Loading the Canon #23: The Powers That Be

01 Thursday May 2014

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Art, Loading the Canon

Loading the Canon #23 by Helena-Anne Hittel

The Powers That Be

Iconoclastic Chinese artist Ai Weiwei just can’t seem to catch a break this year. Back in February, Miami artist Maximo Caminero smashed one of the vases in Weiwei’s “According to What?” installation at the Perez Art Museum in protest of the lack of local art in the institution. Inspired by Dropping A Han Dynasty Urn (1995), Caminero picked up a vase and dropped it on the floor. According to an article in the South China Morning Post, this did not amuse Weiwei. The artist famous for smashing thousand-year-old Chinese artifacts told SCMP, “I smashed my own belongings, whereas he broke others’. Behavioral art can go to extremes, like you can hurt yourself for instance, but you cannot hurt others for the sake of art, can you?”

Weiwei is in the news again, this time because of a check on his celebrity. According to The New York Times, Shanghai officials have censored Weiwei’s art and removed him from the 15 Years Chinese Contemporary Art Award exhibition at Power Station of Art, China’s first government-run contemporary museum. Weiwei has won the CCCP in 2008, and juried the first three exhibitions. The show was put together by Swiss art collector and former ambassador to China, Uli Sigg, who considered scrapping the exhibit altogether after learning that Weiwei’s works were not included and that Weiwei’s name was removed from the list of jurors and past winners.

Power Station of Art, it must be repeated, is a Chinese, state-owned museum. Weiwei said that the removal of his works was probably a response to his criticism of the Chinese government. Among these criticisms is the way that China handled the earthquake that rocked Sichuan province in 2008. Shanghai officials also ordered demolition of a studio Weiwei built in 2011.

An artist criticized for expressing himself? Artists, throughout history, have been getting pushed around and put down by governments. Weiwei isn’t under fire for aesthetics. The cultural authorities in Shanghai made it seem to visitors like Weiwei wasn’t part of this event in any way. Sigg chose to air his grievance with the local authorities in the opening comments for the show. However, his input, that one artist could not show in this exhibit, was not translated. Weiwei posted a picture on his Instagram of two taped-up boxes that contain his works for the show–a wooden stool and ceramic sunflower seeds. According to the Times, his works have been stored in the museum’s office.

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Helena-Anne Hittel (Episode 35, essay) earned a B.A. in Art History at the University of Central Florida.

Loading the Canon #22: That’s Not What You Think That Is

24 Thursday Apr 2014

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Constantin Brancusi, Helena-Anne Hittel, Loading the Canon, Princess X

Loading the Canon #22 by Helena-Anne Hittel

That’s Not What You Think That Is

Here’s a photograph of a work titled Princess X (1915-16). I want you to take a good, long look at it. Ready? Go.

Yeah. It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. “Helena-Anne. That’s a penis. Why am I looking at a giant penis?” I’m not saying that it doesn’t look like a penis. It totally does. However, as we’ve been taught from an early age, things aren’t always what we think they are. Case in point, this sculpture. What if I told you that this undeniably phallic-looking work of art is (supposedly) modeled after a photograph of a woman? Nobody was gonna get that on the first try. I didn’t, that’s for sure. That is the wonder of the works of Constantin Brancusi.

Constantin Brancusi (1876-1957) was a French-Romanian sculptor whose concentration was, as you might be able to guess, abstraction. He attended the Bucharest School of Fine Arts and studied sculpture. After learning of the works of Auguste Rodin, Brancusi traveled to Paris in 1904, where his first major work, The Kiss (1908), was created. He became internationally notable after exhibiting in New York City’s Armory Show in 1913. Brancusi’s works after The Kiss, such as Sleeping Muse (1912) became even more abstract. Two of his works were at the center of artistic controversy-Princess X was removed from Le Salon de Indépendants in 1920 on the grounds of obscenity, and Brancusi’s later work Bird In Space (1923) was refused the classification of “art” by the United States Customs office in 1926. Brancusi’s studio and the works within was bequeathed to the Museum of Art in Paris at Brancusi’s death, on the condition that it would be installed in its entirety.

