Archive for the 'Shorts' Category

Earlier this month, I saw an incredible movie, Footnote. It was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Foreign Film, something that must have been an easy choice given how wonderful the script and filmmaking are. (Minor spoilers follow!) Here is a synopsis  of the film from Sony Pictures Classics:

“FOOTNOTE is the tale of a great rivalry between a father and son. Eliezer and Uriel Shkolnik are both eccentric professors, who have dedicated their lives to their work in Talmudic Studies. The father, Eliezer, is a stubborn purist who fears the establishment and has never been recognized for his work. Meanwhile his son, Uriel, is an up-and-coming star in the field, who appears to feed on accolades, endlessly seeking recognition.

Then one day, the tables turn. When Eliezer learns that he is to be awarded the Israel Prize, the most valuable honor for scholarship in the country, his vanity and desperate need for validation are exposed. His son, Uriel, is thrilled to see his father’s achievements finally recognized but, in a darkly funny twist, is forced to choose between the advancement of his own career and his father’s. Will he sabotage his father’s glory?

FOOTNOTE is the story of insane academic competition, the dichotomy between admiration and envy for a role model, and the very complicated relationship between a father and son.”

The film reminded me of my very first introduction to academia. When I was four or five years old, my mom, then a graduate student in theology, took me with her on an errand to one of her professor’s office hours. Like her, he had a small child, and we both loved Legos. That day, the professor presented me with the biggest tub of Legos I have ever seen. It was as tall as I was. Enamored with this Santa Claus-esque man, I wanted to know more about him. As we were leaving, I asked my mom who he was and what he did. “He’s a thinker doctor,” she said, “He gets paid to think.” (Translation: philosophy professor). My eyes got wide, I’m sure, and those words would stick with me until present day: he gets paid… to think. He must be really smart, I thought. I’m sure I also thought that I would never be smart enough to be a “thinker doctor” or get paid for my thoughts. Twenty years later, I’m eager to challenge my mind through an academic life.

“Footnote” struck a chord in me. It’s the type of film that stays with you, gnaws at you, the kind that you need to chew on for a long time. It was a powerful statement about academic success and the importance of academic flexibility, but also a poignant story of a family that has been pulled into their patriarch’s work and the consequences that follow. The father, Eliezer, has only been cited once in his entire decades-long career. His greatest dream (that he treasures secretly within himself) is to be recognized for his work, so when the call comes that he won the prize, he awakens as if from a deadened sleep. His son, Uriel, has received many accolades for his own work, which is theoretical as opposed to his father’s more scientific, exact methods. Eliezer is extremely stubborn and unwilling to compliment his son’s work or accomplishments because he disagrees with Uriel’s methods. Eliezer’s stubbornness and refusal to express pride in his son’s work only worsens after he wins the coveted prize. Uriel desires Eliezer’s approval as a father, if not an academic, and, when Eliezer wins the Israel Prize, Uriel makes huge personal and career sacrifices to ensure not just his father’s happiness, but his father’s feeling of success. This was the moment Eliezer had secretly been waiting for. Who was Uriel — or the decisions committee, which Eliezer’s arch-nemesis chaired — to say that his father’s work wasn’t good enough to have won the prize or that he didn’t deserve it after decades of dedication to his field? And so, Uriel defends his father’s right to the prize.

Eliezer sends his work to the wind after a heart-wrenching development in his academic career occurs.

The film ends on a thought-provoking note. Ever since, I’ve been thinking about many of the issues the film addresses. In addition to examining issues such as inter-departmental competition, familial father-son conflicts, and the sacrifices we make to achieve our dreams, one of the biggest questions the film raised is what makes an academic successful? Is it the number of awards he has? Can he be considered successful if he has never (or scarcely) been cited by his peers? Is success in the eye of the beholder? Is it determined by a mix of all of these, or none of these?  Footnote also raises the question of academic stubbornness. Does sticking to one method, and one method only, set one up for failure (or lack of recognition) later on? I’ve always been of the conviction that academic flexibility — willingness to explore work that uses other methods than your own — is of paramount importance as a scholar.  These questions have been strangely fun to think about over the past few weeks and as I prepare for graduate school.

I’d like to close with these encouraging words Eliezer spoke to one of his students (they are, the film says, some of  his favorites):

Your paper is good, “only the new things are not correct and the correct things are not new.”

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Happy Valentine’s Day!

Caravaggista.com is celebrating this romantic day by showcasing a few of art history’s most famous faces, couples, and love scenes:

Titian, Venus of Urbino, detail, 1538

Titian, Venus of Urbino, 1538

 

Bernini, Portrait of Costanza Bonarelli, 1636–38. Constanza was Bernini's lover.

Vermeer, The Love Letter, c. 1669.

Canova, Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss, detail, 1787-1793.

Fragonard, The Stolen Kiss, 1780s

Fragonard, The Fountain of Love, c. 1785

Renoir, La Promenade, 1870.

Klimt, The Kiss, 1907-8.

Love is in the air!

What are your favorite romantic artworks?

If you’d like to learn more about these romantic pieces, visit the Entry Bibliographies page.

Head over to WTF Art History to see more romantic images, and to arthistoryx to see artists & their muses!

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We’re not supposed to be callous toward art.

And yet, we are, especially with art that is meant to and was created for the purpose of welling up emotion within our spirits.

Rogier Van Der Wyden, The Descent from the Cross (Detail), 1435.

I suppose this has to do with modern society. Emotional response and emotion itself were so entrenched into Early Modern society that emotional reactions to works of art may seem silly or far removed from us. Yet paintings of this time, especially but not solely religious paintings, were created to provide viewers with visual representations of stories, legends and events in Catholic hagiography and history. Paintings and sculpture were a way to depict abstract concepts, glorious miracles, and ancient legends in an easily accessible and understandable manner. Be these subjects represented in allegory, exaggeration, or realism, they are meant to invoke emotion when the viewer ponders the scene before them. Mythological scenes might stir up joyous, mischievous, or giddy feelings, while more somber religious scenes may cause the viewer to be awestruck, sorrowful, thankful, or reverent.

