firstly, as the good and timely opportunity for change in general, and two, the sense that it is a returning opportunity; that is, the person moving on to new things is renewed by the realization that they are involved in a grandly recurring pattern of often difficult, but necessary, change, upheaval and refinement. And finally, revolution can be a spiritually refreshing concept in it's implication that the opportunity is arriving as part of a community; revolution often being a communal opportunity. But, as we've already alluded to, this revolution – any revolution, really – has its own very real risks – physically, psychologically, and spiritually.
Taking with us this thought, let's first consider the Odilon Redon painting, St. George Slaying the Dragon, in G 14. There are several important elements in this picture which speak to revolution, and spiritual revolution especially, but we will begin by speaking a second about who St. George was, and how his story is usually approached; historically, mythically, as well as metaphorically – especially being in a painting by a known Symbolist such as Redon. St. George managed to get an entire city to convert to Christianity, by means of subduing a dragon who'd previously required appeasement by being fed the town's maidens, if no suitable animals were available. In one of these instances, the city's princess was drawn by lot to be this maiden, and was exiled to the edge of the city, to await her fate. St. George happened by on his horse, heard of the princess's plight, and stayed with her until the dragon appeared. He corralled the dragon; took and presented it to the entire city, and promised to slay the dragon permanently if the entire city converted to the Christian faith...which then transpired. However, many historians say that the legend most likely predates Christianity, possibly as far back as an ancient Hittite legend, among other possible sources. Now, in some ways it really doesn't matter how this is related to the legend of St. George and the dragon, since regardless of the legend it's associated with, we (1) have this particular painting here in front of us, asking us to consider it in its autonomy – it's own independent entity outside the legend, and (2) Redon has used the legend in a quite different metaphorical and symbolic way. We alluded to universality and the cyclical nature of a concept like revolution – that is more of how this story is put to use in this painting. Focusing firstly on the composition of the picture, we can note how the picture field is essentially composed of three dominant elements: the ocean; the group consisting of St. George and the dragon; and the agitated, luminous sky with a piercing sun. Two subsequent things become clear here, once we acknowledge this composition: firstly, St. George, as a symbol of the individual (or the ego, as Jung would put it) is significantly alone, and caught in a revolutionary struggle against the old; the past; the insidious; the individual's former self, or “old man”: the dragon, standing in the way of revolutionary change. Secondly, the sea and the sky subsequently evoke the necessarily lonely place that the psychic arena can be when faced with effecting necessary, revolutionary change and upheaval in one's life. In this place, St. George is no longer a religious icon, slaying the symbolic dragon bent on evil in front of a large crowd, to effect their change: no, here St. George is Everyman, attempting to effect personal change, psychologically and spiritually, in a seemingly risky environment.
A second element that is dominant in this picture is color. Essentially, we have a primary color scheme, complemented by some secondary colors, such as the green of the troubled sea. A word or two about primary colors, along with an association. Primary colors, firstly by nature of their name, carry something of the “primal” within themselves; they seem to possess an elemental drive. Thus, it is no surprise that primary colors are often associated with such things as flags (which are often, incidentally, involved in revolution), children's toys, and logos. Flags may make most sense in our consideration of revolution – they are rallying symbols for groups; identity points for ideas and drives: they are our strongest emotions and beliefs put to symbols; generalities that speak of larger, grander aims; they are of things larger than the individual, and even the family (seen by some as the building block of society). Looking at a guide to the world's flags, it becomes obvious fairly quickly that the great majority of them use primary colors to great effect; standing in for such things such as homeland; honor; bloodshed; peace and justice – as we said, “primal drives”. Just as an example, our country's first secretary of the Continental Congress, Charles Thompson, said of the colors given to the Great Seal (same as the Stars and Stripes) that red stood for “hardiness and valor”, and blue “the color of the Chief signifies vigilance, perseverance and justice”. To relate this to the Redon, we can contrast this with the idea of a personal, interior, psychological struggle; the red, blue and yellow, and the green which mediates between them, tell something of the psychological, largely internal struggle that Redon is portraying. We are a step or two removed from the transcendently challenged struggle in the Rousseau, Scout Attacked by a Tiger – there, there is hope shining past the oppressive band of jungle there is hope in the companion whom is able (ostensibly) to assist the scout in danger and peril. But in the Redon, there is nothing besides the dragon, the harsh elements, and St. George: a struggle against the accentuated, elemental consciousness; the past we are attempting to revolt against. After realizing the strength that is in these primary colors, we can begin to feel both the internal, personal revolution that is portrayed in the Redon, as well as the allusions to societal change that primary colors, extrapolated from the personal, seems to suggest. In the sense of Naturalism, this harsh, natural condition is not unlike a roiling ocean, battle or port scene of J.M.W. Turner, mirroring the upheaval of the soul in the forms of humans caught in those same forces of nature. Think of Marseault, Camus' hapless character in The Stranger, who is accused of killing an Arab on the beach, but seems utterly subject to the fateful whims of natural fate, to be condemned for something he barely realizes he's done. The main point to grasp on to here, though is that, despite sometimes manifesting themselves in very different ways, interior psychological revolution has much to do with the larger, societal “sea” changes through physical revolution: both are integrally connected to the universal phenomenon which is the revolutionary concept. After all, the spark of a revolution happens firstly in the heart of one or a few, then between the interpersonal sticks of a larger group or community, until it begins to consume vast forests of a society or a generation, in its conflagration of change. So, too, a spiritual change: both are alluded to here in the Redon.
A quite similar internal compare-and-contrast is active within the Horace Pippin painting in G 12 (Woman at the Well). A few words about the story related here may help us on our way. This was a woman with a history of having many partners, a life of being an outsider and societal pariah among pariahs (being a Samaritan, the much-hated race considered “mongrel” by pure Jews). Christ talks to her as an equal, at her everyday workplace, and offers her a new way, a way in contrast to her old ways. She is astounded at his insight and clarity, and is seen to accept the change, and share with her neighbors near the end of the story. As far as the composition used by Pippin, it's somewhat similar in elements to the Redon: there is a central group of interaction, composed of Christ and the Samaritan woman; the scene of the well and the copse, which is almost silhouetted; and the harshly-lit pinks and magentas of the sky in the background. And much like the Redon, through whose painting and composition style (colors, etc.) we can gather some sense of the psychological upheaval taking place – the point of spiritual threshold – so we can here too; and this sense is again accentuated as an image of the forces of nature: instead of the roiling sea and lonely beach, it is a somewhat secluded well on the edge of a village, which sits under this shockingly colored sky. From what we know about the story, we can know that the woman is being invited to make a change in her life; in a sense, she is a step behind the figure of St. George in the previous painting – she is still on the cusp of the crucial decision; not yet able to wield the sword, and slay the dragon of her former self. A few words about the colors in this painting: the pinks used in the sky, ranging from deep rose to cotton candy, definitely seem momentous; revelatory and important: mirroring the edgy feeling of someone with the opportunity to make an important life change. But can we tell whether it is a sunset or a sunrise? And is that clue important? Firstly, if it is a sunrise, then it is a beacon of hope; a symbol of a new day; a fresh start that we are all (ostensibly) given. This implies newness; and the former woman lost in the night that is nearly over. As a symbol of change, of personal revolution; this symbolizes the afterglow of revolution: a new day dawning – the rise of victory. If this is a sunrise, then, we like this woman, are hopeful for what is to come. However, if this is a sunset, it is a symbol of a revolution beginning: the old is about to be extinguished – the new is not on its way; there is still too much to be done. Spiritually, the change is beginning – the end of the old; the impeding ways and beliefs; the demise of that which has held us down for too long. A final point about this Pippin can be made, relating the discussion of sunset versus sunrise to Pippin's traumatic experience in the second World War. Pippin was severely injured in battle, and lost the use of one of his arms. This affected him deeply, and put him into a sort of depression. Of course, as we know, he struggled his way through that time, and was able to make the necessary “slayings” of his demons, or dragons if you will, to turn into a fine, deep and consistent painter. The specter of war can be seen in the light of a sunset or sunrise, being both a harbinger of terror, as well as a dubious spark of peace. Perhaps some thoughts of the conflicts he had been involved in were going through Pippin's mind when he was painting the picture of this story of quiet revolution.
Two additional things can be said about the similarities we see in these two paintings: for one, both of them are a visual door (pictorial door) of sorts into a metaphor of a mental, spiritual changing point – that is, we are viewing the pause before the sword enters the dragon and he is killed; we are seeing the pause before the Samaritan woman decides to leave behind her former life, and follow a new way. Secondly, both pictures attempt to portray the spiritual aspect of revolution, through especially strong and emotionally evocative colors. Both pieces, through these drastic, revolutionary colors, accentuate and exaggerate the momentousness of that mental, spiritual changing point mentioned before, thus reinforcing these paintings as beacons shining between the universally revolutionary, and the utterly personal. Instead of clearly illustrating one or the other, the viewer is reminded that each is really another version of the other, and they are integrally related and connected. Thus, these two paintings continue in the more illustrative pattern of paintings, as opposed to a more contemporary expression of “being” the quality rather than “showing” it. That is, in contemporary thought, a story is not absolutely necessary; the art work may already function as the plot in its entirety.
As far as revolutionary material, especially as far as incorporating the more holistic sense of revolution as an idea of “re-cycling” and “re-peating” – that is, the cyclical aspect of revolution – one artist that comes to mind, as being in this mold, is Matthew Ritchie. Ritchie is a British artist, currently based in New York. Rather than being illustrative of, or pointing to the revolutionary, Ritchie's work takes the very idea of universality and begins pulling it apart – looking for the seed of revolution. His work for Philadelphia's Fabric Workshop in 2005, called Proposition Player, is expressly interested in trying to engage all of human consciousness into its purview – a rash and bold motive, but the result of the work is a beautiful, layered and complex mix of the mystical and visual. Ritchie works with contemporary, industrial materials such as vinyl, and laser-cut tiles, both suspending the filigrees of visually-referenced material, and plotting them out on the floor like a map. When observing his work, one might get overwhelmed by the hugeness and complexity of the universe – past and present – and this might actually be right along with Ritchie's intent. The laser-cut vinyl ebbs and flows like a cloud of data and tortured charts and graphs; they roil like Redon's waves, carrying the possibility of revolution along with them. In Proposition Player, the ceiling-hung vinyl cutouts, evoking masses of woven thoughts, hover over the multicolored stream of interlocking colored tiles, flowing on the floor under the filigrees like run-off from a paint factory. But these two elements – upper and lower – are also connected by sticks or rods, which act as flimsy connectors between the collective consciousness of the filigree – the ephemeral universal belief and truth which we can tap into, invoking the call of revolution (fundamental change) into our lives. As Jung would attest, the collective consciousness, that vast, ageless amassing of myth, knowledge and unfathomable darkness and light, can be tapped by our egos for both detrimental bad, or revolutionary, life-changing / altering good. We, in a way, are this flow on the floor of Proposition Player, and the filigree above is that universality we tap into. A preview of the Fabric Workshop show says it well: “While the works contain seemingly chaotic arrangement of colors and forms, each piece is in fact a deliberate map of the limitless connections that make up the universe's implicit order. The visual and underlying order in Ritchie's work mirrors the chaos and order of the universe”. Another article states, “Ritchie...sees the whole universe as one big experiment”. And how more revolutionary can one get than that? Nothing is ultimately permanent; it is simply a continuing pattern of trying new things; improving our lives and others': a continuing, re-cycling, sublime revolution.

