The Sphinx of the Parkway

The Sphinx of the Parkway

Much has already been written about the new Barnes Foundation building on the Parkway: about its brilliance, or short-sightedness; its accessibility or inaccessibility; its attention to craft, or not. Little however, has been mentioned of its symbolism, as such. Of course all buildings carry something of the symbolic in them: they are, after all, at their best an extension; an extrapolation of both the human body and of nature and landscape: a good (read: successful) building, in other words, is a tranquil compromise. This in itself is greatly symbolic. But that’s writ generally; what about the Barnes Parkway building specifically? Buildings have a way, through their form, of being labeled with all sorts of colorful street monikers: the “Gherkin” skyscraper in London is a good example of this. Of the Merion Barnes building, by Paul Cret, one could say it’s, depending on your viewpoint, a coffin; mausoleum; shoe box; hoagie, and so on. I’ve heard it called a “jewel box”.

The symbol I’d like to suggest for the new Barnes Parkway building is the sphinx – and specifically, the more beneficent, enigmatic Egyptian sphinx. I mean this both formally, and symbolically: that is, the form influences the symbolic nature of what a “sphinx” entails, both historically (as much as can be known) and in the more generic parlance and understanding. The basic form of the Parkway building is of three parts, all long and rectangular: one side (right, or south if facing the west) being the close interpretation of the Merion galleries (or “Merion bar” as it was called early on).The second side is the left, or north side, deviating slightly from the pure rectangle, by wrapping around the back, or east end, but not touching: this is the institutional support section: conservation; offices; restaurant; exhibition gallery; lobby; etc. And thirdly, at nearly the same dimensions, is the light-box, suspended over a covered courtyard between the first two sections; made of white steel and frosted glass throughout. The light box is pushed westward, approximately thirty feet out over its two limestone-cladded “posts”; a light-bearing “lintel”, creating an exterior patio beneath.

So then, when observing one day from the west side while sitting in the adjacent Rodin Museum gardens, I realized the building has a form surprisingly reminiscent, though simplified, of an Egyptian (couchant) sphinx. The light-box head, erect but on a reclining body – here projecting rather than the normal receding – from the two strong front legs: a revived myth straining forward on its haunches. But not just a myth: it’s remarkably like the most famous sphinx, the Great Sphinx, extant and enigmatic among the pyramids of Giza. And the Barnes building cooperates in this mythos. The sphinx has always been an enigma: in some stories giving riddles to inquirers; speech which required discernment; cunning; interpretation: experience, in the term of John Dewey and Dr. Barnes.

And so with the Barnes building: the left leg symbolizes the past of the collection galleries; a legacy with which all participants and viewers deal with through interpretation and engagement, but also linked to a particular time and person through its present, preserved form. The right leg, the support building, symbolizes several layers of progress – treatment; research; development; new amenities; support in the broadest psychological, institutional and physical sense – but always and in every way connected to the left leg (the gallery). And what connects them? The sphinx’s head, or the light-box: always looking west, towards a gathered and joint future: past and present gazing ahead to what’s next. Light is imparted to both sides by this gatherer and distributor of energy and inspiration in the form of physical and spiritual light (and isn’t light always a combination of the two?). The center is the light, and light is always now: the present. In this way, the head, or light-box, of this modern sphinx, is an eternal torch, by day and by night, for concentrated perpetuity. There always has been and always will be riddles endemic to the Barnes collection and foundation – but riddles may be solved. And the hope is that, like the curious androgyny, this sphinx also has ambidextrousness: neither past nor future pulling ahead, but always remaining balanced in this symbolic, future-gazing sphinx of the Parkway.

(Next post: investigating how Ellsworth Kelly's Barnes Totem extends this symbol of the new building, and the human experience therein.)

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A Wink and a Nod...

 

Corey Antis, untitled (black room)

Three not entirely unrelated notes from this past week and a half:

Note 1: a Wink

I’ve been reading a book (much of my reading takes place on the bus these days) entitled Engaging the Powers: Discernment and Resistance in a World of Domination, by Walter Wink. I won’t go into detail about the content right now, but suffice it to say it’s been shifting my worldview slightly…as well as my thoughts about the differences between “nonresistance” and “nonviolence”. For anyone interested in activist theology, neo-Anabaptist leanings, and a call to rid ourselves (as Christians) of the destructive myth of redemptive violence, I would highly recommend it. I certainly don’t agree with everything Wink is saying, but as the best writers do and the best writing does, Wink keeps the questions and discussions open. It is masterfully done, and highly thought-provoking.