Now, a bit more about Princess X. The jury seems to be out on who this is, or if it’s even modeled after anyone in particular. Some allege that this is a portrait of French princess Marie Bonaparte. Most of the articles I’ve looked through seem to at least agree on a feminine figure, if not a name. Encyclopedia Britannica reads that Princess X is “a portrait of an imaginary person that takes on a curiously phallic form.” The information in the catalog of the Philadelphia Museum of Art (where a polished bronze version is housed) says that Brancusi, infuriated by the comparison of his work to a phallus, “ insisted the sculpture was a portrayal of a feminine ideal,” while the Guggenheim’s past exhibition catalog states that it was modeled after a woman craning her neck to look at herself in the mirror. This specific catalog goes on to read, “The neck is exaggerated in order to convey the self-awareness of this gesture. Dissatisfied with this version, Brancusi carved back the superficial details. The head became an ovoid on an arching neck and the supporting hand is reduced to a pattern.” (See? I do my research!)

Art will confuse you. It’s going to happen. You will look at a piece in a museum or gallery that will defy all logic in your brain, and you might short circuit if you try to make sense of it on your own (this happened to me when I started studying surrealism). That feeling of confusion, to me, is part of what makes this artist’s works so much fun to look at. Given so little as a title, you, as the viewer, are invited to look again at the form Brancusi has presented. Princess Xbecomes a bit more human. Bird In Space becomes an overly-simplified view of a bird flying sideways. His works are brilliant in its abstraction and simplicity.

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Helena-Anne Hittel (Episode 35, essay) earned a B.A. in Art History at the University of Central Florida.

Loading the Canon #21: Unique Forms of Continuity in Plumbing

27 Thursday Mar 2014

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Loading the Canon #21 by Helena-Anne Hittel

Unique Forms of Continuity in Plumbing

I know I’ve said many times before that, of all artistic movements, there’s very little love in my heart for Dadaism. Loading the Canon #4’s Marcel Dzama made me hopeful, I’ll admit. I was hopeful, really. I was actually kinda happy! That was short-lived, though, as I looked once more over Hannah Höch’s photomontages, Duchamp’s readymades, and basically everything by Man Ray.

Sorry.

Most of all, though, I’m a very restless human being. My big issue is that I find most Dadaist works to be static. Frantic, yes, but static. I can spend a while in the same place, but when I’m not moving, I’d like to think that something else ought to be. Maybe it’s my 90’s upbringing coming out, but if I’m standing still in front of a piece of art, I want it to move in some way. I use the word “move” here in more than one sense of the word. If the subject depicted is not in motion, give me something emotionally moving. Failing that, give me something colorful and geometrically interesting that will move my eye from plane to plane.

Or, you know, drop some plumbing on the floor and call it a day. I guess if nothing else works for you…

Let me explain my weird way of looking at things using two pieces of sculpture: Unique Forms of Continuity in Space (1913) by Umberto Boccioni,

and (yes) Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain (1917).

Let’s start with the movement factor. The obvious: Marcel’s piece is a urinal. It is. You’re not going to change this fact. Here’s a place where it loses the most for me. It just sits there. This would have been mounted on a wall in a bathroom and not going to move (we hope). I don’t get emotionally worked up over the sanitary apparatus in my bathroom, unless the design of the room as a whole contributes. The room did not contribute, so this piece continues to be a urinal with the name R. Mutt signed in black and dated 1917. Just sitting there.

Boccioni’s sculpture, however, is a different story. This rather closely resembles a figure on the move. While looking over this, I begin to imagine ice skating. Skateboarding. Surfing. I’m moving with it, and all the while, I am physically still. Looking at this piece, the wind is blowing past me at 80 miles an hour. Look at the urgency with which it relentlessly seems to press forward! This work has somewhere it needs to be, and it needed to be there 5 minutes ago, but in a more graceful way than, “Crap, I’m gonna be late for work!” It’s not frantic. Instead, it’s calm, swift momentum.

Next, there’s line. There are no sharp points on this urinal. It’s probably pleasing to touch (granted this thing hasn’t been put to use). It’s all curve and polish. It feels oddly regulated when compared to the chaos inherent in most Dada art. It’s familiar and maybe even relaxing in an odd sort of way.