James Elkins wonders about our modern lack of emotion when viewing art, and set out to determine what people of the past have cried about when viewing art, and why emotion is so pent up today. He penned these words in the forward to his 2001 book, Pictures & Tears:

Our lack of intensity is a fascinating problem. I’d like to understand why it seems normal to look at astonishing achievements made by unapproachably ambitious, luminously pious, strangely obsessed artists, and toss them off with a few wry comments. … If paintings are so important – worth so much, reproduced, cherished, and visited so often – then isn’t it troubling that we can hardly make emotional contact with them? … Few centuries, it seems, are as determinedly tearless as ours.

I have yet to finish the book, but his forward struck such a chord with me that I am eager to read his conclusions. He sent out letters, posted ads, and emailed contacts to find out who and why people cried in front of paintings. He got responses from an overwhelming number of people, including art historians. Pictures and Tears reminds me of a post I wrote, On the Power of Aesthetics and Artistic Intent, and how art is made to effect its viewers. Elkins’ book made me think about the paintings I’ve shed tears in front of while I stood and stared into the canvas. Most recently, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes’ Prodigal Son (1876) moved me to tears. I’m well versed in the story, and something about the way he painted the son, curled up, naked and alone, in the dirt, cradling himself, just ruined me – in the middle of the National Gallery, no less. But location and others aren’t important in such experiences. All that exists are the tears, myself, and the painting. I had a similar experience in the Borghese Gallery when I saw Caravaggio’s David and Goliath. The painting is so close to my academic heart and my research that finally seeing it in person was overwhelming. Part of me was sad that I couldn’t pick it up, run my fingers along the canvas, and stick my nose closer to see every crack and brush stroke (don’t tell that to any art conservationists!), but most of me was just relieved to be standing in front of it at last.

Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, Prodigal Son, 1876.

How about you? Have you ever shed tears in front of a work of art? Why or why not? Are we supposed to have emotional reactions to artwork?

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Randolph Rogers, Nydia, the Blind Girl of Pompeii, carved 1860. Photo: Amy Martin, 2011.

Getting lost had made me tired. My fingers reached around the door handle and swung the door open, and my feet stepped into hallowed ground.Finally. My eyes adjusted to the warm lighting and my heart skipped a beat, for it was here that my eyes would convey to my heart what it had so longed to know. Old friends were here. They just needed to be found among the many rooms. I needed to spend time with them, to study them, to see them, to sit in their presence.

In this place, nothing else exists and my only worry is that I will forget what I am trusted with beholding. In this place, there is no noise except for the gentle whispers of fellow visitors and quiet footsteps. The world moves slower and softer. I forget successes and failures. All that is tangible are the artworks before me and the stories they tell.

This place is a safe haven for beauty, expression and thought. It welcomes all people, regardless of allegiances or status. It offers all who come to it the same opportunity: to view creations crafted from the minds and hands of masters. It charges its patrons be participants in what they see before them, to be moved, educated and inspired.

This place is a museum.

I wrote this based on wonderful experiences at the Brera Pinoteca in Milan, the Galleria Borghese in Rome, the Louvre in Paris, and the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. Originally published on Tumblr on September 10, 2011.

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I want to preface today’s discussion by noting that I’ve included El Greco in this series on Spanish Baroque because, in Spain, he is the link between “mannerism” and the “true Baroque” style. He combined mannerist forms with Baroque drama.  Just as other Baroque artists chose to work mostly in Madrid or Seville, El Greco’s city of choice was Toledo. He rose to fame there and as his career progressed, his work became more abstract. His art followed the edicts of the Council of Trent. Catholic art should insight devotion, involve the viewer, and be didactic. This stood in stark contrast to Protestants, for whom the written word was the most powerful, behavior-altering tool. El Greco’s art also placed high value on the mystic or visionary experience, as we saw yesterday.

Today we’ll look at El Greco’s El Espolio (1577-1579). El Espolio, or The Disrobing of Christ, was appropriately hung in the room where priests get dressed before mass. We don’t see the Disrobing very often in Western art, perhaps for the sake of modesty. In any case, this scene is taken from Christ’s Passion. The Roman guards disrobe him and eventually fight over who gets his clothes.

El Greco, El Espolio (or The Disrobing of Christ), 1577-79.

In the foreground, a carpenter is putting finishing touches on the cross, an allusion to Christ’s upcoming crucifixion. Christ’s upturned face and the heavenly light beaming down on him can be read as alluding to his resurrection. Despite the crowd, Christ seems alone and in quiet conversation with the Father in heaven. He is the focal point of the image and wears the strongest color, red, which symbolized blood and royalty. El Greco’s use of red separates Christ from the rest of the crowd, which are all in the same grayish blue palette.

The men torturing and pulling at Christ’s robes are animalistic and subhuman, reveling in violence and in disgracing Christ. Not everyone in the painting are displayed as animals. The two thieves that were crucified with Christ are also present, naked, and can be seen to the left and right of Christ. Their nakedness suggests their repentant humility. The remaining figures behind the torturers and thieves look normally human and may represent hope for humanity.

In accordance with St. Bonaventure’s textual description of this event, the three Marys are present (Mary, mother of Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and Mary, mother of James). This caused a stir with the monks, who found the painting to be immodest because the three Marys would not be actually present at an event where a man, indeed a deity, was being stripped naked. It was also held in contempt because the heads of the crowd are higher than Christ’s head. Despite these objections, the painting stayed in its intended place.

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