Investigating Art and the Spiritual, Week 5: Contemplative: Marsden Hartley, Agnes Martin, Isamu Noguchi, Tobi Kahn

I. Noguchi, Garden Elements, 1962

I. Noguchi, 75 Core

Agnes Martin, Stars

Agnes Martin, Praise

Tobi Kahn, (title unknown)

Tobi Kahn, Yetzirah

Contemplative: Hartley, Agnes Martin, Isamu Noguchi, Tobi Kahn

The concept of contemplation has a long and embedded history and relationship with both spiritual quests and religious communities of all sorts and types. It has been associated especially with those ascetic and focused “fringe” groups within (or on the edges, as the case may be) of mainstream faith communities. The Essenes, a desert sect of Judaism, and the monastic traditions of both Buddhism and Christianity are major examples. Because a contemplative life and practice was an integral component of all they did, it is not coincidental that these types of intensely focused communities have produced some of the finest and more refined examples of the arts, both in technique and in product. Tibetan throat singing; Indian, Islamic and Christian illuminated miniatures, manuscripts and tantric drawings come readily to mind. Essentially they had focused, devoted time to spend on creation and execution of these expressions, whereas the majority of society would’ve been largely consumed by daily concerns; too much so to attain high development of a craft or art as the fringe communities would (such as manuscript illumination, practiced in both Christian and Islamic traditions). Illuminated manuscripts, specifically, were made to encourage one’s thoughts towards heavenly things, as well to explicate sometimes esoteric and difficult material in a disciplined and repeated manner, so as to push the faithfuls' contemplation higher towards God – a means of devotion. This type of contemplation of artwork has long been used to pull our thoughts and beings towards higher planes.

So, where does all this leave us, when approaching the early modern collection here at the Barnes Foundation? What (and who) here, has interest in contemplative work, quietly drawing our hearts and thoughts together towards a more focused consciousness? I believe the most contemplative of the early modern work has a strong primary directive within that strength: that of inwardly directed self-contemplation; through the use of two things: human depiction (portraits) and still-life. That is, through two techniques of more directly and thoroughly investigating those things around us (other people, and nature) – diving down into contemplating even the simplest things in our lives – we might both transcend ourselves and learn more of the Other (that is, that which is not us, or the “not-I”, as one Jungian analyst put it once); and also learn much more about ourselves.

I think Marsden Hartley’s work allows us to do both of these. His paintings here in G 16, a still-life in which we are regarding a vase and flower on a pedestal, and two Cubist-style paintings studying boat forms, are good examples (and beautiful) which approach a spiritual consciousness through various means of contemplative practice. For one, the most obvious perhaps, is the colors. Here we find soft, fleshy pinks; mauves; grays and blues which are all calming; peaceful, and reflective. These colors have no part in the negative connotations often surrounding so-called “pastels” (such as, weak; sentimental; pandering, fawning non-committal; etc.) Rather, they put that color type to a perfection of its use: calmness rather than sentimentality; a strongly purposeful bent towards peace, not weakness; a take-it-as-you-will attitude (which exudes an internal self-confidence and assuredness), rather than a fawning or ingratiating motive. In other words, it is Hartley’s use of these “pastel”-like colors, along with their leaning towards dark neutrals, which directs these pieces in a contemplative direction. There is then, a second prime formal reason for what I see as their bent towards contemplation: their texture. Hartley’s very brushwork here is contemplative – dedicated; devotional; repetitive; softly-reassuring; memorable: all having to do with elements and strengths of a contemplative practice. Through Hartley's technique, we too are drawn to contemplate each color fully; filling and finishing one color before moving concretely and decidedly into the next, just as Hartley did. Texture indeed, for Hartley, seems to have been an important component of his devotional study through these paintings. There is a third prime formal reason that accentuates the contemplative: their composition. Hartley has carefully observed; dissected; and arranged the elements of what is before him, for prime contemplation of both the individual pieces of the composition, and their interrelationships as a whole. For example, see how he has deftly tipped the tabletop up towards our inquiring eyes, as if to facilitate our contemplation of nature – captured and redefined. The boats he studied too, seem flayed apart for observation to an extent, much like the old Italian engravings of flayed men made to explain muscle pattern: here though, it is too teach us something about the interior nature of a man-made structure, and how through our reinterpretation of it through painting, we might also learn something about ourselves.

Back to our earlier thought of self-reflection, and reflection on the surrounding world: all Cubist work, it could be argued, addresses this curiosity and self-reflection formally: Picasso; Braque; Brancusi, and so on, each taking their particular direction and tack towards this method of Cubism and its relationship with the viewed world. All of them are involved in a systematic and intuitive breaking-down of a structure, and careful observation of that structure; rearranging the elements strategically so as to ask questions about both the world and ourselves. These questions at the time were shockingly new; and conversely a revelation for those who weren’t immediately scandalized by this new way of seeing and depicting. For someone like Picasso, though, it would be difficult to pick out a series of works here at the Foundation that is solidly interested in the contemplative.
How does Hartley differ? We can point back to the combination of those three formal elements which create a three-pronged key: color, texture and composition. Much Cubism could be pushed towards a purposeful type of contemplation, but Hartley seems to be actively engaged in pointing towards an easeful contemplation. In a way, we as viewers can receive a genuine sense of Hartley’s particular devotion to his own contemplative nature, through the direct avenue of his artistic expression. And that might be an important realization about the existence of contemplation in modern artwork, which uses a formal, early-modern means, rather than just traditional realistic representation: if we receive (or feel) the sense of a contemplative spirit, then the pieces are spiritually successful. One final point about this group of Hartleys that seems to point to contemplation: the “eye-spots” that one can find in all three paintings: small, bulls-eye-like shapes that are staring back at us, like abstracted eyes in a portrait. And like a well-made portrait, they inquire of us by their nature, at our intent; our beliefs; our connection with the larger world. They return our inquisitiveness back to us, and create a cycling-back process which will hopefully prolong our search. Much like eye-spots in nature (butterflies; snakes) we are possibly fooled, and thus pushed further into the contemplation of the risen question.

In the Hartleys we see dedication and repetition: two normal parts of a contemplative practice – be it prayer, art, music or otherwise. The texture, color and composition in these three paintings are all dedicated and repetitious. Repetition implies a certain level of dedication, so let’s address that for a bit. A mantra or chant, like a hammer, repeatedly pounds one’s will and mind flatter; more receptive and acquiescent to a pattern, like gold flattens against pressure. The more repetitious and persistent the devotion, the more thoroughly it is assimilated, and the more contemplative it becomes. There are often two additional parts to this aspect that are interesting: formula and obsession. An artist like Rousseau (as we can spy in the Scout Attacked by a Tiger) once he came upon a formula for making his fantastic gardens, which he’d never experienced outside of arboretums or conservatories, kept returning to those large, exaggerated leaves, trunks, stems and even fruit; they obviously were satisfying to him, and helped him accomplish what he was after. These forms became a way for Rousseau to enter into the internal contemplation of his fantasy worlds, in a systematic and devotional way, and produce the a physical representation of it. The stylizing formula became another tool, or device, towards transcendence in art-making, if you will. In a similar way, Hartley created a new group of forms; a new series of “visual chants” to contemplate his surroundings, and ultimately take him (and us) outside and beyond them.

