Jean Pillement
Landscape with Ruin

Jean Pillement's 1791 oil painting Landscape with Ruin was, for me, the most interesting of the three paintings I selected. I tend to favor classical European art because there's always an intricate, ethereal quality about paintings from that era regardless of the subject; however, this painting captures that essence even more so through the mystical scenery. The artist beautifully executed many visual techniques in the composition of his painting, the first of which is radiating lines. Some of these radiating lines are more subtle in comparison to the other two paintings I selected, but I have a greater appreciation for that approach because I believe the eye moves more fluidly over the painting and the viewer is granted a little more freedom in how they choose to follow the painting. The radiating lines in this painting present themselves in the rocky structures that move your eye up toward the right, the bowing tree that swoops down to the left through the trunk and roots, and the more subtle sun beams and resulting highlight of the ground on which the subjects, a group of travelers, rest. The painting also does a spectacular job of applying the rule of thirds. Traditionally I thought of the rule of thirds as a painting being sectioned off into either horizontal or vertical sections of three, but in this case they appear more like large pieces of pie, each capable of telling its own story. The upper left section of the "pie" is sectioned off by the swooping trees just above the travelers in the foreground and where the sky begins to turn dark. Within this section, the mist surrounding an ambiguous man-made structure creates a sense of mystery. The upper right third is sectioned off by the beginning of the darkening sky and the shadowy downward slope of the rocky structure above the travelers.The dilapidated castle is eerily beautiful and I spent a great deal of time imagining what it looked like in its prime. The final third, which also happens to be the Golden Triangle we can find in many classical paintings, is everything under the top of the sweeping trees down to the river rocks in the bottom left hand corner, and from the top of the trees down the sloping rocky structure and mound of land at the bottom right hand corner. While the travelers were the focal point of the painting, I didn't focus so much on where they were in the painting but rather where they were headed and from where they had already traveled. I felt like a movie was playing out in my head when I looked at this painting and that was pretty incredible to me.

Henry Matisse
Festival of Flowers

In the Festival of Flowers, Henri Matisse produces an exceptional landscape with what I felt were rather unexceptional techniques. That sounds insulting, but there's nothing particularly complex in the composition of his colors, lines, or shapes and yet I was totally captivated by what became a living, breathing picture for me the more time I spent looking at it. Admittedly this painting fell to second place for me because I do prefer the intricacies of more realistic paintings, but like the Landscape with Ruin, I loved that there were more stories being told than just the obvious subjects of the foreground. This leads me to the composition: the radiating lines in the painting converge to draw the eye to the standing woman in the foreground and by doing so, the eye is also drawn to the woman seated directly under her. These subjects are important, but I also spent a great deal of time pondering why the man in the balcony above them was seemingly facing away from the women and the commotion in the street below. I also contemplated the reasoning behind certain people being clustered together in the manner they were. The ambiguous composition of shapes allows the viewer to form their own interpretation for these stories as well as the overall layout of the scenery. For example, I didn't initially read the accompanying background information on the painting so I viewed the dark figures on either side of the road as people gathering to look at different vendors selling art, flowers, and food, the cars were just two lanes of traffic, and the people in the road were simply crossing the street to go see a different part of the festival. But after spending more time with the painting, it definitely makes more sense to interpret the scenery as crowds watching a parade.

Gino Severini
Dancer at Pigalle's

I hate saying this painting came in last place because it really is captivating, but I personally wasn't able to extract a multi-faceted story from this piece like I was for the other two paintings. As far as composition is concerned, though, this painting is a close second behind Landscape with Ruin. In addition to elements of the painting literally coming out of the canvas, there's undeniable rhythm and movement in the composition of this piece that really brings it to life. When I first walked by the painting I didn't really appreciate the manner in which shapes were broken up and arranged to create a twirling dancer; I thought it was just some bizarre abstract landscape. Upon looking at it a second time, though, the leading lines (circular pink arrangements), the radiating lines (the spot lights shining down from the top of the painting), and the rhythm in the folds of the dress guided my eyes to see an uninterrupted image of a ballerina in motion. While I love that the execution of this piece required me to trust the flow of the artist's techniques, I didn't feel compelled to dig deeper in the story because the only true subject is the dancer. For me, there weren't any questions I asked myself that I needed to reflect on the answer.

Ways of Seeing

John Berger's video Ways of Seeing offered a lot of fresh insight for me regarding how paintings are viewed. He opened with a brief explanation of European painting style which was born about 1400 and died about 1900. All paintings of this tradition used the convention of perspective, which Berger says is unique to European art. Because perspective centers everything for the beholder, the process of viewing paintings is far less spontaneous than we believe. Our eyes are guided to what the painter wants us to see. I had never considered this as a limitation, but rather a comprehension of what the artist wished to accomplish; once it was phrased in this manner, though, I was willing to entertain that this can be a handicap of sorts. But Berger goes on to say that there is one invention that can free us from what he calls "human immobility:" the camera.

