Just Another Pollock?



Frank Stella is just a different kind of Jackson Pollock. And, yeah, I was one of those banging their heads against the table trying to figure out how the heck Jackson Pollock ended up being a famous artist. I find myself just as confused when I look at Stella’s work. All I see are straight edges, and geometric tools being used. It’s not all that difficult to use a compass or protractor to trace out their shapes, shrink them, enlarge them. I’ve done it dozens of times when I was supposed to be paying attention in my geometry class. Even worse, I’m supposed to be impressed the guy can color inside the lines?! My nephew’s learning to master that trick, and he’s four.
I guess I’m just not all that impressed by colorful, geometric shapes. It’s so simple. With a ruler and an oversized compass, I’m pretty sure anyone could replicate this work. I want real effort when it comes to art. That’s why I was never impressed with Pollock. I want to see actual talent, not just the “I was the first to come up with the idea to sell this crap, so I get the credit”. I looked up some of Stella’s other works, and they are all pretty much the same. I’ve also found another artist who does similar work, and I can honestly say it is difficult to tell the difference between the two. See for yourself. Can you tell which one is Stella?



　

For all the negative things I’ve said about Stella, I’ve got to give the guy some props. His attitude in the book when talking about his work makes me respect him a little bit more. “What you see is what you see”, and I guess he’s right. There’s no need to go looking for the deeper meaning or trying to figure out what in the world you’re looking at. His works are simple. It just drives me a little crazy that they’re just so boring.

An Attempt to Understand the Mind of Peace



I have often passed up the opportunity to really look at a piece of poetry in this class. However, I found myself unable to resist the urge to write on Paz's "To Talk". To me all the other poems we have looked at have either been uninteresting or too simple to pick apart, but Paz intrigues me. "To Talk" has been a little more difficult to decipher properly, and I feel compelled to take on the challenge. I think the best way to pull apart the meaning of this poem is to work bottom up, so bear with me because it took me a while to figure this method our, but it somehow works.
“We talk because we are
mortal: words
are not signs, they are years.
Saying what they say,
the names we speak
say time: they say us,
we are the names of time.
To talk is human.”
Words for us have to have definition, some sort of meaning, otherwise they have no use. For mortals, words have impact; they can create images, conjure emotions, and stimulate reactions. We use language to define ourselves, to measure and describe, to give name to something we can never understand completely for science, knowledge has no limit. We remember quotes and rhymes and acronyms and apply them to situations and lessons learned. History said, history written, is defined as having happened, as being real. I think this is what Paz means by saying words are years. Words themselves cannot be measured, but rather they are continuous. We try to define them and limit them as we do time, so “we are the names of time” because these limitations and definitions are only in place out of our own accordance.
“Language, lit by a god
is a prophecy
of flames and a crash
of burnt syllables:
meaningless ash.”
Words and definitions are limited by mortals because mortals experience limitations. But to a god, what are words? What is language? It has no meaning or definition. Such limitations are nonexistent to a god. Therefore to speak is a mortal task. Language to a god is meaningless. Think about it. To express yourself, any thought, idea, or emotion has to be limited and compacted into a few sentences. Images mean nothing for a human if it cannot be fully defined in words, but this feat is impossible. No amount of speech could ever replicate the emotion a person feels, the thoughts going on in their mind, or the visions they see. Language is the creation of man. To a god though, it is meaningless, useless, unnecessary.
“But gods don’t speak:
they create and destroy worlds
while men do the talking,
Gods, without words,
play terrifying games.”
As I said before, our thoughts and ideas are limited by words, but gods, immortals, feel no limitations. They can destroy and create with their thoughts and emotions. Words do not have to define the action or the vision. Without words, the power of gods is unlimited, and this is what Paz means by “Gods, without words,/ play terrifying games”. Time means nothing to an immortal; hours, minutes, seconds. They are just words. Life, death, mean nothing to a god. They are just words. Words are nothing if not defined. “To talk is human”, and though this poem might just be meaningless words, for us mortals, it has a great impact.

A Taste of Italian



Sometimes, I can look at an image and think to myself how amazing that particular scene is or how well it is put together. Other times, I take a glimpse and think to myself, ‘what a mess’. In a way Charles Moore’s Piazza d’Italia in New Orleans is really beautiful and well crafted, but I found it to be a bit overwhelming. The bright colors and close spacing creates a crowded image. The view is loud, and every detail is commanding attention. It seems too much. I’m one more for subtle beauty, but I suppose from what I’ve heard of New Orleans, subtlety is not key.



The colors and the architecture are beautiful. The presentation, the curves and corners, and the paths of the water create an interesting and somewhat lovely scene. I will not argue that, but I feel there is too much in one space competing for one’s attention. I’ve been to Italy, and I think of the open space and towering architecture beautiful in its age and quality. The architecture is large and controlling in presence surrounded by large open plazas and old stone roads. It is nothing like Moore’s portrayal in Piazza d’Italia. At first I was intrigued by its geometry and perspective, but never did it make me think of my experiences in Rome or Sorrento. More than anything, it made me think of the overcrowded, over extravagant, shop-lined streets of Capri, but even Capri’s natural beauty and elegance was much more awe-inspiring than Moore’s work. Perhaps if I only had post-card, commercialized images for comparison, I would find Piazza d’Italia entertaining, but I feel Moore has done no justice for Italian influence in New Orleans.

