In my last entry on Seminal
Works, I ended my discussion with a look at First
Light, a painting completed in 1990 after a period of indecision during
which I determined in what manner I would address the figure in my art. The entry was a long one and I felt compelled
to wrap it up, so I summarily addressed the circumstances that lead to the
creation of the work and wrote briefly as to why the work is considered
“seminal” by me. I recognized after
publishing the entry that it is somewhat misleading.
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| Wickham - First Light - 1990 |
In my entry, I mention that
I got the idea of painting a double portrait because I felt that my friend who
posed for the work embodied a clear duality of conflicting personalities
between which lay a chasm that could not be breached. It was my belief at that time that these
personae could not coexist in a single individual and that one persona would
have to take precedence over the other.
All of which is true. But the painting
has very little to do with this germ of an idea. I would be aghast if viewers came to the work
thinking it an exploration of how a dominant persona must subdue one less
viable in the individual, that this is a painting about a specific person that
I knew twenty years ago. The circumstances
that initiate the development of an image are of interest as they expose
process but commonly offer very little insight into how the finished work
functions… may often lead to misconceptions instead. That is why I seldom read those cards
containing a few neatly printed paragraphs of verbiage that accompany artworks
in museum shows. If I read them,
inevitably, the artwork is transformed into an illustration of the context
purported by the card.
Picasso - La Vie - 1903
Does it help us to know
that La Vie depicts Pablo Picasso’s
friend, Casagemas, who committed suicide after being rejected by his lover,
supposedly because he was impotent? Or
does this information prevent us from fully experiencing the image. Picasso himself once opined: “A painting for
me, speaks by itself. What good does it
do, after all, to impart explanations? A
painter has only one language. As for
the rest…” He shrugged.
Gauguin - The Spirit of the Dead Watching - 1892
Does knowing that the nude
figure in Spirit of the Dead Watching
is Paul Gauguin’s 14 year old Tahitian wife help us to better understand the
painting or does it place a context on the painting that most members of a
contemporary audience would have trouble getting past to rationally explore the
artwork?
By the time I completed First Light, that germ of an idea,
visually representing the personality dichotomy of my model, was no longer of
primary interest to me. I didn’t even
care if the viewer recognized that the same model was used for both
figures. (In fact, most people don’t
notice this.) Other aspects of the work
began to dominate my thinking as the painting progressed.
Early on, as I began to map out my composition in my mind, I thought of
the painting as an annunciation.
Although I don’t adhere to any religious beliefs, I have always been captivated
by annunciation imagery and have, over the years, addressed the theme in
several works. Most importantly,
annunciation imagery represents a charged instant in time when a significant
transformation is taking place. The
natural and the supernatural are merged as Mary is impregnated with the seed of
god. On a cosmic level, this moment is
charged with such significance on so many levels that it is impossible to go
into them here. But there is a personal
story to the annunciation as well. This
is a moment of revelation. An
individual, Mary, is being informed by the angel Gabriel that she is to give
birth to the son of god. This, of
course, is rather shocking news, and I am fascinated with how different artists
depict Mary’s response.
Greek Orthodox - The Annunciation - 14th Century
Wickham - First Light (detail) - 1990
In researching this entry,
I was surprised to find that Orthodox iconography consistently depicted the
angel Gabriel with a trailing right foot, turned toward the viewer. This gesture mirrors that of the standing
figure in First Light. I must have tapped into deep reservoirs of
art history images stored in my subconscious because I had no idea that my
reference was so explicit at the time I made the painting. I’m not sure what the significance of this
gesture in iconography is. My guess is
that it symbolized the descent of the angel from the cosmic to the mortal
plane. (If any reader can help me with
this, I would be appreciative.) In First Light, I use the gesture to show
that the standing figure is caught in mid-action, that she is approaching the
supine figure. It reinforces the sense
of the moment. I also think that it
lends the standing figure a slightly threatening aura.
Martini - The Annunciation - 1333
Another thing I like about
annunciations is that they are usually compositionally awkward, depicting a
huge void between Mary and the angel. I
appreciate unconventional and awkward compositions. The eye doesn’t know where to go and bounces
back and forth between the two figures.
Simone Martini resolves this problem by emphasizing the independence of
each figure, placing them in ornate niches and flanking each with the figure of
a saint. The composition becomes frontal
and static, relying on a pattern of vertical repetitions to hold it
together. The portrayal of Mary is
wonderful in this work, her sinuous body contracts upon itself, her face
expresses wariness and dissatisfaction.
Fra Angelico - The Annunciation - 1437 to 46
Like Martini, Fra Angelico
also utilizes a composition that places his figures in niches, but he
integrates these framing devices into the composition as three dimensional
architectural elements.
Botticelli - Cestello Annunciation - 1490
Tintoretto - The Annunciation - 1587
Later artists resolved the
compositional problems presented by traditional annunciation imagery by
bringing the figures closer together and employing more sophisticated
compositional devices to lead the eye through the painting, generally by
stressing strong diagonals. But I have a
strong preference for the clumsy compositions of the Byzantine and
proto-Renaissance periods.