If we look at another self-taught artist (and many of them have this characteristic) such as Jean-Baptiste Guiraud (here in G 18) who, once he came upon a formula which worked for him, repeated it over and over, often to a greater (particular) effect than a more traditionally-trained artist might have. Observe View of Bordeaux – a good portion of the painting is devotional; formulaic; and repetitive: Guiraud used the same forms over and over for the bird’s-eye view of the city rooftops. (And interestingly enough, the cathedrals and church-tops are the only things which break this repetitive pattern, reminding us in their own way of their original metaphorical purpose of pointing heaven-ward). So, as we can see, there is a fine line between contemplative and obsessive. In fact, some may call the practice of a monk or ascetic disciple obsessive: but it is a matter of perspective.

Though it may seem at first like a drastic jump, the work of Agnes Martin is one later modern artist who comes to mind as being solidly involved in an aesthetic mode of contemplation. And; her paintings and drawings may draw from some as much ire as would an obsessive person’s. The paintings and drawings she’s been making for nigh on seventy years are paragons of both spiritually-aware and reaching, and utterly contemplative compositions; they are a Zen framework for contemplation. Her layouts are the very definition of repetition, but there is an important distinction to make: the more persistently repetitive that a piece of artwork becomes (and this distinction really only works with the handmade artwork) the more insistent become the aberrations. That is, the more careful and deliberate Martin is, the more her human errors, slips and overall “happy accidents” (as some artists call them) – in the minutia of the art’s surface and composition – become. Therefore through the most intense, exacting and devoted contemplation, at the height of one’s practice and skill – the frailty and limited nature of our bodies and abilities become bracingly clear. And yet the result is serenely beautiful! Contemplation, when this devoted and revelatory, is a beautiful and admirable element of human existence. Her allusions to natural phenomena and elements only serve to point us more insistently towards contemplating the transcendent in the everyday world: again, those things closest to us; under our very feet and noses.

Nature, though, need not be revealed only through near-obsessive repetition, or titillating titles. Where minimalist-leaning artists use machine-age type creation to divest their world of chaos (preparing or making space for contemplation), Zen-focused art moves towards an embrace of chaos – a certain lack-of-control – to take hold of an existing space for contemplation. Isamu Noguchi is one who comes to mind, in his careful distillation and consideration, and re-focusing of natural shapes, forms, textures and activity, to open up anew the relationship between the space for contemplation already within ourselves, and those corresponding spaces in nature (which we in the current age often repeatedly miss and overlook). Through these simplified, nuanced alterations of natural things, Noguchi is really a sculptor of not just stone and wood, but of our minds and our perceptions. We are therefore again, as we are by Hartley, pointed towards the same contemplation as the artist has been investigating through his artistic practice and creation. It is not coincidental that one often goes to a garden to recreate, or “re-create”.

Lipsey is quoted as calling Noguchi a “gardener of the soul” – and we turn now more fully to the concept of a deliberate space created for contemplation. The Barnes itself – and indeed, the core ideal of any school or museum – is as a space of contemplation, of intellectual revelation and discovery. It takes certain artists though, like Hartley, who were chosen and arranged for us by Barnes, to really push us towards a spiritually contemplative space. In this way, the garden for Noguchi was a space in which contemplation was more easily fostered, and accessible. Traditionally, spaces like cathedrals, mosques, synagogues, temples and other holy places were places meant – and created for – contemplative practice. With the contemporary lack of familiarity with traditional contemplative spaces, modernity opened up the definition of contemplative space to include more utilitarian and secular definitions: pools; gardens; galleries and museums have all become to many, places of an almost holy contemplation. Thus it is only natural that artistic material would readily be utilized towards more powerfully creating these contemplative relationships that are meant to be accentuated in these spaces. This idea has morphed gradually into artists being interested in drawing the art towards equality with the space; that is, the space becomes (is) the art. Richard Turrell, who makes light-filled environments, manipulates the light as a material, in a manner like Earth artists manipulated the soil and stuff to create earth-works (Robert Smithson is an oft-cited example). There is also Robert Irwin, whose pieces have almost become so numinous and ephemeral as to nearly disappear into non-existence – so flat and acquiescent do they become to the tranquility of Irwin’s mind (he uses scrim fabric and light to delineate and influence interior space and light). Olafur Eliasson is yet another artist who works with light as a material, using motifs of natural forms and phenomena such as eclipses and clouds, to evoke contemplation of the grandeur and mystery of these elemental features. With each of these three artists, space is either the primary medium used as the contemplative tool, or space is a primary way the concept of the piece is contemplated. That is, the concept is absorbed through contemplation of (or on) the space rather than something that might be in it.

Drawing together the last two primary ideas we’ve talked about – space and repetition (or formula), is the work of Tobi Kahn, who also throws a generous dose of mystery into the mix. Kahn is a contemporary artist of Jewish background, who draws upon that tradition heavily for inspiration and framework. Kahn’s work exhibits several characteristics which are indicative of artistic contemplation of the spiritual type (some of which we’ve already noticed in Hartley and others): insistent texture; clearly-defined and conclusive dealings with individual colors; a very real sense of time (devotion) and age (wisdom) through the carefully- layered application of paint. All this creates an almost carved and excavated surface, suggesting an ancient contemplation of (and on) the ages. Not only this, but Kahn plays on our more intellectual contemplation by titling these paintings mysteriously, such as Yetzirah, and Ahlom. The titles definitely allude to Hebraic words, but essentially they are made-up names; as much artifice as the painting itself. Yet, the deed is done once we’ve heard them; the mystery has been playfully and insistently placed within our sight and our hearts (our minds even) and we thus find ourselves contemplating our own existence and our world despite ourselves. And isn’t this what the best artwork does – sneak up behind us; or come right up to us, and change us, despite our constant stumbling and misunderstandings – despite ourselves?

For Hartley images, visit the Foundation, or enter his name at www.artnet.com

Investigating Art and the Spiritual, Week 4: Formless: Alo Altripp, Ray Yoshida, Rachel Whiteread

Ray Yoshida, Unh!

Ray Yoshida, (title unknown)

