Pop Goes the Artist!

I realized I haven’t talked about any sculpture yet, and since the Winged Victory of Samothrace is one of my favorite sculptures, I thought it would be a good place to start. I had the great privilege of seeing it in person at the Louvre when I went to Paris over spring break. They display it at the top of a large staircase, so you turn a corner, look up, and are rendered speechless. It’s a dramatic location for a very dramatic statue.

(I remember, in fact, the first time I saw a picture of the statue, in an art history book: a full-page, color photo that I opened to by chance and could not tear my eyes from. It’s a memorable piece of art.)

The sculpture is ancient Greek (about the 3rd century BC), so we don’t know much about who sculpted it or why, but one theory (according to Wikipedia) is that it was created to commemorate a naval victory, perhaps at Rhodes or Cyprus. It clearly presents a triumphant and powerful image; the sense of movement created by the anonymous artist is so masterful that the viewer can almost see the wind rippling through her garments. The head and arms, of course, have not been found, but it’s hard to imagine the statue with them. The arms, especially, might mar the gorgeous sweep of the lines. Then again, if what remains of the statue is so amazing, the sculptor probably did an equally good job with the head and arms.

(The photo is my own, which is why it’s rather mediocre.)

I admit that it’s almost a given to say that this is one of my favorite paintings ever–after all, is there anyone who isn’t blown away by Starry Night? I do love it, though, and I love to talk about it; it moves me emotionally, for reasons I don’t entirely understand. I’m drawn to its dazzling blues and yellows and the vibrant curving lines of the sky that pull me through the painting.

That’s really why I love van Gogh’s landscapes, although landscapes in general do not hold my attention. By and large I find them too static, but van Gogh’s are bursting with life and movement. He takes earth and sky and grass and makes them joyful and compelling.

I heard it suggested once (and I wish I could remember where) that van Gogh was suffering from lead poisoning (or something similar) from prolonged exposure to the chemicals in his paints and the effect it had on his vision might explain the halo effect seen on the stars in Starry Night. I dislike this theory, however interesting and even true it may be, as I dislike all attempts to write off genius as the convenient by-product of disease and mental illness. (That’s another rant for another day, though.)

The other landscape I love particularly (possibly even more than Starry Night) is Wheat Field with Cypresses. It shares some characteristics with Starry Night: the flame-shaped trees, the swirling sky, etc. But what really sets it apart, for me, is its color scheme. I love color and this painting has the perfect contrast between sky blue and golden yellow, my favorite of all possible color combinations. (Vermeer also does this combination very well; one of the reasons I like his work.) Unfortunately, Wheat Field is apparently in someone’s private collection, so I will most likely never see it in person. Starry Night, on the other hand, is at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, which begs the question: why on earth haven’t I taken a road trip yet?

(Both pictures from Olga’s Gallery. You can click to see them bigger.)

This is the first entry in what I hope will be a semi-frequent series of posts about paintings (and possibly artists) that I really love. Since Guernica by Pablo Picasso probably tops that list, it’s fitting that it should be the first I discuss.

I don’t remember when or where I first stumbled across this painting, but I think it was sometime in high school, quite possibly when I was going through my hippie stage. The painting is powerful even out of its context, but understanding the atrocities which inspired it certainly enhance it. (For a nice article on the history of the painting, check out Wikipedia.) It also helps to have an idea of the painting’s monumental size: 11.5′ tall by 26′ wide–aka, GIGANTIC.

Why do I love this painting? It’s certainly not “pretty” and it’s not as representational as I generally prefer, but I could stare at it for hours anyway. It’s complex, it’s compelling, it’s richly symbolic. Nearly everything about it, in my opinion, is perfect. The monochromatic color scheme complements the starkness of the imagery and also prevents the crowded canvas from looking busy or cluttered. The composition is held together by two strong diagonals which form a triangle in the center, with the lightbulb and the torch (nearly) at its apex (signifying, perhaps, the endurance of hope?). I love this painting because it’s a reminder of how well emotion and art can be synthesized. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but in the right hands, the brush can best them both.

No painting, of course, is as impressive in a book or on a computer screen as it is in person, but this one, especially, I feel like I must see in order to get the full sense of it. Its staggering size can only adds to its pull, which is why “see Guernica in person” (in the Museo del Prado in Madrid) is on my list of things to do before I die.

Picasso is not my favorite artist. I really enjoy some of his paintings, am indifferent to others, and flat-out hate a few, but even if I disliked everything else he ever did, I’d have to love and respect this one.

(Image from Olga’s Gallery.)

Bonus Link (themed, even!): Mr. Picasso Head–good for a little bit of cubist time-wasting. Enjoy.