Do not judge a building by its façade.

Public housing has a rather negative image – initially associated with slums and poverty, these areas were (and still generally are) avoided by middle to upper income citizens. Whether in fear of catching starvation, encountering violence, or simply being disturbed to see how the other half really lives, public housing venues are the last place you would find the “well-to-do”.

Le Corbusier, Shondan House, 1956.
Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India.

However, this sort of housing can actually be quite nice, and some countries are incorporating it into their city schemes for the entire population, not just the poor, huddled masses.

Erase the line between Genius and Insanity!

Being labelled a genius puts one precariously close to being pigeonholed as insane. Where insanity is recognised as the repetition of the same action over and over, is genius not finally achieving some far-fetched goal, whether it is in science, maths, or art? History is littered with larger than life talents that we still learn about in our studies and discuss with our peers: Einstein, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, etc.

Sandro Botticelli, Study for The Adoration of the Child, c. 1495.
Pen shaded with brown, white heightening, and pink wash, 16.1 x 25.8 cm.
Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence.

Artists made sketches and drafts of the way the human body works, whether in physical labour or dancing, to better portray the human condition in their paintings. Michelangelo and Degas are not only famous for the Sistine Chapel and Impressionism respectively, but also for the way their images came to life – the strength and beauty of their depictions is only so because of their relentless repetition of drawing the same things over and over again – genius or insane?

Rad fads & turbulent times

We might all be able to agree that most of the world is a mess. The Americas and Europe have taken a ginormous step back in terms of production, innovation, and general flourishing. Many of our nations and states are in obscene debt which appears to be stagnant or rising and there is no end in sight.

Sir Peter Blake, Children Reading Comics, 1954.
Oil on hardboard, 36.9 x 47.1 cm.
Tullie House Museum and Art Gallery, Carlisle (Cumbria).

So then, what should be next? Vampires and Zombies aren’t getting us anywhere

I’m not crazy; my mother had me tested.

Arguably, most forms of art worth lengthy discussion have a bit of madness behind them, whether it is a painting, film, or novel. Personally, I find that my creative work suffers a bit when everything in my life feels completely balanced. Think about the mental states of various actors, painters, and authors. Off of the top of my head, I can come up with Tilda Swinson, Tom Cruise, Charlie Sheen, Hemingway, Tolstoy, Poe, Wolfe, Caravaggio, (cough) Hitler… I could list tons and tons, but I’d much rather hear from you.

Gustave Courbet, The Desperate Man, 1843-1845.
Oil on canvas, 45 x 54 cm.
Private collection.

But madness is rather subjective, isn’t it?

Olympia in Venice

Remember the first time you went away from home for an extended period of time? Your mother made sure you packed warm socks and clean pants, even if it was going to be 40 degrees Celsius in your final destination. She called and wrote you often, making sure you were eating your vegetables and brushing your teeth. She loved and worried about you. I imagine this is what the Musée d’Orsay is going through at the moment, having sent one of its most precious babies off to Italy for the summer.

Édouard Manet, Olympia, 1863.
Oil on canvas, 130.5 x 191 cm.
Musée d'Orsay, Paris.

Vampires: dark and evil or sparkly and romantic?

When thinking of dark romanticism, I am plagued with thoughts of dark, sultry mystery. Especially encompassing the supernatural, dark romanticism is essentially the humanising of all things evil and hellish. This includes vampires, werewolves, ghouls, devils, the whole gamut. Having just come off of a most epic two month Buffy-binge, I get it. But authors like Stephanie Meyer, have taken what was once the essence of evil and torture and literally turned them into shiny, happy beings.

Franz von Stuck, The Kiss of the Sphinx, after 1895.
Charcoal, black stone and white highlights on light-brown paper,55 x 48.5 cm.
Private collection.

To Live and Die by Mount Vesuvius

There is something tragically romantic about Pompeii and her fellow seaside town Herculaneum, both destroyed by the villainous Vesuvius in 79 CE. Ironically, the volcano, initially merely thought of as a mere mountain, erupted on 24 August, the day after Vulcanalia – the festival of the Roman god of fire.

The Baker Terentius Neo and his Wife, 50-79 CE.
Wall painting.
From the House of Terentius Neo, Pompeii.