Rachel Whiteread, One Hundred Spaces

Rachel Whiteread, Ghost

Formless: Alo Altripp, Ray Yoshida, Rachel Whiteread

The idea of formlessness may at first glance not be an evidently spiritual or an artistic one: for instance, how can that which has no form be important in forming an idea of the activity of the spiritual in art? And isn’t what we call “formalism” in artistic production by necessity an expression of one’s ideas and spirit made by “forming” or molding through the means of artifice? All these are true, so perhaps all this is simply a misunderstanding. The answer could be considered the flipside: art – and the spiritual in art specifically – is crucial to, and intimately involved in, bringing to the formless, a form. That is, all art does it to an extent by its nature, but spiritually-driven art does it by intention. In other words, artists try to form a mold around that which is unknown, to thereby better understand and visualize the lesser known, less intellectualized, more intuited parts of the universe; both inwardly (nucleus) and outwardly (cosmos). It functions almost as the opposite of casting a mold: artists begin with the seemingly non-existent, not simply the object at hand. As we mentioned before, specifically about nuclear science and imagination, art and science have both long taken us deeply into the microscopic worlds which before were unknown in tangible reality; art more through pure imagination, and science through technology (though, those two roles are now more often than not interchangeable and overlapping). The idea of the cosmos, or the universe, more easily imagined and grasped since it is simply an extrapolation from what is seen easily, has been an arena in which art and science have dwelled even longer. Think of the ancient Greeks pairing up their mythological stories with the star maps of the skies, to form what we still know as constellations. The mythology was not necessary for knowing, even as it is not now, but it pulled their (and our) imaginations up into a formless place, and gave it a form in our psyches. In a nutshell, art is the mold in which the invisible is cast. After the form has been created by artists though, is there anything left? And what of that ineffable content,”there-ness” or spirit which can never fully be imparted, or impacted? Does anything signify its former presence, though it is changed in appearance? What about those artworks which deal more directly with the mold, or the craft, as it were, rather than the cast, or spirit/idea? This image of casting a mold will be increasingly important to our discussion, as we continue.
Firstly, a few words on the concept’s spiritual history. (A disclaimer: I was steeped in the Christian tradition, so Christian metaphors spring most readily to my mind; if anyone has something to contribute on “formless” from another tradition, I’d love to entertain it). For one, it is central to the Judeo-Christian tradition that God is a spirit, i.e. formless. The earth and creation, in fact, found its form through Jehovah; formerly, “the earth was formless and void”. In the very first verses of Genesis, the cosmology of Judaism, it says, “And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters” (Genesis 1:2, KJV). And in most basic cosmologies, there is one or more omnipotent force or being which enacted the creation of earth and humankind. So there are many connections to be found between the idea of formlessness, and the pure act of creation. In fact, the idea behind the modern expression known as “conceptual” art is directly concerned with bringing a form (or a product) to the formless (or the idea). Artists, having grown tired of the tropes of traditional artistic expression, wanted to strip it away to nothing and begin again, in the guise of pure bodily movement (Vito Acconci) and active interaction with materials (medium=expression) (Yves Klein), or in extreme music and chance-based art of someone like John Cage. In some conceptual art, the idea stays an idea, never actually reaching materialization, but it still retains its definition as art, having an altering effect on our perception (Rirkrit Tiravanija.)
Let’s begin investigating the activity of the formless, by looking at Alo Altripp’s Kopf in Rot, in G 20. Though perhaps not immediately recognizable as an artwork dealing with formlessness, this painting rewards closer investigation and careful consideration within this context. Consider first the method of creation. The rudimentary, almost emotionally-tortured head is created using a technique similar to a children’s painting method known as “finger-painting”. And the concept behind “finger-painting” is that of the imitation of form by removal or negative manipulation of the material used; that is, the "picture" is made by "removing" the paint; through a kind of pushing and pulling with the hands, an excavating out of a form is achieved. How is this a significant characteristic? It is firstly a visual reminder of what we’re dealing with: namely, form is being created by removal of material. And this is not the 3-D removal of material from a sculpted piece; where a form is being “released”, in the traditional carving sense of sculpture. This is rather the 2-D, complete removal of the image-making matrix; i.e. paint, which in turn, creates an image. In other words, the negative becomes the positive, and the positive becomes the negative; they are turned on their head. This raises some interesting points: firstly, that a form is being created by removing form; and secondly, that the material being removed is being done so by an ultimately concrete form; that is the artist’s hand (or a tool connected to it). Overall, the point may be made that: the head seen here, speaking strictly and formally, does not really exist; i.e. is “formless” – at least, outside of the material - technically, only the edges created by the material "exist". Made viable to our eyes by the mold of the paint, this head is as close as one may come, to a visually realistic and readable “formless form”. As Sixten Ringbom mentions in The Spiritual in Art: Abstract Painting 1890—1985, there are two avenues to “formless” – one is to be completely emptied of anything immediately recognizable, and two, that which is of ultimately indistinct form, yet seemingly visible. He says,
“How formless is formless? To insist on absolute formlessness must in terms of visual representation, result in a complete void: the empty circle of the Oxherder series, the blank space of the tantric representation of pure conscience. At the beginning of this century, however, Zen and tantrism were virtually unknown to the general public; the direct and immediate impact of this radical iconoclasm on abstract art was to be felt only decades later. There is also a looser interpretation of the word formless that does not entail an absolute absence of form but merely the absence of physical shape. This is something altogether different from the arid emptiness that results from a strict application of the concept. It offers a virtually limitless freedom in the choice of line, shape, and color as long as the artist sees to it that representational forms are excluded” (136).
For a contrast in the idea of formlessness, let's continue our discussion with a second Altripp painting, now in G 23, called Plant-like. These two paintings seem to address each of Ringbom's distinctions, though neither fully: the first is closest to the first definition, and this painting is more close to the second definition (that is, without distinct form, but seemingly visible). Instead of suggesting a more stalwart and frozen formlessness like the first Altripp, which is more of an archaeological casting along the lines of petrified wood, where the original material has slowly seeped out and been replaced with a stony mineral deposit, taking on the original's form, this second Altripp moves towards an amoebic state, that is formlessness through indistinctness. This is a shape which seemingly shifts; changes; morphs continuously, so that no definite form may be given it. Any time an attempt is made to define it, it shifts again. So, though Altripp has recorded it here as it came to him, in this painting, by its very look and nature, we know it kept moving afterwards - much like a scene frozen in a photograph did not stop after the photographer shot the scene: it has an ever changing form; the photographic print being a shell of one of its states, like a snake shedding its skin, and moving on with a renewed form. In one way, this formlessness emphasizes itself as being a spiritual "record", or memory, more than the "archaeological-type", which Kopf in Rot is: here in Plant-like, even the mold is gone; there is not even a record of this permutation having existed: it is a pure impression, such as Charles Leadbeater and Annie Besant’s "thought-form" paintings, from their theosophical book, Thought-Forces (1905), which purported to visualize the presence of emotional forces or auras. A present-day artist who alludes to this reality is Mary Baumeister, a German who was active in the United States during the 1960s. She said in an interview, “…as a child I saw around every living being a colorful moving aura (even around so-called dead things like stones), so when I saw Art, paintings of reality, I missed the color field. Later, when my visionary childhood vanished away through schooling and teaching, when I had to learn the reduced interpretation of the world, I refused” (WACC, 2, 2009, p. 6). Many would unequivocally acknowledge their existence, as auras and the like, but no one would dare suggest that this exact impression could be found again, in this way and none other... in this way, this painting is truly "formless".
Let’s look at some further examples of the formless; in contemporary expression this time. One artist who has dealt almost exclusively with the possibilities of the “formless” finding form is Rachel Whiteread. Whiteread was a member of the YBA group (Young British Artists) which emerged in the mid-1990s as the “bad kids” of British art. (Other members include Damien Hirst, Chris Ofili, Tracey Emin, etc.). She first came to international recognition with her large casts of domestic and unassuming spaces, including Ghost, and House. Her project we’ll be looking at, One Hundred Spaces, is a grid of colored-resin casts of the full-sized spaces between chair legs, a series of descendants to the Bruce Nauman piece in our reading. Much of what constitutes the concept of formlessness in Whiteread’s work deals with memory, and marks. Memory, in the sense that the plaster, concrete and resin, numbly (and dumbly) fill the cast space with a visually metaphorical congealing of the accumulation of memories that have to do with a particular space, such as Ghost, or House, where the cast has much to do with an embodiment of what was; the metaphysical made physical. By “filling” out the shell with a continuous and tactile material, our memories and social consciousness have become a shape of what we were, or what they were: our individual and collective memories and perceptions and biases have been given a medium. In the sense of marks, the memory becomes a repeated sensation, as in One Hundred Spaces. It is more of a memorial, or record of our direct interaction with an object (form) in the guise of a chair, rather than the accumulation of memories, congealing to a massive form, such as in Ghost or House. (That is, a focus on individuals making a whole, as opposed to focusing on a whole made up of individuals - the same idea, approached from different sides). All of this is action towards finding something, or being able to recall something, for which there are little or no physical remains. Memories are like this – they may have even a small physical remnant, but even this is still a shell, containing nothing form-full of that which it signifies, or even participated in. The only thing we have is, in a true sense, “formless”. While still with Whiteread, one final point we should make about formlessness, is that this really is the crux of what is meant by conceptual art: the form resulting after the art-making is the idea: form = idea; idea = form. When these are created equally, and when the craft (physical or mental) is skilled, conceptual art is a tautology: unassailable, supremely formless, and with a limited but incredibly focused power. Therefore, conceptual art, like all art involved with the idea of the formless, is in a very real sense, empty. To be brutally honest, there is nothing there, there; it is a shadow, a shell, a Ghost. But let us not forget that the most evanescent of things may stir us to our deepest core. Emptiness does not assume vacuity. What it does signify, however, is the most important thing we could hope to approach: the spirit of creation itself. And that spirit -- or muse, as the classicists called it -- as we are finding out, is formless.
The interface between humans and the natural world, and then between humans themselves, is what concerns the next artists we will look at in our investigation of formlessness in art. Those spaces, after all, are the factories where those memories are created, which we looked at previously, that deal with one aspect of formlessness.