Wickham - First Light (detail) - 1990
Of course, in First Light, I had no desire to evoke
religious themes but did wish to emphasize the impression that the painting
captures a charged moment when
something critical is taking place. As
the wisp of smoke caught rising from the just extinguished candle establishes a
sense of the instant, my allusion to annunciation imagery is intended to do so
as well. The theme of revelation in
annunciation imagery is of equal importance, reinforced in the image by
suggestions of drawing back a curtain and shedding light on a subject.
Wickham - First Light (detail) - 1990
In depicting the supine
figure in a state of internal musing, I wanted to accentuate her
vulnerability. Too distracted to be
aware of the approaching figure, she revels in her personal thoughts, leaving
herself open to assault. It is clear by
her exotic dress, make-up, extravagant jewelry and carefully coiffed hair that
she has good reason to be engaged in inner musings. She is sophisticated. Her life is rich, complex and active. Balthus also depicted musing figures in his
art.
Balthus - Nude with Cat - 1949
But his figures appear to be
plotting, to be forming a stratagem to achieve some amoral goal. They seem dangerous. My musing figure is weakened by permitting
herself the luxury of surrendering to inner thoughts. She is not conscious of what is happening
around her and does not notice the approaching figure.
Though we are unsure of her
intentions, I wished to portray the standing figure as dominant; she looms over
the reclining figure, studying her dispassionately. I even deliberately made the silhouette of
the candleholder, pointed like a knife, jut into the void over the recumbent
figure. The viewer cannot be sure what
is happening here. It’s possible that
nothing is occurring, that we are witnessing a quiet moment of observation when
the daily lives of two beings temporarily intersect. But I’ve also attempted to suggest that
something more momentous is in the works, that these two very different figures
should not exist in the same space and that a resolution could be impending. Simultaneously, these beings are strangely
linked. There is a hint that there is a
bond holding them together, that we are voyeurs of a strange game. I do not allow the viewer to come to a firm
conclusion concerning this image. It
would be my preference that he vacillate between interpretations, that he never
settle on one hypothesis about what is occurring, that he invent an endless
series of myths to place the image into a context. As the creator of the image, I am only
responsible for setting the parameters of how far that invention can go.
I will digress a moment to
relate a personal story. Back in the
early 90’s, I used to get together with a friend at a bar in lower Manhattan about once a
week to relax after work, have a few beers, shoot some pool and engage in
freewheeling discussions about a host of subjects, one of which was art. My friend had seen First Light on several occasions, so, one evening, I was explaining
to him how I thought the painting should function, that it could represent a
banal moment in the lives of two women but it could also depict something more
momentous, that there were suggestions of conflict, violence and decadence in
the image. My friend could only see one
facet of the work: two women calmly coexisting in an interior space as the
first light of morning illuminates their surroundings. I described the cyphers embedded in the image
that I hoped would suggest alternative interpretations. I touched upon my references to art
history. Though hesitant to do so, I
even conjured up a possible scenario or two to explain what could be happening
in the painting. After all of this, he
looked at me dead eyed and stated flatly, “I just don’t see it.” I must admit that I was nonplussed by his
reaction, wondering if my subtle suggestions within the work were too subtle.
A few weeks later, a friend
from my wife’s workplace visited her at our apartment in Brooklyn. At that time, First Light hung outside of our apartment on a landing that capped
what seemed an endless series of stairways.
As you climbed the last flight to the top, First Light, lit by a filmy overhead skylight, filled your
view. It was unavoidable. When I came home from work that evening, I
asked my wife how the visit with her friend had gone, and she told me that she
had been very disturbed upon seeing First
Light. Her friend thought the
painting was sick. I was surprised that
her reaction was so strong but, at the same time, felt relieved that she had
picked up on nuances in the work to which my
friend had been blind. In a nutshell,
the painting functioned.
As I conclude this entry, I recognize that I am guilty of self-deception
here, that I began by questioning whether being provided with biographical
facts and explanations actually helps one better understand a work of art and
then proceeded to provide a host of biographical facts and explanations about First Light. I guess my excuse for this blatant
contradiction is that, even though wary of the impact that the written word can
have on one’s experience of an artwork, I must confess that I greatly enjoy
reading about art and artists and take a prurient pleasure in rooting about in
the intimate details available concerning the milieu within which an artwork
was created. It seems only natural that
I would speculate on my own process, explain my intentions, attempt to unravel
the workings of my art and even toss in the occasional private anecdote. I suspect that most of us would like to
remain intellectually “pure” but find ourselves surrendering to personal
weaknesses. I don’t find this a bad
thing. Much of my art takes a
sympathetic, if not comic, view of human failings, and I honestly believe that
it is our deficiencies which make us creative, innovative and interesting. I can state one thing with certainty; future
blog entries will continue to indulge in this kind of agreeable roving.
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