Note 2: and a Nod

An artist whose work has been highly influential to my own over the last few months is Corey Antis. His work was featured in Tiger Strikes Asteroid’s January show, and its qualities have been resonating with me ever since. In fact, one Saturday as I gallery sat, I distilled some of what I thought was highly effective about Antis’ work, and re-defined it for myself as a form of several “New Year (work) resolutions” (it all centers on consistency and standards, essentially):

·         Paintings all collared and edged in same white paint.

·         Three at a time; colors between.

·         More steps and more creativity with tape usage.

·         More uniform sizes, and standard collar depth.

·         Edges of found surfaces, also edged in white.

·         Don’t be afraid of texture!

·         Be more disciplined with periodic making of panels.

I’ll talk more about this once I upload some pictures of my recent work.

Note 3: Class

Some of my more dedicated readers may remember my postings from this past fall and winter on the class I led at the Barnes Foundation, Investigating the Spiritual in Art. I am working on a syllabus/concept for a new class for this coming fall. The (rough) working title is Humans and the Modern Landscape. Briefly, it will deal with the two overriding concerns (as I see them) in the Barnes collection: the ensembles, which are wall arrangements which are both internally constructed and didactic, and also connect with the collection as a whole, philosophically, psychologically and formally (and I’d add, unsurprisingly, spiritually); and the two dominant formats of modern paintings (the bulk of our collection), namely, portraits or depictions of humans, and landscapes or depictions of environment or the natural world. The class sessions will be constructed of contrasts: urban/rural; civilized/savage; European/American, etc.

The Spiritual in Art class was loosely arranged around a wonderful book, An Art of our Own: The Spiritual in Twentieth-Century Art, by Roger Lipsey. The search is on for a book which could function in the same way, for this new class concept. 

Any ideas?

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Art Thoughts, Week 40 -- Puvis de Chavannes & Trust

Dramatic Poetry (Aeschylus), Pierre Puvis de Chavannes (French, 1824—1898) c. 1896, oil on canvas, BF100.

Symbols are intrinsic to the receiving of visions. In fact, the idea of a vision is that the seer receives a glimpse of something outside themselves and their time – in the future (across time) – but also just as likely across space – in another country, for example. So, symbols are bridges between the vision’s displaced time and space, and our trust. The reception is usually exceedingly clear; i.e., it as if the seer was there physically; however, clear as the active reception of it may have been, it becomes foggy or nonsensical upon waking, like a dream pieced together. This, again, is why symbols are so common in visions – they can carry an enormous load of potential meaning and information, beneficial to interpretation, though they themselves are rather small on the surface. Apocalyptic literature, such as the Book of Revelation, is replete with symbols: scrolls, horses, keys, etc. But we all know that, even though a TV signal may be crystal clear, we may still have no concept of what the programming is about. Symbols therefore are potentially helpful (revelatory, even) in making sense of visions, but can also be exceedingly misleading.

Puvis is considered a Symbolist painter, and his painting Dramatic Poetry (Aeschylus) is no exception to that definition. The culturally-influential and proven symbols of mythology are the largest influence here, in the form of a bound Prometheus, the attendant Oceanids, and the descending, torturous eagle. However, the one foreground figure who twists this painting towards our own reality, and therefore makes the background even more symbolically-driven, is Aeschylus, a historical playwright of ancient Greece, who is reclining and reading a scroll. So, between the strange tableaux in the background and the viewers, lies the realm of symbols – with Aeschylus as the featured vessel. We, however, have the additional filter of Puvis. And indeed, Puvis himself, being interested in the obvious and deliberate divestment of reality through the power of paint, influences both the myth of Prometheus, as well as what becomes the “myth” of Aeschylus – that is, an additional layer of ostensible reality juxtaposed over a vision of pure surrealism. So, with symbols flying between, we simultaneously are given views of the back-side and front-side of a construct: myth displayed as reality to an historical human, which turns out to be an unreal human depiction watching a myth unfold. We may try to follow one side to an end, only to find that, like on a Mobius strip, we’ve come back to the same point. Simply put, nothing can be trusted.

Actually, we can trust one thing in this scene, which reads strangely synesthetically like white noise: the paint. With great skill Puvis has physically emphasized the metaphysics of this scene by both his deliberate modulation of edges – from sharp and bulky, to skimmed, dry and soft – as well as his colors, which are wan and dreamlike. The background cliff edges, for instance, fade in and out of the sky, differentiated by the sinking of paint into canvas, then the subsequent rise of paint again – all enveloped in those tightly analogous, sun-bleached colors. All this enhances the vision-bound state of Aeschylus, and the pained stupor of Prometheus…and also invites more connections to John the Revelator, who was blinded by his revelation’s weight. It is the one true thing we can hold on to: the artifice…and that is (probably) what Puvis wanted.

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