Ray Yoshida was a Bay-area artist, using what might be called a culling, or a hunter/gatherer motive in much of his work. In one series of his works, he went through comic books and funny pages, pulling out images related to various themes, from things as seemingly random and banal as hairdos, or as ephemeral as expressed noises – the unphysical made physical: “unh!”, “ugh!”, and so on). Again, as in Altripp, his applied technique, how he went about affixing these scraps of comic representation to his working surface is what really feeds into our idea of the formless. To reiterate the importance of the cast-and-mold metaphor, Yoshida’s comic pieces work in this pattern perfectly. Notice the blank, negative spaces between the cut-out pieces on his collage. They are a continuous pattern of silence; a matrix which makes the colorful scraps sing, and gives them that much more poignancy and importance. In the same way that John Cage insisted that the spaces between notes are what make the notes themselves viable (after all, if the notes were all contiguous, there would be a drastically-lessened sense of pattern; it would be an aural [or in the case of Yoshida, visual] assault and maelstrom.) Like those old-fashioned optical illusion tricks, like "lovers about to kiss vs. a candlestick?", or "rabbit vs. old lady?", the negative and positive are ephemeral; both have potential meaning, and neither is more important than the other. In Yoshida, the positive is given aesthetic prevalence, but without the negative, as we'll see, the positive doesn't make sense. Even in the original comic strips or books themselves, spaces are necessary; an imperative.
A further instructive definition might be to include language, or alphabets themselves in this conversation: the distinguishing between letters is what creates legibility, and the spaces are what we learn as much as the baggage that the letters carry. Otherwise, the message is going to be largely garbled and incoherent. Not only that, but importance weighs in here: the finely-tuned spaces between the color/motion/sound give to the pieces a real grandeur, dignity and value: cut out much like a well-cut mat gives a fine artwork a life of its own, while remaining in the background. And the formless is like that: it is a demurring entity, which requires us to go after it; to seek it. Only the deliberate and determined will begin to form a sense of the formless. For what else can we slaves to form do, but be dogged in the pursuit of that formlessness, which in some way is anti-matter to us, but in many important ways, the most crucial thing? In a very ironically concrete way, Yoshida is “collecting evidence" of the formless; through an ephemeral medium (newsprint; comic books) that, despite its naïve nature, was always required to crudely but effectively evoke the formless (the “biff!” and “pow!” and “sigh!” known to devotees of comics): emotions we all recognize. All of these compiled pieces of evidence of the formless add up to a more extensive and more detailed mold – yet we still face the fact that no matter how beautiful, astounding, amazing or scandalous the mold – we still have to imagine and speculate on the cast (the form). This is the quandary of an artist interested in finding (or following, as we are always a few steps behind) the formless form. In various ways, we all “collect evidence” (unless we are a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic, and then we collect anti-evidence) of the action of the formless; the spiritual in our lives: unexplained coincidences; chance meetings; which prove to be linchpins or watersheds, etc. Artists take these mysteries and make them into profundities and beauties. But for many of us, they remain simply mysterious phenomena.
Back to Nauman: one of the first thoughts upon considering this concrete cast, of his chair (space), might be at its mundanity. It is indeed a mysterious and captivating object, connected to an equally captivating idea and inspiration – but nonetheless, it is utterly mundane. Even the material underlines its mundanity and everydayness: concrete is ubiquitous to most of us. In fact, even the “unseen” mold – the chair – is known to have been steel – again, mundane. So, whence the mystery we feel? An important point about the investigating of the “formless” in art is how transcendancy is found in the everyday. In daily forms, patterns, habits and marks may be found the formless mystery and presence which surrounds, and is between them. To reiterate about Yoshida – the mundanity of the spaces (paper! - another utterly ubiquitous material) between the collected evidence of the formless (comic book cutouts) become indispensable to the discovery (recognition, really) of that formless. Before Nauman cast his chair bottom’s space – it was a non-entity. But because of Nauman's artifice, our perception has changed; we've become newly aware of the space between material, becoming material in its mimicking of our heightened perception. Forgive the crass analogy, but it is the first spike of realization in puberty, of the reality between the other gender's legs. In fact, it still is largely a non-entity – and that’s the point again: this form recorded the presence of what was formless – like petrified offal of a prehistoric worm or animal. One can hardly get more mundane than that – yet the thing which formed it – the intestines, etc. – is gone, forever…and therefore, the resulting object is a thing of mystery and wonder – despite its mundanity. Therefore within the mundanity of life itself the form-full evidence of the formless can be found most readily and convincingly. What is a cathedral, synagogue or other holy space, other than a place which “contains” a spirit; a community formed within another form – signifying formlessness. On their own, again, these spaces are merely material accumulations (brick; stone; wood; metal) in the form of a building. It is our perception of them, and of what fills them, and especially of what we bring to them, that make them special. This whole result though, remains largely formless. But it is scarcely different than an artist bringing to the creative process firstly a mental idea, and matching it with a physical material or materials, and attempting to get a sense of what form that formless sense may take. Some would also include, along with built chapels, etcetera, natural places; canyons; mountaintops; glades and forests. For many, (and for many millennia, to aboriginal groups) these certain spaces have had a grandeur and presence which is seemingly collected or gathered there, and is available to all who enter with an open heart - but it is still a formless concept - we encounter it spiritually, not formally. And that concept is what formless art is trying to grapple with.
We'll end with two brief glances at two very different artists, both of whom, however, approach the idea of formless in art-making. Agnes Martin is an artist who comes to mind, this time in the world of deliberately two-dimensional work, of a person “recording” the formless, through such recognizable and familiar means such as line, color, space (or spacing) and format. And yet, as we’ve seen, pure abstraction is an ideal only; all art, even Nauman, Martin, etc, have some resultant form to illustrate formlessness. If we dispersed with form all together, we’d be left in a vacuum. All art is by its nature form-based, however minimally because it is created by humans, wholly slaves to form. So inevitably, we continue to return to the paradox of formless form, or the form-of-the-formless. There are so many examples; we could go on for a long time: Alfred Stieglitz’s photos of clouds (Equivalents); genre paintings of historical events, etc. – all shells. But our artists in spotlight; Altripp, Yoshida, Nauman, Whiteread, etc, have taken the search for the formless several steps further: they have presumed to attempt a filling of the Space, or the vacuum, and accentuate its numinous nature by deliberate and intentional abstraction. Art, especially contemporary art, is audacious! And human audacity time and time again is what made the gods angry – but intrigued them deeply, nonetheless (think of their anger towards the audacity of Prometheus sharing the power of fire with humans). Think too, of someone like Duchamp, who in making his “erotic objects”, (casts of his lover’s vaginal cavity, etc.) was trying, however psychologically and possibly crassly, to come to some embodiment of an emotion; a passion; an obsession; a “formless” entity or state which they shared, and which he wanted to hold on to; to share; to analyze; to “bring out” into space. Shocking still, yes; but also touching in the unique way it conducts the investigation into the spiritual in art.

(To see cited Alo Altripp's work, please visit the Barnes Foundation!)

Rachel Whiteread: http://www.gagosian.com/artists/rachel-whiteread/?gclid=CLiy6fiC1J0CFdZM5QodIkEgyA

Ray Yoshida: http://ncane.com/xprc

Investigating Art and the Spiritual, Week 3: Timeless: Paul Klee and Jeanne Jaffe

(a small portion of the cave paintings in Lascaux, France)

(Forgetful Angel, by Paul Klee)

(Spill of Memory, by Jeanne Jaffe)

(Study for Progeny, by Jeanne Jaffe)

Timeless: Klee and Jeanne Jaffe

Along with transcendence, timelessness is another prominent characteristic of spiritually-attuned artwork. Timelessness can be said to be spiritually-important because it is a characteristic of those things which have stood the “test of time”, and which impart a sense of a reality beyond our immediacy, and which, though no longer ours physically, can be touched spiritually. It is a reality as we will see, both integral to, and connected with, our present realities. Paul Klee said in his journal of 1916, “Everything passes, and what remains of former times, what remains of life, is the spiritual” (Lipsey, 188).

To begin defining timelessness, we can approach it beginning by making several points: for one, the artwork will have some distinguishing feature which is recognizable over eons; that is, any human seeing it, no matter what their time, place or context will recognize some aspect of its core purpose and value, as well as its transcendent properties. As an example, we might agree that the cave paintings in Lascaux, France, discovered in the mid-twentieth century, could readily be considered timeless – humans thousands of years removed from their inception needed little time to figure out several possible reasons for their existence. The drawings were perhaps done as a memorial; a sacrifice of thanks, or a shrine of sorts: we don't know for sure. The time lapsed has of course raised some puzzling questions, but the fluency; the purity; the spiritual freshness of the cave drawings quickly pulls us in; they readily tell us a story – though perhaps a bit foggily. And conversely, the spirituality of these cave drawings contributes to our recognizing them as timeless: the animals are raised up to an almost deified status; they are simultaneously prey and savior (or a symbol of salvation and continuing, enduring sustenance) for these ad hoc artists. A second aspect of timelessness that can be found in spiritually-attuned art is that, no matter when (or from where) it is approached, it casts backwards and forwards from that place equally well. It functions as both medium and prophet. That is, the visual language extant in the artwork has no specific time limits (this is a further distinction of the previous point). It also follows from our investigation of transcendancy last time, that an artwork which pushes towards transcendence will often have the additional element of timelessness. That is, it is sometimes transcendent through its timelessness. Admittedly, some artwork closer to our time than cave paintings may now seem timeless, or seem to be growing into a universal spirituality, but it still remains to be proven whether or not it will indeed read well over eons. For example, much of the abstract expressionist art of the 20th century (by painters such as Barnett Newman; Morris Louis; Ad Reinhardt, etc.) was ushered quickly into that general fold of "timeless" without the long-tempering which an expression like the Lascaux cave paintings have received. Though we could say, almost as a rule, that the less specific and more universal the subject, execution and symbolism becomes in an artwork, one may assume (to a point) that the artwork will endure a long time, its volume gaining in timeless power as it continues to age. An artwork by someone like Fragonard, e.g. may indeed tell us volumes about 18th century France; its ideals and mores, but is it spiritually awake in a timeless way – like a Cy Twombly painting seems to be? It remains to be seen – and that's the difficulty in finding some surety; time is required as the ultimate test of timelessness – at least in most cases.

However – there are certain artists who have such an incredibly innate ability to create artworks which speak timelessly, seemingly on the very day of their birthing: because of their intense peering into the depths and riches of the past, and the acuity with which they predict – Jules Verne-like – the format of the future, molding their artistic production between those two sides of the cast,. Such an artist, who is thus foremost in my mind when considering the spiritual possibilities of timelessness in art, is Paul Klee. We are fortunate to have several fine works by Klee in the Foundation's collection, including several late works. Klee is an artist who was not only gifted with an ability to tap into the timeless spiritual/sub-consciousness of art, but also was one who, upon reaching the last years of his life, shone intensely and columnar, like a candle about to go out. His late work is among his most pure, refined and timeless.