Impressionism: a Disney movie without all of the singing

Nature? Good. Romance? I can dig it. Impressionism? Bite me. You know what Impressionism is? It’s a beautiful, made-up, dream-like view at an otherwise harsh, sometimes cruel reality. Impressionism is to art viewers what Disney movies are to the generation of 20-somethings that grew up expecting perfect hair, woodland friends, and Prince Charming – not to mention the desire to go around singing about everything all of the damn time.

Berthe Morisot, On the Lake, 1884.
Oil on canvas, 60 x 73 cm.
Private collection.

Boys and their Toys

I have to admit, that despite my degree, I am not much of a news junkie. I found the news in the US entirely too depressing – as they rarely report the whole story or about anything that is worthy of the attention it is given. Seriously guys? The whole nation needs to be let in on the (what will sooner than later be considered an itty-bitty) scandal at Rutgers? Move on; leave Rutgers alone; it’s not relevant to anyone that wasn’t in that video. ::exits THAT soap box::

Peter Paul Rubens, Man in a Korean Costume, 1617.
Black chalk with touches of red chalk in the face, 38.4 x 23.5 cm.
The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.

So, when the grapevine informed me

The Good, the Bad, and the 17th Century

Here we are again at the 17^th century, the time of Master Rembrandt and his many self-portraits. But, frankly, when I consider wanting to go back in time, I don’t fancy returning to the 17^th century. There were a tonne of wars. Famines in Russia, France, and Finland and a plague in both Seville and London. Shakespeare died, for crying out loud – I’m still mourning this loss.

 

Rembrandt van Rijn, The Landscape with the Three Trees, 1643.
Etching, drypoint, and engraving, 21.3 × 27.8 cm.
Collection of Marie and George Hecksher.

 

The Good:

• Jamestown, Virginia was established – which later led to a massacre of 347 English settlers by the natives (essentially score one and only)
• St Peter’s Basilica was completed
• Torture was outlawed in England (we’re still waiting for that in other countries)
• Cape Town was founded
• New Amsterdam was founded and soon thereafter renamed New York – I wonder what it would be like if it were still named as such?
• The Taj Mahal was started and completed
• The steam engine
• Bach and Monteverdi
• Rubens
• Donne and Milton
• Galileo and Newton
• (As discussed before) Ice cream

 

Rembrandt van Rijn, Self-Portrait with a Velvet Beret and a Jacket with a Fur Collar, 1634.
Oil on oak, 58.4 x 47.7 cm.
Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Berlin.

 

The Bad:

• The pilgrims arrived on the Mayflower
• Aurochs became extinct (I bet you don’t even know what they are)
• Mount Vesuvius erupted
• The Great Fire of London (which might be good because it got rid of that pesky plague)
• The Ottomans
• Louisiana was claimed by France
• Salem witch trials
• Calculus

 

So maybe a fair amount of interesting and positive things occurred, but the bad here weigh rather heavily. I’m much happier in the 21^st century, with the ability to look back smugly and mock.

 

Rembrandt van Rijn, Portrait of Hendrickje Stoffels with a Velvet Beret, c. 1654.
Oil on canvas, 74 x 61 cm.
Musée du Louvre, Paris.

 

Visit the de Young Museum in San Fran to see Rembrandt’s Century, through 2 June, whilst still enjoying all of the luxuries of today. Also, keep an eye out for Rembrandt by Émile Michel, out soon from Parkstone!

 

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Art from the Land of the Rising Sun

Japan, in comparison with many other countries, is rather small, though it ranks tenth amongst the world’s highest populations. More fascinatingly, it has one of the richest and most eclectic art histories to speak of when considering it on its own. Yes, various countries in Europe do this or that, and Africa has a slew of artistic variety, but we’re just talking one country – 6852 islands, if you really want to talk about how amazing Japan’s universally-acknowledged solidarity is.



Utagawa (Ando) Hiroshige, Inside Kameido Tenjin Shrine, 1856.
Woodblock print, 34.1 x 22.2 cm.

Continuously infiltrated by other powers (China, Russia, Germany’s money, and the United States), art in Japan has successfully maintained a focused and healthy presence in the art world since the seventh century – which is not to say there aren’t older relics, but Buddhist art was the first to make an impact. From woodblock prints to Ukiyo-e, and calligraphy to shungas, at the end of the day I would argue that Japan had a larger influence on European art than the other way around. Just a few examples of this hypothesis include Degas, Van Gogh, Monet, and Mucha.