Over in Boccioni’s corner of the world, the same movement that hits you in the face cannot be possible without its line composition. From the forward position of the leg to the shapes that compose this figure, there’s line everywhere. This piece is angular. There’s plenty of smooth shine, but there are also lots of sharp shapes. It’s literally edgy.

I like my art with a side of interpretation. Duchamp has given me a urinal. Given that it could mean anything from a comment on society at large to a re-evaluation of the beauty of things around us, it’s not much. If you love plumbing fixtures, this is the piece for you. I could imagine water flowing through it, or plants growing in the fixture. Other than that, though, there’s not a lot of room to expound on this.

The shapes that make Continuity’s figure up allow for a lot of imagination. This figure could be wearing armor and rushing into battle. Though borrowing from antiquity is NOT something the Futurists would appreciate, the lines flowing off the legs remind me of the fleet-footed messenger Mercury’s winged sandals. Mercury, as an element, is also known as quicksilver. Come on, guys. Even the name is fast!

After years of resisting it, I’ve finally accepted that Duchamp’s works are art. They’re just not my kind of art. nothing about a shovel hanging on a wall enthuses me. I’ve grown up in my opinion, so now I’m actually telling you why I don’t like it, instead of telling you that I. Just. Don’t. I’m looking at the figures differently now. By actually taking the time to examine things, I’m making little lists of points about them. I’ve gone through only three of the criteria art historians consider when formally analyzing works, but now I have a more viable argument as to why I prefer one thing over another.

I spent a lot of time here bashing a urinal. I’m not a fan of Fountain as art, but I’m sure I don’t have to explain why I’d love it as a bathroom fixture (though not one I’d use).

Thank God for modern plumbing!

___________

Helena-Anne Hittel (Episode 35, essay) earned a B.A. in Art History at the University of Central Florida.

Loading the Canon # 19: The Appeal of De Stijl

27 Thursday Feb 2014

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De Stijl, Helena-Anne Hittel, Loading the Canon, Piet Mondrian

Loading the Canon #19 by Helena-Anne Hittel

The Appeal of De Stijl

20th Century Art History was probably one of my most favorite courses my last semester at UCF. I have quite the soft spot for modern art–modern, in the art world, described as anything from roughly the late 19th century to the late 20th century. I realize that’s not a terribly exclusive time frame, but if you’ve studied art, it’s almost hard to be such.

De Stijl (Dutch for “The Style,” or otherwise referred to as Neoplasticism) is, by far, one of my favorite movements. Led by Theo van Doesberg in 1917 Amsterdam, this movement was all about clean lines and simplicity. van Doesberg wrote the manifesto, stating the movement’s call for a universal aesthetic. It hints at constructivism and leaves no evidence of the artist in the work–no brushstrokes, no open canvas, nothing, even when given the fact that this art didn’t pop up out of thin air. It is graphic in its simplicity, with no narrative or emotional content, using only red, yellow, blue, gray, white, and black.

Perhaps the most iconic example of De Stijl is seen in the Dutch artist Piet Mondrian (1872-1944). However, his painting career didn’t start that way. His earliest works were greatly influenced by the Luminist and Post-Impressionist movements, but he also experimented with Pointillism and bright, Fauvist colors and techniques. In 1911, Mondrian moved to Paris, where his art began to tend more toward Cubism (see Gray Tree, 1911).

1914 saw Mondrian on a visit home to The Netherlands–and the beginning of World War I. Unable to return to Paris, he stayed at the Laren artist’s colony. Here is where he met Theo van Doesberg and co-founded the movement we know as De Stijl.

In 1918, Mondrian returns to Paris. This is when and where his work comes into the recognizable tableaus we still know today. Among these are Tableau II (1922),

Composition II in Red, Blue, and Yellow (1930),

and, later on, Broadway Boogie-Woogie (1942-43).

I haven’t really been able to find many who don’t at least respect Mondrian’s graphic style. Then again, I haven’t really spent much time outside of the Visual Arts Building at UCF (Room 111, all day, every day). This is the most memorable and essential figure of this movement.