But before we delve more deeply and formally into Klee's work, let's firstly investigate just a bit more closely the spiritual importance of timelessness. A first point that I’d like to make, is that not all timelessness in art is directly spiritual or concerned with spiritual things, but all spiritually-attuned art has an element of timelessness. The reason I would propose is that, by nature of its spiritual acuity, which can be sensed visually, tactilely and psychologically, timelessness is assumed. In other words, temporality is the antithesis of spirituality. Essentially, that which seems to point most clearly into the future, by necessity points to and incorporates the qualities of something beyond our own time; something flowing parallel and just out of our full reach. Art like Klee's dips into that stream, but only sparingly – "like a glass darkly". And those art works which are timeless in a spiritual way are those "dark glasses" through which we are allowed to blink and occasionally glimpse, however dimly, our interaction with the timeless. Another word which may be of instructive use here, though used more in distinctly religious ways, is "eternal”. However I would caution that reverting from the use of "timeless" to "eternal", would move our concept further away from a directly human spirituality. That is, within the term “eternal”, time is a non-issue – and non-existent …however, within timelessness, time may be absentee and somewhat emasculated, but it still has a grasp on our human sensibilities. Eternity is an abstract dream and ideal, whereas timelessness is a spiritual concept rooted in humanness: we experience timelessness through our humanity. So for our purposes, we'll stick with the term timeless. However, the term “eternal” still does impart that same sense of a channel flowing just beyond our full reach, unattainable only because of our persnickety physical temporality, and our consciousness of being primarily in the here-and-now. Investigating the timeless in art though, can help us move – staying within our bodily vessels – beyond ourselves and our book-ended lives. It gives us the opportunity to tap into a history and a future which we otherwise would only be vaguely conscious of.

So, returning to Paul Klee. The first Klee we'll look at is Historic Ground (Historischer Boden) in Gallery 17, a wonderful piece that is strongly evocative of timelessness. At first glance, there are some parallels between this drawing and the Lascaux cave drawings mentioned earlier. This drawing is done in earth tones of sienna, rust and umber, and molded in modulating tones, both of which suggest an ancient set of glyphs, subtly carved into a long-lasting material, such as rock, and greatly weathered: there is a definite evocation of old-age. The shapes in the drawing too, are similar to Celtic runes; Sumerian script, or other ancient forms and tropes of communication, which have largely been lost to us, save for a few scraps of knowledge. Thus, there is a gradually-assumed timelessness here, part of which is untimely; that is, run out. We no longer understand this thing which was made for specific communication, therefore a deep and centralized universality – even though it is inscrutable to us – has come to the surface to replace its former specificity. So, though one form of understanding has long since leached out; a greater but more mysterious and enigmatic one has replaced it. This is the sense we receive from how Klee has formally arranged and composed the colors, tones and lines. But there is more: after the formal has been received as an invitation of sorts, we may go in further. However, I’d like to offer a word of clarification: on the one hand, a drawing like this, drawn in this way, by someone like Klee is an invitation; an invitation to speculate on where this drawing is from; where it's taking us; and how it is taking us there (i.e. what it's saying, and how it’s saying it). In other words, who are we in relation to it? The issue becomes, though that as a group, we would need to stop soon: for, the more the piece invites us in, the more personal it becomes. It would invite each of us in different direction, and into a different place by different means, depending on our personal spiritual inclinations and needs. So ironically, the more universal an artwork becomes, the more personal it becomes: essentially, each of us can use it in the way it most resonates with our inner spirit, and there is less chance of error. Because the piece can speak to nearly everyone (universality), it speaks a million languages at once. It is a different sort of spiritual translator, authentically translating to every viewer who interacts with it – the anti-Babel, a clarifying power, rather than an obscuring one. Such is this drawing by Klee.

Let's consider a second drawing by Klee, another late work done in the year before his death. This time it’s not in the form of a landscape, but is a human form. Near the end of his life, Klee drew a series of wonderful and sublime drawings of ghosts and angels, composed of loosely, looping, mostly unbroken lines, and a ghostly pallor. Many were done on a white background, but some were tinted lightly like this one, entitled This Bloom is about to Wither (Diese Blute Will Verwelken). This drawing evokes a different sense of timelessness than the previous drawing. In that one was the timelessness of a human's touch (more indirect; a “record” of sorts); this one conversely, is the directly personal, face-to-face confrontation with the timeless aspects reflected within each of us. There we saw a record; here we see a face. The rudimentary line work he used here serves to flatten the face, and accentuate its stylization. (Klee believed the common claim of his artwork being "childlike" was a misunderstanding) The face seems to be drawn of only two snaking lines, which intertwine gracefully to suggest a serene face, peering out at us in a peaceful and wise manner. It is a face serene on the edge of its temporality, its heavenly, otherworldly hues and modulations are harbingers of its imminent ushering into another place. In the transcendence of a flower the colors of eternity may be seen. What balances these flattening, planar lines of the facial contours is the gently applied pink, red and blue tones; in, over and around the lines, emphasizing them, not unlike the previous drawing. Additionally, the openness of the execution – the fluid, in-and-out of space between the lines – allows one's eyes to move fluidly through the composition. Therefore, though the sense of this figure is one of simple wisdom and serenity, there is a contrasting sense of immense readability; of being able to simultaneously know-all, and know-nothing through this mysterious figure. (And again, we come to a very Zen-like sense of the importance of emptying ourselves of temporality, and being open to the filling up and pouring in of a more eternal consciousness; that stream just beyond our reach and perception, but which so many of us know without a doubt, exists).

So what might this drawing be telling us of timelessness? In a way, this head, this figure symbolizes the acutely aware, and yet often stifled or misunderstood, child-like remnant within all of us, which approaches the world and all of time and knowledge with an immense capacity to absorb, but often limited ability to assimilate; (acceptance, without understanding as a prerequisite: in other words, our pre-rationalistic infancy). Here is our soul-child to be fostered and encouraged; our inner touchstone towards sensing timelessness and the continuing pulse of the universe. An artist we’ll look at very soon, Jeanne Jaffe, alludes to this in her artist statement: “…body parts, tools, toys and biological entities share edges and identities and echo early somatic experiences where the distinction between things are not yet clear, and where boundaries between identities are still fluid. These forms create an intuitive narrative that refers to visual, tactile, and auditory sensations which were felt before words could describe and thereby distance immediate experience.” Klee was perhaps sensing something similar when he was drawing this figure, and the others like it -- any more definitive of a line; any more concrete a tonality and the fresh, vital timelessness would be lessened and stifled. Though Klee was sensing the end, that end is one of the few truly universal things in the universe. Franklin famously said only death and taxes are givens in life. Not to mention, many cultures worldwide traditionally consider this “end” to be a sure beginning.

Continuing with the idea of sensing the receptivity and place for timelessness in ourselves and our lives, let's look at Klee's drawing Village among Rocks (Ort mit Felsen) in G 22, which returns to the landscape as a form, but is still very frontal and fairly flattened. This can be taken as a reminder that we are encountering a symbol; a drawing; artifice: we are not being convinced of a round, illusionary reality; but rather an obviously crafted surface. In this drawing, the timeless mark of a human’s sensory interaction with their world (as seen in the "glyph" drawing) merges with the timeless, personal, interactive gaze (of the "blossom" drawing) and creates a rich, layered investigation into direct human interaction and involvement in timeless processes and patterns. Pattern is one of the strongest ways that this idea is established in this drawing. Most obvious is the closely interlocked, tessellation-like pattern of flatly-rendered shapes which in turn read like rocks; boulders; houses; and succulent plant leaves. And this is the most striking aspect of the shape pattern: we are able to read them as nearly any of these shapes, and the drawing still makes sense regardless. The colors too, are again as in Historic Ground, in an enduring, ancient, and time-worn palette: steely blues and rosy quartz pinks; granite and slate hues – this landscape has existed for a long time; we're not sure how long, and the length of time is not really important. The next most striking feature is that the denizens of this landscape – i.e. the humans whom we might assume built and live in these blocky houses, and the shapes which suggest a hardy plant-life – are perfectly fitted into their environment. And this is a lesson about timelessness – that of reaching near-effortless harmony with one’s surroundings. Temporality almost assumes discomfort, unnaturalness and disharmony – normally time is an essential for true harmony. Here, with a wealth of time having passed, full harmony has been achieved and is being lived out, so that a peaceful homogeneity has been reached. And this is not the negative homogeneity of exclusion and uniformity; it is the positive homogeneity of harmony regardless of difference. See how effortlessly the shapes fit together – as if built out of each other’s materials – yet retain their uniqueness of contour, purpose, and station. Again in this drawing the two sentiments have combined: the wide-eyed innocence of human's near-entrance into the timelessness of the future (the “bloom” piece), and the universally-received language of timelessness which we sense has been written just for us (the “historic ground” piece), have joined in a harmonious whole, giving us a serene, holistic sense of being at peace with our surroundings for all time. Now, granted it is a somewhat Germanic and cerebral vision of heaven (eternity) but it has its own orderly peace about it, and conveys a true, definitive vision both of what timelessness may do for the spirit, and what it looks like in an artwork.