Katsushika Hokusai, The Great Wave of Kanagawa, originally 1826-1833.
Part of the series Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji, no. 21.
Colour woodblock print.

Get over to the Tokyo National Museum to get a glance at the Highlights of Japanese Arts exhibition. Find yourself enthralled with mirrors, picture scrolls, and military attire. Can’t get enough art from The Land of the Rising Sun? Check out Hiroshige by Mikhail Uspensky or Forbidden Asia by Hans Jürgen-Döpp.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Landscape Art, Depictions of a Nature That Might Cease to Exist

I’m supposed to talk about pretty landscapes and painters from the 17^th century until now that have slowly incorporated said landscapes into their paintings more and more, until finally Landscape became its own genre. And fine: nature is nice; butterflies, yay. Instead, I’d like to note that BP is sponsoring this. BP! The company that is ruining similar landscapes to the ones we’re meant to enjoy in the exhibition. Did the corporation’s discussion for putting this on the agenda include a “yeah, we better show them now before the destruction and decimation of our planet is complete”?



Meindert Hobbema,
The Avenue at Middleharnis, 1689.
Oil on canvas, 103.5 x 141 cm.
The National Gallery, London.

The extraction and ceaseless use of natural gasses and oil is doing palpable and appalling things to the environment and atmosphere. Nevertheless, as an international society, we choose to ignore the annihilation of our ecosystems and extinction of animals so that we can drive Hummers in already over-crowded cities and wear our sweaters in excessively air-conditioned rooms. We live in deserts but have lush, green lawns. We have large, rarely used but immaculately maintained personal swimming pools. We need BP as much as BP needs us and I think it’s time we become less dependent on one another.



Jules Dupré, Sunset after a Storm, 1851.
Oil on wood, 47 x 56.5 cm.
Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s amazing that such a large, well-known corporation is supporting the arts. I live in continual fear that one day I will wake up and society will not be able to provide music/art/drama classes for students and that museums and theatres will close and never open again because the skills will no longer be developed. But does it really have to be BP? Surely this is the most hypocritical exhibition to have ever existed.



J.M.W. Turner, Calais Pier, with French Poissards Preparing for Sea: an English Packet Arriving, 1803.
Oil on canvas, 172 x 240 cm.
The National Gallery, London.

I am argued out. How about you walk or cycle over to the Tate Britain to enjoy breath-taking landscapes in Looking at the View? Rather, sit in your own backyard or a park and read Landscapes by Émile Michel.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Plain Jane or Fancy Pants?

I’m a rather plain girl in the sense of THINGS. Function beats form any day as far as I’m concerned (this, of course, excludes a previous post concerning my unhealthy affinity for shoes), ensuring that I will never be counted amongst the infamous and (for unknown reasons) publicised “Gold Diggers” of the world, which is surely a very real concern for any young woman of the 21^st century. It took me ages to switch over to the “smart” phone, which only lasted about a year; as soon as it was possible I reverted back to a “dumb” phone – as long as it calls, texts, does math (because I can’t), and has Snake, I’m happy.

 



Sharp corners, pointy feet: my own personal death trap.
Writing desk attributed to André-Charles Boulle, c. 1715.
Bérain marquetry of copper on ebony base.

So when choosing a mirror for the foyer I’m much more likely to choose a plain frame with a large reflection as opposed to a smaller glass with cherubs and whatnot on it. I’d much rather look at my face, or see if there’s someone creeping up behind me, than any fancy embellishments (I said I wasn’t a Gold Digger; I didn’t say I wasn’t mildly vain).

 



Naiad, 1756.
Soft porcelaine and gilt bronze, 26 cm.
Musée du Louvre, Paris

Furthermore, the cracks and crevices of these fancy objects are a right pain in the butt for dusting – even if you have a maid, which I don’t, I’m guessing your more ornate pieces wouldn’t pass the white glove test. And let the klutzes amongst us not forget the imminent danger of clawed feet and the sharp edges of candlestick holders. I have a permanent bruise from a decorative dresser with sharp corners which is still in my childhood home; even though I knew it was there and never moved in all the years I lived there, the corner and my thigh carried on some sort of strange and masochistic affair to which I was only privy to the pain.