True to the manifesto, Mondrian leaves no traces of himself in his work, other than the fact that he created it. Though the closest I’ve ever gotten to these works are lecture slides (and on 9” x 9” printout of Broadway Boogie-Woogie on your’s truly’s mortarboard), there are no brush strokes. The works of other artists usually betray their mediums of choice-especially when you get into Monet, Turner, Whistler and others like them. De Stijl sought to eliminate all of this. Every inch of this canvas was covered. Every line was crisp and razor-sharp. Colors were bold, whites were stark, blacks were sharp, and the entire effect grabbed your attention because it was so damn different from the marble statues and Van Goghs that one will usually associate with the word “art.” This is not just a few lines and colored blocks on canvas. These works inspired architecture and even furniture, à la Gerrit Reitveld. De Stijl was a way of life.

Piet Mondrian’s artistic tradition would go on to influence Russian artist Ilya Bolotowsky. His Vertical Diamond (no date found), as you might remember, was bought in 2012 from a Goodwill in North Carolina for $9.99.

It later sold at auction for $34,375. UCF is lucky enough to own a few of Bolotowsky’s prints.

We continue to talk about different artists for different reasons. For instance, Duchamp makes me angry. Vehemently angry. An art history teacher of mine once described Fragonard as the artistic equivalent of Coke Zero–likable and satisfying, but not much substance. Once and for all, WHY WAS MONA LISA SMILING? Mondrian is simple and straightforward.

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Helena-Anne Hittel (Episode 35, essay) earned a B.A. in Art History at the University of Central Florida.

Loading the Canon #18: Iconoclasm

20 Thursday Feb 2014

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Ai Weiwei, Art is an Endangered Species, Helena-Anne Hittel, Loading the Canon, Margaret Zaho

Loading the Canon #18 by Helena-Anne Hittel

Iconoclasm

On February 17, Maximo Caminero walked into the Perez Art Museum in Miami, which was currently housing an exhibit of the work of Chinese artist Ai Weiwei, according to The Times. Caminero picked up one of sixteen colored vases (from the work “Colored Vases,” dated 2006-2012) and let go, shattering it in the middle of the floor. The motive for this? Not enough local art in museums. Ai Weiwei hasn’t made any comments on the matter, as his Twitter and Instagram have been politely hushed up.

Ai Weiwei is an artist who has made his entire career around iconoclasm. He photographed himself dropping a Han Dynasty urn (“Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn,” 1995).

His “Colored Vases” are most likely ancient Chinese pottery, now covered in paint.

Whether or not Weiwei would have cared about this destruction remains to be seen. Bear in mind, though, that this is a man who has no problem breaking things, no matter how old or valuable they are deemed. Nobody can say for sure whether or not this inspired Caminero’s actions.

While at UCF, I took many a class with Margaret Zaho. In the latter half of 2013, she published her second book, Art is an Endangered Species.

This wasn’t just a maxim she kept repeating in lecture. This was, and has always been, the truth. Whatever the situation, things have gotten smashed to pieces, noses have been chiseled off (just ask Michelangelo’s Pietá), and works flat out destroyed because they were considered “degenerate.” Especially during World War II. The Monuments Men and Saving Italy by Robert Edsel are great reads on the subject of saving cultural treasures. Hitler had requested that if he had been found during the war, all the artwork that the Nazis stole would have been destroyed. This was part of his famous Nero Decree, which called for the complete devastation of the Reich. Had this been enacted, we would have lost centuries of history, tradition, and culture. These works of painting and sculpture are not just mere artifacts. It’s a timeline.

I love local art. I love foreign art. I love art, period. A place without art, especially local, is no place I want to live. Let’s be reasonable here. Though I’ve never really experienced it, I can understand the frustration of your life’s work constantly going unnoticed. Van Gogh’s was never really valued until after he died, after all. This, however, doesn’t warrant smashing or otherwise destroying someone else’s work, at least, not in my eyes. Caminero destroyed Weiwei’s art as a way to get back at the museum for not showing local art, including his own. It sounds a bit, to me, like throwing a temper tantrum.

“Colored Vases” was estimated to be worth approximately $1 million. Part of what truly rankles me about this incident is that Caminero was actually apologetic after finding out the piece’s worth. The art and the artist didn’t seem to matter to him as much as the work’s monetary value. Would he have destroyed it if he knew how much it was worth? Caminero is quoted in an article on Hyperallergic as saying, “I didn’t know the piece was worth that much. I feel so sorry about it, for sure.”