Now, Klee is admittedly a sometimes overly-philosophical and mental artist, his works occasionally tipping hard towards seriousness and gravity, from its usual balance with whimsy and dry humor. A contemporary Philadelphia artist, named Jeanne Jaffe, enters our investigation with timelessness wielding a refined and personalized humor, exemplified by her adoption of the cartoon shapeliness and pop art aesthetics informed by the culture of the late 20th century. Her art takes a fresh, feminine tack towards timelessness, drawing on some of the forms Louise Bourgeois debuted, with a similar wry use of sexual innuendo. In Jaffe’s work Spill of Memory (1998), the sculpted shapes move visually between suggestions of both organs and bones; that is between the breathing flesh of existence, and the bare evidence of existence. They are strung on cords; hanging in front of a wall, therefore suggesting the flatness of a 2-D work – again, along with the suggestion of a record or "log" within the grid-like formation – yet they are absolutely, undeniably modeled objects, existing roundly in space. There is thus the element of narrative – though sketchy, and of "memory" being recorded – albeit abstractly. Again, as with the Klee drawing, timelessness is approached first formally – the grid is colored in washed-out, consistently bleached hues, suggesting eons of aging and exposure to the harsh elements. And yet, the suggestion of organ – fleshly – form, suggests that there is still some life in these bony apparitions. Thus, like Klee's This Bloom is about to Wither, there is a pinky-hued hope glowing through the more clinical recording of life, through grids, charts and typologies; an art vs. science-type conversation. Klee's drawing lightly touches on timelessness, suggesting that the artist is gingerly accepting it, as it draws near. Jaffe's work on the other hand, uses signifiers that point metaphorically to not just the idea of or even experience of regeneration towards timelessness, but actually show us possible forms of that regeneration. Bones, after all, are where blood (the oxygen/life-carrier) is manufactured in the body. Also, bones grow from the inside out, ossifying into more solid structures as they enlarge. Additionally, organs themselves are not mere evidence of life, but are fully living tissues, crucial in the function of the body (and here it’s a communal body; of a culture or consciousness, collected in this net of memories). Jaffe pushes off of the evidence which Klee alluded to, and subsequently pumps some fresh, three-dimensional air into the forms of timelessness. Part of what’s being accomplished, of course, is that sculptural pieces are coming out into our space; instead of Klee's pieces, which are obviously humanly - manufactured (artifice), Jaffe's little bodily objects, because of their corporeal associations, and their occupation of our three -dimensional space, feel more "alive", or at least potentially alive to us. Thus, they carry within them the ability to convey the pumping of life's possibility; its regenerative possibilities, to us as viewers (and living, breathing beings ourselves). (Nonetheless, as said before, this aliveness and allusion to regenerated time – i.e. timelessness – is tempered by the grid-formation, and the subjection of the round forms to a "flat" display). Therefore, the resulting emotion is that of a record; but a record which beats with regenerative hope: a powerful function of memory’s power to revivify, relating to the piece’s title. Herein lie some contemporary possibilities of Jaffe's art to reinvigorate; to take up the baton of timelessness in Klee's artwork – in a feminine, constructive, and whimsically-wise way. Jaffe casts back in time deeply, but never loses her hopeful and deeply self-conscious moorings in the present (bodily) realities, and their ongoing possibilities.

For more images of Jeanne Jaffe's work, visit www.jeanniejaffe.com

And to see the original versions of the Klee's I mentioned, come visit the Barnes Foundation! www.barnesfoundation.org

Investigating Art and the Spiritual, Week 2: Transcendent: Cezanne, Rousseau, Quentin Morris

(Cezanne's large bathers from Philadelphia Museum of Art)

(Cezanne's Large Bathers from the National Gallery, London)

(a Quentin Morris drawing)

Transcendent: Cezanne, Rousseau, Quentin Morris

In a way (or many ways), all art is involved with the transcendent. Perhaps then this is a good place to begin with our investigation of spiritual dimensions within art. To be transcendent is to be ultimately concerned with that which is beyond our immediate surroundings, consciousness or abilities; and to not just "ascend" – rise physically, within time and space literally—but rather to "transcend"; to move beyond to another time; another place; another level. For the disciplined seeker, this is almost second nature and a common occurrence; but for most of us some focus and investigation, both inwardly and outwardly, will be needed to prepare us for taking the shape and mind of transcendence, and thus being able to notice it, to discover it, in the form of artworks.

I began by noting that all art is in a way transcendent: to clarify that point, all good art takes us to a new, different place – either (or all): mentally, physically and spiritually – where we had not been before. We may come upon a new inner truth which speaks to our immediate concerns; a new revelation of our connectedness to the world, or be outwardly moved to see our situations or surroundings differently. In other words, good art moves us, in the true sense of the word. That said, some art does this more consistently, either through the artist's intent, or through the work's chance context joining with our need. Additionally, I believe one part of an artist's oeuvre – one piece even – may do this, while the rest of their work does not seem to. This may speak only to a lack of intent or consciousness on the artist's part, not on the opportunity afforded us by the piece to investigate it. Wassily Kandinsky said, “Each genuine new work of art expresses a new world which has never before existed. Thus every genuine work constitutes a new discovery. A world which was not known up to this point takes its place along side the world that we know already. Every genuine work of art must announce ‘Here I am!’” (Niggli, Verkaut, p. 214).

Case in point: the Large Bathers of Cezanne. One may rightly question the distinction of Cezanne as being "spiritual", or his work having a "spiritual" dimension – but this disagreement, I think, focuses mainly on giving narrowly human distinctions to spiritual qualities, (i.e. that the spiritual requires the human) which are addressed elsewhere more sufficiently – here we are concerned with the unmistakable alteration of space, color and form which point us to the spiritual dimension of the work. Lipsey says, “There was a metaphysic implicit in Cezanne, a peering from oneself—anxious, temporary, yet part of the communion of all things—toward the stability and grandeur of Nature. He discovered the experience of consciousness in the world as a question and as the inexhaustible basis for a quest” (30). Also, Cezanne was near the end of his life, a point at which many finely attuned artists clarify their work and execution in an intense and fertile way, as if the life preceding it was somehow flying into clarity, upon sensing the ghost of the end. Klee is another prime example of this, but we'll discuss him next time.

To encourage (or foster) transcendancy, as every acolyte of orthodox religions would recognize, the end is aided by an appropriate space, or the appropriate manipulation of space. It is therefore no accident (nor chance, I think) that Dr. Barnes installed the Large Bathers both here, in the largest and highest-ceilinged gallery, and also close to the ceiling, which with its gentle, creamy vaults, accentuates and continues the vault already existing within the painting (note the repeated triangles: from the trees, to the clouds, the background foliage, and even the cloth the two central bathers hold). It is a vault of nature, but an altered nature. The vault of which I speak is the meeting of the outlying lines of trees, moving towards the center like the flying buttresses of a cathedral, creating an arch which draws our eyes – and subsequently our spirits, if we are ready – to another space; another understanding – transcending the gallery; transcending the painting; transcending our immediate surroundings: an arrow which points beyond itself. (Additionally, the ornate door knocker which Barnes installed directly overhead of the painting metaphorically invites us to knock, and gain entry into a mysterious and complex world beyond both the painting and the frame). Cezanne is appealing to our "eyes for art", as Lipsey (through Merton) puts it; drawing out the extraordinary from the ordinary; tweaking our perceptions to something rarer. In fact, the word “rare” brings to mind its original etymology, related to the scientific meaning of “thin”: something fugitive, but definitely there. An even more primary motion of vaulting is occurring within the bathers' bodies – with their gestures, they lean into the space, encouraging us (as fellow humans) to move on into the forest space, and up. We occupy, so to speak, the negative space – the earth, the lake – created beneath the vault, but are drawn by that arrow to keep moving towards the ceiling – a metaphorical reminder that not all we may know and experience is on the forest floor, or on the lake's reflective body. Thus, Cezanne's composition -- with its meditative, almost brooding blues and greens and violets draws us up into a place we were not in before. And where we go from there depends on our particular spiritual needs and tendencies – which we also need to attune ourselves to. Like a chapel, cathedral or temple, the space is the opportunity and initiative, not the result. What is desired inwardly needs to be fostered outwardly. Again we might turn to Kandinsky, who said, “Form in the narrow sense, is nothing but the separating line between surfaces of color. That is its outer meaning. But it also has an inner meaning, of varying intensity, and, properly speaking; form is the outward expression of this inner meaning” (Kandinsky, 29).