Headless Humanoid



While reading through Chapter 37 I came across an image that struck me as being very odd. My first thought on Magdalena Abakanowicz’s work, Crowd 1, was that it was very crude, strange sculpting and wasn’t sure how to look at it. I did some research on Abakanowicz thinking I had an idea what this work might be about after seeing that she was Polish and taking note of the dates. After reading some of her history as a survivor of WWII, I realized how important this artwork was for herself and for the audience.
Soviet rule put many restrictions on artwork, but after the death of Stalin, Poland underwent some dramatic cultural shifts that allowed for more artistic freedom. Abakanowicz has been said to be defined by some of her earlier artworks that portray individuality and bright works of personality. However, Abakanowicz took on the art form constructivism, and has stayed with it since.

Works such as Crowd 1 (top) and 80 Backs (above), use headless, sexless forms to generate a mass of non-individualistic beings. The forms are created in an appearance and texture that develop the ideas of nature; mud, earth, etc. These works are also ambiguous, and produce a sense of confusion, and as I saw it, loneliness, oppression, or sadness. There is no single person that stands out, and as much as this mocked socialist views, it can still hold true today. When I look at these images I conjure up phrases like ‘lost in the crowd’ or ‘all alone in a crowded room’. I could never fully understand or appreciate this artwork as an extension of the Soviet oppression in Poland, but I do feel a deep sense of emotion when looking at them. You could almost say there is some kind of horror to these images, and if I stare at them long enough, they kind of scare the crap out of me just imagining this mass of people that are nothing, have no meaning in themselves. If it weren’t for the large numbers of these sculptures, I would see no art in these images, but the quantity of them so similar to each other remind me of how horrible it would be to have to be just like everybody else.

Aunt Jemima

There was another piece in the book that I had recognized from high school, and that was The Liberation of Aunt Jemima by Betye Saar. For some reason this particular piece always interested me. Perhaps, like many of my other favorites, it depicts the ugly side of life rather than the beauty of our world. The woman depicted is not lovely in any way, but rather portrays all the less flattering stereotypes of African-Americans. One version shows the pancake figure holding a broom, pistol, and a rifle while a second version depicts a more motherly type holding a white child. In the center is a black fist raised up as a symbol of pride.
It is not the most beautiful piece of artwork, but I think that’s what I like most about it. It’s more ‘real’ and portrays the unflattering side of life we so often like to ignore. It’s in your face and you can’t look away, and that’s why I find it so interesting. Nothing is better than the smell of coffee beans, bitter and strong with nothing to temper the scent. That is what this artwork is like with the visual sense. There’s no sugarcoating something like this. It’s raw.
We like to think of Aunt Jemima as sweet and wholesome, but in Saar’s work, she is strong and foreboding. There is nothing sweet and pretty about this. Not even the child is the cute cherub face we so often like to coo over. I guess I’m just attracted to the bitter sense of reality and give credit to those that have the courage to stand up and shove it in your face. Otherwise we’re all living in a dream world where everything is just a matter of the perception of beauty.

A Light in the Dark

One painting that stood out to me most was Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. It’s difficult to say why, but I found myself completely intrigued by this work. I suppose I am one of the realists in the class, and I tend to enjoy paintings such as Hopper’s more than abstract expressionists’. What drew me in most was the dim look on American life. Instead of bright, inspirational works that depicted the beauty and wonder of New York life, Hopper chose to look closer at the more typical and boring scenes, showing the lack of relationships and closeness with the people surrounding each other.
In Nighthawks, the people are all in a single setting, a lit restaurant in the late evening. You would think that the only lit place in the dark streets would present you a welcoming happy scene, but Hopper would rather demonstrate reality over fantasy. Instead of being happy and enjoying their time together, it would seem, though sitting close together in a single space, the people are very distant and lonely.
For example, the woman in the painting seems more interested in her nail beds than a conversation with the man sitting so near her. I would imagine strained silence, all parties avoiding any interaction with one another. The man next to the woman appears lost in his own thoughts, hands in front of him and gaze straight ahead of him. Another man is sitting in shadow so that we cannot see him well. He is hunched over and seems to be looking forward. The attendant is looking over as though someone has just said something to him, but his demeanor does not suggest any type of friendly conversation occurring. Overall the scene is what, even today, one would see passing by on a dark street. Not all light in the dark can give a happy scene.

An American Image

When looking through the section on photography in our book, I saw an image I had seen multiple times in my life. This image had often intrigued me, and every time I see it, my reaction changes. With time, experience, and knowledge my interpretation of this iconic photograph alters. Dorothea Lange has truly captured an immortal image.
A picture is worth a thousand words. So what is it Lange was trying to say? Our only hope of understanding Migrant Mother is to evaluate it in its historical context. This image is representative of a horrible time in our history, the Depression. What we are meant to see in this image is pain and sadness, an image to summarize the emotions and troubles of all America. I had written many papers on this particular image, some research and other creative writing, but all create the same thoughts; that this mother was struggling and her children without. This is perhaps one of the most powerful images of the last century.
When one looks on this image with the knowledge that this woman is only thirty-two, one sees what struggle has made of a family. The woman appears aged beyond her years, her children dirty and unable to look beyond their mother’s arms. Dirty, desperate, hungry, and tired, all they have left is each other. These children rely on this mother who gives up everything for their care. We cannot deny the fact that this image is one of a true heroine.
One of my assignments in the past was to create a story from this image; to take a picture and create a background and dialogue all from the perspective of a pencil. What else could I draw from this image other than the saddest scene you could imagine? I created a scene of a desperate mother searching to care for her hungry sons and crying baby. Without any prompting I made myself the pencil she would use to scribble her suicide note. This is how I read this image; that if this woman were to own a pencil, what else could she possibly use it for? What would she write? This is how this image affected me, and that paper is always what I recall when seeing this image. However, I said my perspective changes, so I say that I would add on to the story each time I see this image. There is always something more I see in this mother.