Art is meant to make an impression. The act of making it makes as much of an impression on the audience as the finished product. To know that someone, however long ago, took this photograph, stood in front of this canvas, or cut this block of marble and poured their skill into it is definitely something else. To destroy another’s work because your own wasn’t noticed seems childish to me, but, like art, opinion is subjective.

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Helena-Anne Hittel (Episode 35, essay) earned a B.A. in Art History at the University of Central Florida.

Loading the Canon #17: St. Basil’s Cathedral

13 Thursday Feb 2014

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Color, Helena-Anne Hittel, Loading the Canon, St. Basil's Cathedral

Loading the Canon #17 by Helena-Anne Hittel

St. Basil’s Cathedral

I’m a huge Olympics fan. I wait as patiently as I possibly can to hear that opening theme and see the athletes of the world push themselves to the breaking point-some, unfortunately, literally do just that. This year, the Olympics call their stage Sochi, Russia. However, things haven’t gone as smoothly as we’d hoped. Hotels are unfinished, bobsledders got stuck in bathrooms (and an elevator), a ring malfunctioned at the Opening Ceremony, and the temperature is a bit too warm, melting skiing trails and half pipes into slush.

There are high points to these games, too. There are cultural segments presented throughout these events where we get to see a little bit about this massive host country. Siberia! Vodka! The Moscow Police Choir covering Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky”–in uniform!

Today though, I cover what is, to me, the most iconic building in Russia-The Cathedral of Vasily the Blessed, more commonly known as St. Basil’s Cathedral. Or, if you like long names, Cathedral of the Protection of the Most Holy Theotokos on the Moat.

Construction began on this marvel of Russian architecture in 1555, under Ivan IV to commemorate his victorious military campaigns. The actual architect of St. Basil’s is unknown, but it is said to have been designed by Barma and Postnik Yakovlev. This cathedral features nine domes and two spires, all brightly painted, and is approximately 156 feet high. May I remind you-this was built in 1555. This was the tallest building in what would become modern-day Moscow, until the building of the Ivan the Great bell tower.

In 16th century Russia. In the snow. With no cranes. Yeah, I know. I still have trouble wrapping my head around it, too.

The cathedral features eight smaller chapels arranged around a central core, though slightly asymmetrical to accommodate the apse attached to the main church. These chapels are dedicated to different saints and events in the Bible, and commemorate different campaigns. Each of these is topped with an onion-shaped, tin-covered dome, which may or may not have been the original shape. The originals were thought to have been simple, hemispherical domes. The cathedral, as a whole, was essentially a large wooden model encased in masonry. Decorative brickwork made up the outside of the cathedral, and, where this wasn’t possible, stucco painted to look like brickwork.

Then, there’s color. Oh, the color. From the 1680s to the late 19th century, St. Basil’s was painted, gilded, and decorated to the point where it started to look almost Seussian. The original color palate, in fact, was inspired by a passage referring to Heaven in the Book of Revelations. The Russian love for color exploded in the 17th century thanks to the availability of countless paints and dyes. It’s almost got the appearance of a big, impossible gingerbread castle. The insides are no less colorful, covered with countless motifs and murals. And not a stained-glass window in sight. Not bad, Russia, not bad at all.

One thing to remember about Russian art and architecture is that although Russia is a big part of Eurasia, it was essentially in isolation compared to the rest of Europe. Influences of the Renaissance and Gothic architecture never reached this part of the continent. From St. Basil’s, we’ve learned a great many things. Not everything needs stained glass and flying buttresses and westwork towers, and not every holy building needs to be cruciform. You don’t always need to improve on the current trends to make something innovative. Sometimes, all you need is a little imagination.

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Helena-Anne Hittel (Episode 35, essay) earned a B.A. in Art History at the University of Central Florida.

Loading the Canon #16: I See Naked People

06 Thursday Feb 2014

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Helena-Anne Hittel, Loading the Canon

Loading the Canon #16 by Helena-Anne Hittel

I See Naked People

If you were to take all of your clothes off, it shouldn’t really surprise you what you’d see. You know by now what a naked man or woman looks like. Given this, why do people freak out over seeing another naked human being in a work of art?