Cezanne's vaults are an example of a strongly positive, strongly concave, encouraging space; a space which fosters spiritual contemplation and reaching. Even bathing is a cleansing, meditative, repetitious and ameliorative action which has long been associated with fostering and preparing for both transcendent experiences generally, and for religious experience specifically. Several religious traditions hold this belief and practice (e.g. the Jewish mikvah; Christian baptism, etc.). Now, as an instructive example of an opposite experience – and again, as I mentioned before, one piece of an artist's oeuvre may focus on this or that characteristic more than the rest – we might turn to Rousseau's Scout Attacked by a Tiger. In both paintings we've looked at so far (Large Bathers and this Rousseau) we find some basic similarities: both pieces feature centralized human activity; both have a space which moves back into an expansive darkness, and both have a dominant presence – though, quite different dominant emotions, as we will consider. Recall that we noted a fairly immediate movement upwards in the Cezanne, as encouraged by the vaulting forest; the natural arrow; the accentuating of the ceiling; and the relaxed, reiterative human movement. The dominant action of the space was upward; the space was concave and inviting; providing a place for us: an invitation of the night sky. In the Rousseau, however, the space is decidedly more convex; and less inviting; in fact, there are feelings of danger; oppression; harm and a jarring reminder of immediacy, rather than a movement out of immediacy. In fact, as a contrast to the numinous, mysterious night sky of the Cezanne, the brightly-lit sky of the Rousseau beyond the dark forest, reminds us of those same immediate concerns. The danger of physical harm, here embodied by the scout being mauled by a tiger, tends to push our consciousness to physical, immediate and unmistakably earthly concerns: our self-preservation, safety and health. Transcendent ideals are not immediate, nor very possible, when imminent danger may easily snatch all of that possibility from our grasp. In a way, self-preservation preserves our capability to once again (in the more peaceful future) experience life spiritually – but this is not often our usual focus in the midst of immediate danger. (Granted, some may experience spontaneous experiences of transcendancy in the midst of danger [out-of-body experience; visions, etc,]. These seem to most often happen on the very cusp edge of death. St. Stephen the Martyr, (who lives on our balcony) when dying of stoning for blasphemy, said in his rapture, "Look, I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.” In the Rousseau, there are various parts of the work which accentuate a situation lethal to transcendancy. We have mentioned the convexity of the dark forest, which presses down upon us, threatening us in its supposed harmful exoticism (the different; the “savage”; the Other), a concept titillating and threatening to Rousseau, and his Victorian contemporaries. Indeed the possibility of our life being extinguished, forces us into the face of an unknown which is unexpected, strange, unpredictable and brutal in its speed. This is the flip-side of the positive, transcendent Other; in this painting we hardly have time to be concerned with it – and perhaps that is the rub. Rather than the darkness of calm invitation in the Large Bathers, the Rousseau Scout is a speedy threat, darkly emotional.

In these pieces, we've investigated two sides of the concept of transcendancy in art. Both were also encapsulated in the artwork itself, even though they either pushed us out into another space, or we were pushed by another space back into the violence of our own. But how might a sense of transcendancy be encouraged on an otherwise "normal", domestic painting, by an unrelated, outside force? In other words, how might we pick up on the sense of transcendancy through intentional manipulation outside of the artist...or even the work? In the Cezanne, we noted the possibility of Dr. Barnes' influence and accentuation of meaningful vaulting, by placing it close to the ceiling. If we observe his ensemble in Gallery 12, west wall, we may find an example of this "manipulated transcendancy". First, on our level, we see the Glackens portraits: the closer, more intimate portrait below; the park scene in middling space; and then above, high up on the wall and further from our “reach”, is a piece by the purveyor of the finely-crafted crowd scene, Maurice Prendergast. All in all, a gradual pull back in perspective from the close, to farther human investigations, from the bottom to the top. We are pulling away slowly from individual, to crowd, to humanity more generally; to contemplate not one person's psyche or spiritual status, but the implications of a crowd; of a group; community; our wolrd. Directly overhead, as we are moving into group contemplation, hovers a strange object -- a household chopper, deliberately placed upside down by Dr. Barnes. Here seems to be the culmination of our "outside influence", pushing us towards the concept of transcendancy. Lacking a "vault" (save the more disconnected groin vault of the ceiling) or the vaulted sky in the primarily frontal, horizontal and screen-like Prendergast, Dr. Barnes has placed a domestic item which, neatly requisitioned, suddenly opens up a transcendent possibility (this is related to the use of the door knocker above the Large Bathers in G 1). How long and how often have humans cast their faces up -- mimicking the sky and moon – contemplating the skies, and the vacuous and giant questions that fall into our mind when faced with the eternal arc of the sky – especially the speckled night sky? What more monumental vault could one discover? And what a reminder, by using an humble kitchen utensil, which the craftsperson has lovingly punched with stars, that the transcendent is often as close as our daily lives; directly under our noses; that special spaces, temples or cathedrals are helpful, but not necessary, to garner a transcendent sense of the Other; the One; the Eternal. The use of stars in the chopper also continues another concept related to transcendancy, which is the mystery of the firmament. The Psalmist affirms this when he exudes, “The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork / Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge / There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard” (Psalm 19: 1-3, KJV). One further wonderful detail we might mention about this ensemble, which may or may not be incidental, is that we are given control over the chopper – the handle reaches down for us; it is a tool for us to use for our perception; to “cut open the sky”, so to speak.

In contemporary art, as in much of early modern art, the concept and strain of the spiritual is hidden and subsumed under the preponderance of work -- much of it high-quality -- which is preoccupied with excessive and intentional materiality. Spirituality in most of this work is clearly and matter-of-factly incidental and unintended, and only opens its nut of to the persistent student or seeker. However, as Lipsey makes clear in his introduction, just because art concerned or moving towards the spiritual is not well-known or given cultural accolades per se, does not mean it is not living, active and prescient; one just needs to be willing to invest time; to search and ask questions. One such artist we are fortunate to call a Philadelphian, is Quentin Morris. For the last several decades, Morris has been working almost exclusively in two related veins: in one color, black, and in a repeated shape of the circle. The reason for the extremely limited parameters is related both to his religion (Buddhism) and race (African-American). For these and several other reasons, Morris is a wonderful artist to look at and investigate the spiritual in art – and specifically transcendancy, as related to the collection works we've already looked at. In the absolutely minimal palette of a single color – black – Morris has come upon the ancient paradox of finding volumes in the one, a mystery which religions have cultivated and harvested from for millennia – and which nuclear science has validated, in its own way. The direction which is most often established by color, space, light or other formal elements is here reliant upon an exceedingly spare and rudimentary group of elements. Yet the possibilities are no less ripe. Instead of directed, purposeful color arrangements, such as in the Cezanne, Morris relies on both the movement of the drawings as air currents sway them, and the light catching the highly-worked and layered permutations on the drawing's surface. These reflections repeat and reinvigorate the accumulated movements and marks, which are part of Morris’ working process. The movement is thus very much in action like a circle itself: all over; grid-less; formless; omnipresent; essentially endless. Thus, like Buddhism imparts, the possibility of transcendancy is all around us, even in our movements, and in what our eyes take in. Multi-color complexity is also not a concern in a Morris; one is not preoccupied with the relationships between colors and what that might convey – what might be called an observant space, a "landscape" or theater of color. Rather, we interact directly with one color, regardless of all its versions therein, as if person to person; an intimate conversation with a color, as opposed to the theatrical "scene". Shape-wise, Morris' disks of black are firstly the prototypical circle: eponymous and eternal. But as part of a theology which is interested (concerned) with wholeness and oneness, both sides of transcendent art-space we saw contrasting in the Cezanne and the Rousseau are here together joined – the inviting and the threatening – much like an amoebic yin and yang, writhing in a harmonized and finely-tuned balance. Much as goodness is a part of the Other, so is a realization of evil or harm. Without the one, then the other would not make sense (or even really exist): they only make perfect sense in each other's presence. Most of us, if shown a half-circle, would feel an innate desire to “finish” it, with a conjoining half-circle, creating unity; an impulse related to observed nature, etcetera (e.g. sunset). In a circle, both concave and convex are joined; both transcendent peace and transcendent fear are included (envision a reflection of the sky in a deep lake, the illimitable depths of each mimicking the other). If one divides a circle either way, top to bottom or left to right, the conjoined forces may be clarified. They work together, and keep themselves unified by opposite forces, all within the harmonious shape of a circle. From this we could venture into traditional ideas of heaven and hell; of East and West, etc., but the most important transcendent point of seeing Morris is this: rather than a pointer to transcendancy, as the Cezanne and the Prendergast ensemble seem to be, or as a contrast to peaceful transcendancy, as the Rousseau seems to be, the Morris circle, in many ways, IS transcendancy. It is a picture of and a symbol for what we are moving towards, in our transcendent action. Of course, this is a symbol or form which Buddhists would find most approachable, and people from or more familiar with Western traditions might be uncomfortable with; either because of an inculcated fear of the Nothingness; the Vacuum, which Buddhism embraces and the black and circle teach us; or negative, lifetime associations with the color black. In one way, though, this is all beside the point. What we may glean from the circular drawings which Morris has been making for decades, is that the possibility for transcendancy need not be relegated to one space; or one emotion; or one object or person: it is all encompassing. It is within us, being drawn out; not just out there in a Cezanne or other art work. Morris encourages us to draw out that ladder of transcendancy, and begin walking up it, however unusual the places we may find it.

(for images of the works mentioned here, please visit:

Cezanne: http://www.notbored.org/barnes.jpg

Rousseau: http://www.dl.ket.org/webmuseum/wm/paint/auth/rousseau/rousseau.eclaireur-tigre.jpg

Morris: http://www.artnet.com/galleries/Exhibitions.asp?gid=135&cid=117033