 



This room makes me feel rather claustrophobic. The desk is really nice though.
Roll-top secrétarie for Louis XV’s inner study in Versailles by Jean-François Oeben and Jean-Henri Riesener, 1760-1769.
Bronze, marquetry of a variety of fine woods, Sèvres porcelain, 147.3 x 192.5 x 105 cm.
Palace of Versailles.

Head over to the Met for the Plain or Fancy: Restraint and Exuberance in Decorative Arts through 18 August and fantasise about fancy furniture and decorations. Come home relived that you aren’t the one that has to clean any of it, or stub your precious toes in the middle of the night. If you are looking for decoration tips from the fancier side, get your hands on Decorative Art by Albert Jaquemart – but don’t say that I didn’t warn you. Sound off below! Are you a Plain Jane or a Fancy Pants?

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Chicago and Picasso

I have to admit, I’ve had a bit of a crush on Chicago for a long time. Not because it’s cold or windy, or for any of its sports teams. I’m not a fan of deep dish pizza; hot dogs gross me out for the most part. Al Capone is pretty big to speak of, I suppose, but mob ‘outfits’ strike me as excessive and silly. One positive note thus far: I’ve heard amazing things about O’Hare International. Oh, and since the Chicago Fire of 1871, the city rightfully boasts superior urban planning.



Pablo Picasso, Woman with a Helmet of Hair, 1904.
Gouache on tan wood pulp board, 42.7 x 31.3 cm.
The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago.

So what is it that has me perpetually itching to check out this mid-western city for an indeterminable period of time? I’m pretty keen on the people – they’re all kind and witty, they don’t take themselves too seriously, and they seem to hold the mid-western charm sans dopey accent. And perhaps the entire east coast could stand to have a bit of that rubbed off on them.



Pablo Picasso, Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler, 1910.
Oil on canvas, 100.4 x 72.4 cm.
The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago.

More, most importantly, really, the art and cultural scene hold their own when it comes to other large American cities, which I will not specifically name, but I’m sure you can guess which I mean. Chicago was the first to open its arms to exhibitions of Cubism, Surrealism, and all of their strange yet beautiful friends. Even Pablo Picasso, who never once even stepped foot the United States, dedicated a statue, one of his last I might add, to the city of Chicago. The Art Institute of Chicago is responsible for 350 of Picasso’s pieces. I wouldn’t call myself a Picasso enthusiast, but that’s a rather serious collection to speak of.



Pablo Picasso, Man with a Pipe, 1915.
Oil on canvas, 130.2 x 89.5 cm.
The Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago.

Anyone interested in catching the next flight to Chicago? We can rendezvous in O’Hare and split a Chicago-style hotdog. Who knows, maybe the Cubs will be spectacular this year. While we wait for that to happen, we can visit The Art Institute of Chicago’s Picasso and Chicago exhibit, on through 12 May 2013. If the flight is too much of a change for you, dig into Picasso by Victoria Charles for a parallel look at his life and artworks.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Power of Love VS Love of Power

A mind free of ignorance, greed, and hatred – peaceful and drama-free sounds nearly too good to be true. However, this state of being is amongst the ideals of Buddhism and basing my opinion simply on those standards, I see no wrong. A fair portion of the world has its qualms with religion – the concept in general, religions and philosophies which are not our own, and especially concepts we know little or nothing about.



Buddha statue at Yungang Grottoes, Northern Wei Dynasty 686 (386-534).
Datong, Shanxi, China.

If you’re religious, so be it. I simply ask that you keep which ever God or gods you follow to yourself and leave me out of it. It’s a sensitive matter which falls amongst other taboo subjects including politics and the Great Pumpkin. I, perhaps naively, honestly believe that if the citizens of the world were able to put their religions aside, there would be less animosity between neighbours and nations. If instead we focussed our energy on learning more about one other, being humble and sharing our prosperity, as well as spreading more love than hate, we might really be able to get somewhere.



Laughing Buddha, possibly Maitreya.
Date unknown, Lingyin-si Temple, Hangzhou, Zhejiang province, China.

