“Bumped”, I suppose you could say. Because I was reminded of it.
This post was originally published April 19, 2008. The New Criterion link has expired, but you can still read it here. Take your time. Read the comments, too.
“When I was in the army, many years ago, I was an infantryman, and in the course of what I saw, and did, and came to understand, I was broken. Sometime after I had returned to the United States and my life had resumed, I rounded a corner in the Metropolitan Museum in New York and saw a painting I had known all my life but which I had not until that moment been able to understand. This was Winslow Homer’s masterfully restrained portrait of a veteran returning to his fields. The generation touched by fire in the Civil War understood the great import of this painting, they knew why the veteran had his back turned to the painter, why he was alone, why he worked in utter quiet, why the light was so clear, the scene so tranquil. After years of war and destruction, they understood, and after having passed this painting for the first time as a man, so did I.”
I think this must be the painting that David mentions: Juan Sánchez Cotán http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Fra_Juan_S%C3%A1nchez_Cot%C3%A1n_001.jpg
Breathtaking — I would love to see the original.
Helprin said that Ortega “had been convinced that history had run itself out, and that the final discovery was that we have been born from nothingness into nothingness and will exit into nowhere,” which is why Ortega capitulated to the inevitablity that the “new art,” which he endorsed would “in fact destroy art, destroy civilization”…
Sitting in my car on this very warm and lovely afternoon, which meant that my neighbourhood was full of humanity on foot, going here and there, enjoying the new warmth, the brilliant sunshine, I was struck by the nihilism we’re examining here.
I have never seen so many truly ugly women on parade: faded, ill-fitting clothing, hair all over the place and every colour imaginable, bellies hanging out of spandexed-tops, skirts up to their crotches, no joy in their faces, hardly any children to be seen with them, let alone men, as they loped and limped their way across the street while I waited for the light to turn green.
My heart sank as I contemplated the reason for such ugliness, such rebellion toward the beauty of God’s creation: shere bloody-mindedness and arrogance…”we know better, and we spit on God and His Creation.”
When human being choose destruction, rebellion, ugliness, and crassness over creativity, harmony, beauty, and grace, then you know they’ve capitulated to the same destructive nihilism as Ortega.
In much less elegant terms than Helprin’s, I was having a similar “discussion” with myself this afternoon about the direction in which our society is headed. It saddened me to see potential beauty stunted, blunted, and rejected, while “innovation,” “originality,” and “personal” expressiveness (emphasis on “personal” as opposed to “communal/community”) were celebrated and on parade.
Singularly lacking were any expressions of joy or liveliness. Just plodding narcissism.
Posted by: batb at April 19, 2008 11:59 PM
I posted the above, in error, in Reader Tips; that’s why the 11:59 time…
Well john begley the newer English translations say I AM who I AM. The older English versions translate it I AM that I AM. The older versions served to make my point better than the new versions simply because in either translation is the recognition of self existance except the word “that” implies ungenerate existance. You or I can say I am who I am but only He can say I AM THAT I AM.
Only He can say I that I am
Cogito ergo sum
As a kid I saw a Mondrian at a gallery in among may Victorian and earlier paintings. I remember thinking “Why is that thing here? I could do that.” The teacher told me it was a very famous piece, very valuable. I believe it was at this time I began to wonder if artists were all crazy.
The other day I saw a piece at a student gallery which consisted of a green base, a small tree branch and two Hot Wheels cars. I asked the gallery minder if it would be considered vandalism if I added burnout marks behind the cars with a marker, maybe some cotton wool smoke. She said perhaps one of the cars should be doing a wheelie.
It would appear I’m not the only philistine in the world.
Oddly, when I look at Homer’s painting above my fingers do not itch for a marker. My brain does not echo my youthful sentiment, “I could do that!”
I make furniture as a hobby. Whenever I go to galleries or read magazines I am faced with the inevitable “art” pieces. Chairs you can’t sit on, tables you can’t put things on, things made deliberately ugly, bizarre forms with no function whatsoever. Dust collectors, if you will. I ignore them, unless they are spectacularly silly. Then I giggle for a moment and move on.
The things that capture my admiration are the pieces you can sit on, eat at, eat with. Graceful forms which perform their function admirably. The perfectly balanced knife which greets you when you pick it up, the chair which comforts you when you sit in it. To these ends I bend my talents, such as they are.
That is my answer to Mr. Ortega, 80 years of Mondrian and Dadaist fur-lined tea cups.
Hey, Phantom, could you please make me a chair?! I mean, one which comforts you when you sit in it…’sounds GR-8… 😉
I have a ways to go on that front batb. I’ve mastered the art of making them so they don’t fall down, though. Better than Ikea…
Currently I’m attempting a harp. Hopefully it doesn’t sound like a banjo when I’m done. 😀
A work of art perfect for the maltlepeice
Good luck with the harp, Phantom! (Banjos are OK, but the harp would go best with the comfortable chair… 😉
October 29th, 2022.
I’ve reopened comments for this post. Please stay on topic.
The world of art. It really is a divide of those who do and those who do not. The ones that do see some sort of idyllic, hidden place they want, they desire, they need. They just seem to know, never to utter in mixed company, however behind the closed walls of paintings it is an utter disdain for the ones who don’t. The nose carried so high it cast a forbidden shadow on the ones who don’t, the shadows that the don’ts scurry in. However if you peel away the layers of oil and water, pencil and ink, the don’ts see it as all too real, no hiding behind faked origami(sims) mingling with the “It crowd”. Yes, the don’ts actually live life, not as they want but as it is. So carefully built has the knows world been, that any ounce of truth let in will destroy it. Yes the don’ts are all too real for them, hence the fake sorrow, the fake charity balls, the fake caring. It’s all part of the fake world built by the knows.
I always thought that “Voice Of Fire” was a massive middle finger from the artist to the public: “See? I can produce something a child wouldn’t bother with, and you lot will try to find meaning in it”. Or maybe the artist was taking aim at art critics.
Either way, it was an insult.
Ortega y Gasset sounds like an insufferable asshole.
My girlfriend and I have over a dozen original and almost all local works. Not expensive or anything but we like them.
Walking our dog in the Central Experimental Farm this morning was all the philosophy I needed for the day. But I’ll do it again later this afternoon.
Some years ago I saw a Riopelle exhibition in Montreal. One of the largest pieces was several 4×4 panels, which had random splotches of paint, random objects glued to the panel, and most notably, silhouettes that appeared to be the result of dipping a dead seabird in paint and pressing it against the panel. I later found out that was exactly what they were.
The work had been created after the death of his long-time companion from cancer. Knowing that, it was easy to see it as the frenetic coping mechanism of a man deep in the throes of grief. Was it art? No. It was random shit – and seabirds – on a wooden panel. Without knowing the context and history it had no value at all.