To me, it’s all about presentation. This is where reading the labels at a museum is so important. I’ve seen lots of naked people. Granted, I knew none of them personally. Some of them might not have even been actual people, some of them were really nude models (fun fact! The woman featured in Manet’s Dejeuner Sur L’Herbe and Olympia is named Victorine! She most likely was a prostitute, but try not to hold it against her.) Yet, there they are, without clothes on. Depending on the subject of the piece, some make conscious efforts to cover themselves (for example, the Aphrodite of Knidos), while others really couldn’t care less. What’s considered as a classic naked male athlete to one person might be pornographic to another. As I’ve stated before, everything is subjective.

Let’s revisit Polykleitos’s High Classical creation, Doryphoros. As you might remember, this is a figure of a nude male athlete or soldier, and a canonical study of the human figure.

Now, let’s introduce a Hellenistic work, The Sleeping Satyr or Barberini Faun. With this work, we’ve left our nude male athlete type behind. This is a follower of Dionysus (Bacchus, to the Romans, the god of wine). He’s all partied out, as it were, and we see him reclining on what looks to be a panther skin (also associated with Dionysus), asleep. He’s even got a tail! From one angle, it doesn’t look too racy.

From another angle, though—

Yep.

As stated before, many, many times now: Doryphoros is a canonical study of—in unison, now—THE NUDE MALE ATHLETE. He would have been holding a spear. He’s kind of like the stereotypical “sexy firemen” in calendars. Still (partially) in his “uniform”, but doing a job. The Barberini Faun, however, uncovers a more sensual side of things. Here, the figure is asleep, maybe even dreaming. The conscious mind is suspended, and the unconscious runs amok. He really doesn’t care that you’re looking at him, but you feel uncomfortable nonetheless. His sleeping/dreaming state leaves him vulnerable, and the position of his body is teasingly erotic. What if he was wide awake? His being asleep, therefore, turns you into a voyeur.

Now, let’s look at a completely awake, conscious nude—Edouard Manet’s Olympia.

What do you see? Yes, it’s reminiscent of Titian’s Venus of Urbino.

I could go into all the ways that they’re different or similar. Instead, look around. Here’s a naked woman, clearly a prostitute, reclining on top of her robe, on a bed. She wears a necklace, a bracelet, a flower in her hair, and one mule. The black cat at the foot of her bed, with its arched back, is symbolic—brothels were “cat houses.” A dark-skinned woman holds a bouquet of flowers, maybe from an admirer. The most important part, though, is Victorine’s face. She’s staring straight at you. She’s challenging you. She looks almost bored, but she knows you’re staring. Somehow, this acknowledgement of the viewer makes it less risqué, to me, anyway. By staring out of the picture plane at the audience, she defies you. Look at the placement of her hand. She covers herself, but it’s not as demurely as the aforementioned Aphrodite of Knidos (note hand placement).

Manet’s Olympia is no longer about a nude female. With the look on her face and the placement of her hand, the woman with flowers and the cat on the bed, this becomes social commentary. This is Manet’s France, not merely a nude woman.

Context is absolutely everything. You might not love reading labels on a museum trip as much as I do, but what you’ll learn will keep you from immediately limiting what you’re looking at. The way nudes are presented will give you clues. Art is open to interpretation, and art can see into us, as well.

So please, stop with the fig leaves.

___________

Helena-Anne Hittel (Episode 35, essay) earned a B.A. in Art History at the University of Central Florida.

Loading the Canon #15: Chihuly in the Desert

23 Thursday Jan 2014

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Loading the Canon #15 by Helena-Anne Hittel

Not Your Mom’s Garden Art!

Wait a second, I recognize that glasswork. Are we gonna do Chihuly AGAIN?

Yes. Yes we are.

A few weeks ago, I flew to Arizona with about 260 or so members of the Marching Knights for our performance at the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl, where UCF became CHAMPIONS! Whatever time we didn’t spend either at rehearsals, in uniform, performing, or otherwise, we had a choice and three precious hours to spend. We could go to the Scottsdale Fashion Mall, the Musical Instrument Museum, or the Desert Botanical Garden. I had been reluctant to go to the gardens at first because of monetary reasons. I had a limited amount of per diem, after all. After a little more thought, though, this was an easy decision.