Who was it that said, “When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace”? It’s debatable and attributed to both William Gladstone and Jimi Hendrix, and the actual point is not who said it, but that it was said. Now, if only we made it happen – the Buddhists certainly cannot do it alone.



Medicine Buddha, 15th century, China.
Red copper with gold, height: 32 cm.

Maybe I’m preaching socialism, or sound a bit crunchy-granola, and I can live with that. Check out the Chinese Buddhist Sculpture exhibit through 31 March at the Tokyo National Museum and try to learn about something you didn’t previously understand. Also, get a further look into Chinese Art with Stephen Bushell, including sculpture, architecture, and painting.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Diamonds in the Rough

Arabian nights, like Arabian days, more often than not are hotter than hot in a lot of good ways. The Arab culture has gone from gross underrepresentation in television, art, and film to an intense misrepresentation over the past twenty years or so. While film directors and screen writers are helping the media plague the minds of the public about the Middle East, it’s far less often that I experience outward hatefulness from the group of people whom are relentlessly demonised as threatening, violent, and dangerous.



Bolo-khauz Mosque, 18th century.
Bukhara, Uzbekistan.

Children are brought up with quirky yet adorable “street-rat” Aladdin, who steals to eat and falls in love well outside of his league. We’re lured in with lines like “it’s barbaric, but it’s home” and a cute monkey in a hat causing distractions while his mate steals apples and the like. Seriously? I’ve only got one Muslim country under my travel belt, but it wasn’t remotely comparable to this vision. How are Arabic children meant to watch this and retain any sense of respect for themselves and their culture? How do non-Arabic children manage to look beyond the stereotypes and thinly-veiled racism? Neither group can succeed as long as this skewed vision persists.



Religious complex.
Samarkand, Uzbekistan.

“But Aladdin was released twenty years ago!” you say? Let’s move on in the times to Homeland – recently off-air for the season and signed for at least another. In brief: American prisoner of war, held abroad for eight years by an extremist is ‘brainwashed’ and ultimately sent back to the United States to help wreak havoc on the system – which is perpetually recovering from 9/11. I simply do not understand why, nearly twelve years later, we are continuing to sensationalise this. I’m not saying that it didn’t happen, wasn’t important in the history of the world, or should be completely forgotten. What I am saying is that we need to move on and stop focussing on the minority of bad while clearly observing the good of the culture overall.



Registan Ensemble at night.
Samarkand, Uzbekistan.

Get off of the internet (after you read this post of course), stop watching television, cease spreading your hate. Go to a museum, more specifically the Institut du Monde Arabe to see Les Mille et Une Nuits to appreciate the beauty and magic which once enthralled us all about Arabian cultures. Furthermore, relish in the stunning beauty of temples, minarets, and mosques in Central Asian Art by Vladimir Loukonin and Anatoli Ivanov, I’d almost be willing to bet it will get you to buy a plane ticket.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Don’t just do something – sit there.

In theory yoga is this beautiful, wonderful, spiritual experience that is meant to cleanse mind, body, and soul. In practice yoga causes a slew of frowned upon words to come flying out of my mouth at record speeds. It is a deep, dark torture which we, as masochists, inflict upon ourselves day after day of shaking cores, trembling arms, and ready-to-collapse legs. We stretch ourselves in ways we never thought possible, only to discover they are possible, but will we be stuck this way forever?


“Son, if you don’t finish this portrait soon…”
Édouard Manet, Mr and Mrs Auguste Manet, 1860.
Oil on canvas, 110 x 90 cm.
Musée d'Orsay, Paris.

The idea of sitting still long enough to have my portrait painted makes my muscles ache in a way that I’ve only known through Downward-Facing Dog (the most bastardly position of all yoga forms). Though I have flirted with the idea of recreating the nude sofa scene in Titanic, I’m just not sure I could take the prolonged torture of not only remaining still, but also keeping my face from contorting or appearing as bored as I imagine I would feel. (Fun fact: Leonardo DiCaprio did NOT sketch Kate Winslet; those are James Cameron’s hands!)



Édouard Manet, Street Singer, c. 1862.
Oil on canvas, 171.1 x 105.8 cm.
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Without portrait painters and patient subjects, prior to the 1840s, we would have no idea what people of the past looked like. While, for some people, we are likely better being unaware of their looks (or odours) – considering the slow advancement in personal hygiene and photoshop – it would be more difficult to learn from the fashion faux pas of history.