The camera offers a fresh perspective on art and it's even capable of changing paintings created long before its invention. I found the concept of this really captivating. The painting itself can only be seen in one place at one time, but the image of the painting can be made available "in any size, anywhere, for any purpose." By doing this, you alter multiple aspects of the painting; for instance, the camera allows you to see the painting in the context of your own life, surrounded by all the things that are familiar to you. When viewing a painting in this manner, it's going to drastically change the way you perceive its meaning. Originally, a painting was intended to be viewed in the context of its surroundings; everything around it is intended to be an integral part of confirming and consolidating its meaning. With the camera and printed images, however, this is no longer the case. Furthermore, once paintings have been removed from their original setting, they can be manipulated by not just their new surroundings, but also by motion and sound. The video gives examples of how you can be subtly guided towards forming certain feelings about a painting based on the instrumental accompaniment. The other form of manipulation, motion, was actually pretty disheartening when it was explained in Berger's logic. The idea of motion discussed in the video really boiled down to zooming in on one aspect of a painting, thus removing it from the overall context of the painting. As Berger examines, in a painting zoomed in to show only a single character's face, an allegorical figure becomes just a pretty girl anywhere. He also shows a painting which he describes as a "strange, poetical world of metamorphosis," but it's capable of reducing one of the subjects, a dog, to a mere pet when it is removed from its setting. As a whole, the video really expanded my understanding of how a painting can be perceived.

A review of Visibility

In the fourth chapter of Italo Calvino's Six Memos for the New Millennium, he looks to examine the duality of visibility: imaginative processes that "[start] with the word and [arrive] at the visual image" versus processes that "[start] with the visual image and [arrive] at the verbal expression." Frankly, my reading comprehension failed me a little on this reading. I found myself struggling to understand exactly what was being conveyed in Calvino's writing, and it took several attempts of reading and taking notes to feel that I had grasped what was being analyzed.

From my understanding, Calvino seeks to break down each process of imagination then tries to determine which process forms first, much like the chicken and the egg conundrum. He opens with excerpts from Dante's Divine Comedy describing images that begin as outward visual projections and noises cast on the ear that gradually turn inward to strictly mental representations. These mental images, which Dante believed were "divine inspiration," are just that: images. There are no words associated with them, but Dante assigns verbal expression to convey to the reader what he has imagined. This is an example of the second imaginative process mentioned earlier involving a visual image arriving at verbal expression, and this is the process that Calvino favored, at least when pertaining to "novelty, originality, and invention."

Calvino didn't dismiss the validity of word arriving at visual image, however. He goes on to discuss Ignatius of Loyola's Spiritual Exercises in which Loyola uses words to paint a "vast visionary panorama." Calvino distinguishes Loyola's approach from the visual approach of Catholicism at the time as rather groundbreaking. The Church relied on sacred art to invoke "emotional stimuli" in order to further the believer's understanding of the teachings. This can be limiting to the believer, though, because they are being presented with a preconceived image that shapes how they should feel and think about the matter at hand. By verbally expressing a concept, Loyola leaves it to the reader to mentally paint the scenery and individuals involved, which affords them more liberty in their spiritual enlightenment.

If I were to pick a side, I personally believe more often than not that the visual image precedes verbal expression. I respect both lines of thinking, but I think Douglas Hofstadter explained the matter very well; he mentioned that a writer will start with a mental image and oftentimes will make multiple attempts to piece together the words that will best convey this image. Even once the words are formed, the origin of the idea is vague and hidden, much like the majority of an iceberg that hides beneath the water. You can't associate words with this ambiguity, but you can assign imagery to it on some level.

A review of The Whole Ball of Wax

The theory behind Jerry Saltz's "The Whole Ball of Wax" is not a difficult idea with which to agree: art is "part of the biota of the world. It exists within a holistic system." Saltz rationalizes that art is not the singular answer to many crises that take place around the globe, but similar to "science, religion, philosophy, politics, or any other discipline," art is capable of changing the world.

Unfortunately for Saltz, the tone behind his arguments substantiating this theory are perceived less as a passionate defense of art and more as an abrasive attack on anyone who doesn't share his precise ideals on this topic. He consistently ridiculed those who prefer to have a concrete understanding of something in order to appreciate it, and in doing so, I believe he contradicted the message he tried to make.

For example, immediately following his tirade on the flawed, unimaginative thinking of "myopic scientists" and Cartesians, Saltz includes a quote from Oscar Wilde that is intended to counter the beliefs of those whose school of thinking aligns with Descartes: "The moment you think you understand a work of art it's dead for you." By agreeing with this statement, Saltz unravels much of his supporting points centered around art as a "necessity." In being a necessity, art is also whatever an individual needs it to be for them specifically. If in understanding a work of art, the beholder finds comfort, clarity, and enrichment in their life, why should that mean that the work of art must be dead to them? Saltz repeatedly discusses the healing power of art, listing Antonio Cassese and Gaylen Gerber as notable accounts of using art to aid in coping with various traumas and negativity, yet he fails to acknowledge that even these individuals had their own understanding of the artwork they were experiencing in order to benefit from the pieces.

There's an elitist mentality in the way Saltz talks about art, almost as if it's meant to be some unfathomable, unattainable concept. Yet some of the most beloved, renowned pieces of art are approachable to people of all ages and backgrounds. For example, one doesn't need a degree in art to understand the majesty of van Gogh's Starry Night. Sure, the painting will evoke different thoughts and feelings for everyone, but each individual's understanding of the painting is valid. So while I appreciate Saltz's theory and enjoyed reading his opinion, I believe there are less abrasive ways of explaining his beliefs surrounding the purpose and meaning of art.