We have malls in Florida. Granted that Scottsdale was the size of three Millenias put together and I’d classify it as a good place to wander for a while, we’d be going there for lunch before we flew back to Orlando anyway. That was out. As for Option 2, I like instruments, and I like museums (DUH), but we were in the middle of Arizona. In the desert. The gardens were calling my name. There aren’t many cacti in Florida, I loved the climate out there (asthmatic lungs rejoice!), and really, how many other times would I be in Arizona? This was my second (last?) trip out there. While others complained and opted for the hotel or other venues (and I quote: “I don’t wanna go look at a cactus for three hours.”), I shelled out the $12 student admission fee and went in. It wasn’t until after I had done so that I realized that Dale Chihuly had installed art here, and that I’d be there to see it. So, I freaked out like a preteen girl at a Beiber concert throughout my time there. Armed with a dying iPhone that I’d forgotten to charge earlier, I took about 50 photos. Here is a sampling of said photos. I’m eternally thankful that Dale encourages photography. Put on some comfy shoes, Odysseans, we’re goin’ for a stroll.

I waltzed right past this magnificent work of art on the way in and didn’t even notice it wasn’t a cactus.. This is merely one testament to Chihuly and his team’s amazing skill.

It all works so perfectly here. The colors of the glass, even the reeds that you can easily pick out from the actual plant life, look natural.

___________

Helena-Anne Hittel (Episode 35, essay) earned a B.A. in Art History at the University of Central Florida.

Gutter Space #19: The Art of Adaptation

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

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Adaptations, cartooning, Franz Kafka, graphic novels, gutter space, leslie salas, Peter Kuper, Sequential art, The Metamorphosis

Gutter Space #19 by Leslie Salas

The Art of Adaptation:

Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis,

adapted by Peter Kuper

A topic which I was shocked to realize I hadn’t yet covered in Gutter Space is the art of adaptation of prose into works of sequential art. I’ve done a great deal of research on adaptations in general and their pedagogical benefits in various levels of schooling for improving visual literacy (or just plain literacy in general) and creating an excitement and love for reading—but what I’d like to focus on today is an artist’s reimagining of a classic novella. In this case, Peter Kuper’s take on Kafka’s The Metamorphosis.

Part of my favorite aspects of reading Kafka’s Metamorphosis is the ambiguity involving Gregor’s condition. We know he is a bug—but what type, exactly? A dung beetle? A cockroach? What is it?

In Kuper’s adaptation, given it’s inherent visual element, he had to make a decision, and stick with it. Some of the magic of the mystery is lost, but in it’s place, we are granted a rich interpretation of Kafka’s haunting story.

Poor Gregor, stressed by work (and capitalism in general), wakes up late one day. He wakes up an discovers he has a problem.

He can’t roll out of bed. He can’t move very well. It’s hard to see. And suddenly he realizes—he’s turned into a bug.

But look! Rather than being stuck in Gregor’s head, we get much, much more. The period furniture, the wallpaper, the painting on the wall, Gregor’s suitcase of textiles on the dresser, the key in the door—it’s all there for us to see. Kuper’s art style is reminiscent of old woodcut etchings.

Although Gregor is clearly a very large bug, as established in the image above, Kuper nonetheless enjoys shifting the sizes of things based on perspective. When Gregor feels attacked, he becomes very small. His attacker, in the case of the example below, becomes magnified in size, all the more intimidating.

The emanata by Gregor’s human-ish head—those little white lines—express Gregor’s surprise, and the emanata surrounding his body give the impression that he is shaking in fear. The negative space created by these lines is effective because of the rich darkness of the surroundings and the subjects of the panels—Gregor himself, and the boots coming to stomp him.

Poor Gregor. Locked in his room.

We empathize with Gregor because he still embodies a recognizable form. Even though he is a bug, his posture and his facial expressions showcase what we understand as being sad or melancholy. Given the experience he’s been through, we sympathize. Have we all not been rejected at one point or another?

But there’s more to this. Look!—That’s Prague in the windowsill. Although it’s never expressly stated that The Metamorphosis takes place in Prague, there are enough references to the fog and the vague shapes of old buildings that many scholars have assumed the setting is in Kafka’s hometown. Looks like Kuper has done his homework, and made an artistic choice to yet again solidify what the original author simply alluded to.