Now, that’s a portrait I could easily pose for.
Édouard Manet, The Dead Toreador, probably 1864.
Oil on canvas, 75.9 x 153.3 cm.
Widener Collection, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

I certainly would not recommend being painted in Downward-Facing Dog; all of your blood would pool in your brain and you would assuredly die. See Manet: Portraying Life at the Royal Academy of Arts London from 26 Jan through 14 April for some postural suggestions concerning your next portrait painting. Also admire the intense richness of Édouard Manet’s many portraits in Manet by Nathalia Brodskaya.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Beaux-Arts, fromage, guillotines, and other French concepts

I started learning French about ten months ago. It was an idea that I toyed with for the ridiculously large span of one to thirteen years prior (when it was offered in middle school and my dearest mother thought Spanish would prove more useful in my future and made me study it instead – I will neither agree or disagree with that point all of these years later). Initially this venture, ten months ago, started out of spite – I was surrounded by French speakers and could never get a word in edgewise because I never knew what the hell they were talking about. I planned to learn it the best I could, without telling them of course, and then shock everyone when I was well-versed enough to call them out on their merde.


I relate to this look all too well.
Balthus (Balthazar Klossowski), Thérèse, 1938.
Oil on cardboard mounted on wood, 100.3 x 81.3 cm.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Needless to say that never happened as one cannot learn a language in ten months without actually eating, sleeping, and breathing it (I have a life, after all). I do listen harder and repeat phrases in my head. I bother French speakers with inane grammatical and pronunciation questions. Sometimes immature young men will teach me a phrase or two and send me off to repeat it to another immature guy and they’ll all have a giggle at my expense, leaving me supremely embarrassed, but equally proud of my ability to mimic.


My namesake was French!
Claude Gellee (Le Lorrain), Coast View with Apollo and the Cumaean Sibyl, 1645-1649.
Oil on canvas, 99.5 x 127 сm.
Collection of Sir Robert Walpole, The State Heritage Museum, St Petersburg.

For the longest time I never had a single nice thing to say about anything French – except maybe Amélie, but that doesn’t really count considering its international notoriety. I don’t care for frog’s legs, snail, or duck confit; I don’t really enjoy Impressionism, mostly because endlessly repeated titles make fact-checking a nightmare; call me Guy de Maupassant when it comes to the Eiffel Tower (fun fact: Maupassant ate at the Tower’s base daily because he hated it so and that was the only place in the city that he was unable to see it); do not get me started on roquefort, maroilles, or epoisses (ugh, ick, bleh).

 


Hippolyte Flandrin, Young Man Sitting by the Sea, figure study, 1836.
Oil on canvas, 98 x 124 cm.
Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Thankfully now, I could probably rustle up a few nice things to say – the politeness of gentlemen, Realist and Romantic paintings, the frankness of women, the invention of the guillotine, etc. I am most especially in awe of the vast collection of art housed in France and could probably spend one week in the Musée du Louvre and neither see enough or tire of it.

Since most of us don’t have the time, money, language skills, or (if you’re like me) patience to endure France, visit the National Gallery of Art, Washington to see Color, Line, Light: French Drawings, Watercolors, and Pastels from Delacroix to Signac from 27 January to 26 May. It promises a beautiful array of French art. Don’t want to travel too far from home? Check out French Painting by Victoria Charles for all of the artistic glamour without the offensive cheeses.

-Le Lorrain Andrews

In Love … With Myself

Online profiles are essentially shameless self-promotion – things you like, things you do, endless photos of yourself, etc. However, I find when my skinny friends post too many photos of themselves in swimsuits, or newly-engaged friends post endless photos of rings and partners, and my married friends post hundreds of photos of their new babies, I start to feel badly about myself. That’s not to say that I’m not doing cool things or that I want children (Any. Time. Soon.), but sites like Facebook have opened many doors to jealousy, self-loathing, and endless comparison of ourselves to others. Stop it!

 

Egon Schiele, Self-Portrait, 1910.
Gouache, watercolour, and black pencil, 44.3 x 30.6 cm.
Leopold Museum, Vienna.