Another interesting decision Kuper has made with his adaptation is his willingness to play with the presentation of text. In the sample below, the caption does not read in a standard prose format, but instead the sentences mosey around the borders of the panels, following Gregor about as he learns to utilize his new body.

Kuper’s interpretation of Kafka is an interesting one, and adds to the richness of our understanding of the original text. Check it out sometime, and let me know what you think.

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Leslie Salas (episode 75) writes fiction, nonfiction, screenplays, and comics. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Central Florida and attended the University of Denver Publishing Institute. In addition to being an Associate Course Director at Full Sail University, Leslie also serves as an assistant editor for The Florida Review, a graphic nonfiction editorial assistant for Sweet: A Literary Confection, and a regular contributing artist for SmokeLong Quarterly.

Loading the Canon #14: “Is There Really A Market For That?”

12 Thursday Dec 2013

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Art, Loading the Canon

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Loading the Canon #14 by Helena-Anne Hittel

“Is There Really A Market For That?”

Well, Drunken Odysseans, it’s almost here! I never thought I’d be saying this, but its tomorrow! 120 or so credit hours later, I’m finally going to experience it. That wonderful day of the semester degree-seekers cherish as much as a birthday or favorite holiday. Damn straight! It’s graduation season! Time for those of us walking to obsess over final grades, decide how we’ll decorate our mortarboards, check, double-check and triple-check out degree audits, fight for extra tickets for family members, and think about employment in our fields…or otherwise.

We have probably all heard this phrase at some point in time, especially after declaring our college majors. “Can you really get a job doing that?” Doctors, lawyers, engineers’ families rejoice. “Our little (insert name here) is gonna be so successful!” What would happen, though, if your little (name) declared an English major? Fine Arts? Music? Would you be as ecstatic and pledge your undying support of their decision to live happily ever after doing what they love, or would you inwardly cringe, hope they marry rich and wonder how the hell they’re going to pay the bills?

America today seems to spend all of their ripping on the Humanities majors. The ever- increasing want of STEM careers (STEM = Science, Technology, Engineering and Medicine) has only made the Humanities look frivolous. Forbes published a list of The 10 Worst College Majors, stating the unemployment rates for undergrads and graduates alike. Lo and behold–all of these are humanities. English clocks in at #10, Fine Arts at #3, History at #9. You get the idea.

However, they’re not entirely useless majors. Forbes looks at just the numbers associated with these different fields, but they neglect to note the intellectual takeaway. Take, for example, a course of study in English. Whether you’ve studied literature or not, English is vital. Communication in English is critical. Study engineering or science, but there’s a fair amount of writing involved in most every discipline. Without language, there’s no transmission of ideas. Point: you can be an absolutely stellar STEM professional, but if you’re unable to effectively communicate research, what good will that degree really do you?

Another example (and one close to me), is art. Fine Art, art history, graphic art, all of the above and many more. Art, as I’ve explored in Loading the Canon #3, is not easy. There might not seem to be much of a market for the artist. Did that deter the young hopefuls with charcoal on their faces and wicked turpentine headaches? No way. As long as there is art, there will be artists. The same goes for Art History. No visible market, yet I spent 2 1/2 years in the same classroom taking notes and identifying artistic styles. This has made me an extremely organized person brain-wise (which is not so evident if you could see my closet). Artists make fantastic archivists because they know what goes into a work and what can break it down. Those of us fortunate enough to work in gallery settings are good at organizing tasks, cataloguing, communicating verbally, and thinking logistically.

So, when I declared an Art History major (I might fall into either History or Fine Arts here), I probably worried some people. I was lucky enough, at that time I declared, to have parents that understood me. We talked it through. Neither of them panicked or cringed or was secretly let down because Helena-Anne is really bad at math and has no fondness for the human body’s inner workings. I was given a pragmatic approach to my major. Instead of that awful phrase I’ve titled this work with, I got, “What would you like to do?” Thanks to the UCF Art Gallery, I know what I want to do. Even if I don’t end up in my field, so what? I’ve got skills that, thanks to my major and my gallery stint, will carry over and make me a marketable candidate for wherever I end up.

Besides, Calculus is overrated, anyway.

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Helena-Anne Hittel (Episode 35, essay) is an Art History Major at the University of Central Florida and Intern at the UCF Art Gallery.