 

You know who would have been shamelessly good at Facebooking and making his peers feel like underachieving sloths? Egon Schiele. He started drawing at a very young and tender age, and while progressing in style and skill throughout the years, he maintained his edgy, in-your-face view of society and the human body. Review the bold words. Anyone come to mind? Honey Boo Boo, right?! Based on the lives of so many other ‘child stars’ – who, mind you, were on written shows, not facing the nearly frightening, redneck reality of Macon, Georgia – how can we ever expect ‘normalcy’ for that poor girl?

 

Egon Schiele, Self-Portrait with Chinese Lantern Plant, 1912.
Oil and gouache on wood, 32.2 x 39.8 cm.
Leopold Museum, Vienna.

 

Fortunately, I suppose, depending on how you feel about overpopulation, the world is much better equipped to deal with plagues, flues, and cholera, and so we’re less likely to lose talented artists in their prime because of illness. I could argue that there are some “artists” that we could bear to mourn, but would likely do better to keep such opinions to myself. (I know you thought of someone!) We’ll just have to stick out this reality television and self-promotional social networking phenomenon until they blow over. Until then, read a book or go to a museum. Give Facebook a rest because, frankly, you’re annoying me.

 

Egon Schiele, Self-Portrait with Arms Pulled Back, 1915.
Charcoal and pastel, 44 x 32 cm.
E.W. Kornfeld Collection.

 

Schiele would have had an impossibly difficult time posting all of his crude and vulgar self-portraits on Facebook, and his friends would have been better off for it, despite their raw beauty and allure. See the way he transformed his work throughout his short life at The Metamorphoses of Egon Schiele, on permanent exhibition at the Leopold Museum, Vienna. Pick up this heart-wrenchingly illustrated book, Schiele by Jeanette Zwingenberger, for a closer look.

 

-Le Lorrain Andrews

Can (and should) life truly imitate Art?

At first glance I thought this exhibition was about something else entirely – bodies covered in tattoos (to which I am entirely approving). But now that I am well informed, I’ve got some things to say. Are photographs art? Sure, sometimes, certainly not all the time, just have a look at my memory card. But are they Art, capital A, meant to be scrutinised, reviewed, and studied for centuries to come? I’m not so sure.


(I’d rather see the Maja nude than, say, Kim Kardashian)
Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, The Nude Maja, 1797-1800.
Oil on canvas, 98 x 191 cm.
Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.

Painting is an expression of one’s mind, heart, and imagination. The colours we interpret, the way things make us feel, whatever happens to be going through our heads at a particular moment in time. Paintings are created by hand and, arguably, soul. Photographs, on the other hand, are, while surely manipulated by a human force, created by machine. And so, does this pave a path for us to compare Delacroix’s images of rape and murder in Death of Sardanapalus to a photograph of a seemingly “broken” woman strewn across a bed (Tom Hunter’s Death of Coltelli)? I would say not.


(Even I would model for Degas!)
Edgar Degas, Woman with a Towel, 1894 or 1898.
Pastel on cream-coloured wove paper with red and blue fibres throughout, 95.9 x 76.2 cm.
H.O. Havemeyer Collection, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

A painting allows for the deepest expression of whatever feeling the artist wishes to convey. He can make a woman look desperate and torn apart, he can make a man look smug and in control (both references to Sardanapalus); he can make a troublesome child appear angelic and shade the curves of a woman just so to make her appear sensual rather than vulgar. A photographer can only hope to have such a good model to portray the image inside his mind, and even then, we know they’re just pretending – because, in all honesty, what cruel being would take a photo of someone that has been raped, murdered, or committed suicide and call it Art?


(If you are going to photograph a nude, I’d prefer classy, not – uncomfortable.)
Julian Mandel, Early postcard of Kiki de Montparnasse, c. 1925.
14 x 9 cm.

I simply do not believe that a photograph, while worth 1000 words, has the chops to stand next to the great Masterpieces. Visit The National Gallery, London now through 20 Jan to see Seduced by Art. Let us know if you believe the Old Master’s can possibly be compared, side by side, to photographic imitations. Whether you have a penchant for photographs or painted landscapes, you’re covered: Erotic Photography by Klaus H. Carl, Still Life by Victoria Charles, Nudes by Jp. A. Calosse, Landscapes by Émile Michel.

-Le Lorrain Andrews