This week, The Getty is hosting a Digital Art History lab with the intent of making progress on the question of how the field of art history can and should function in the digital age. As Diane Zorich masterfully outlined in her 2012 study of the state of digital art history, there are many obstacles the field faces as it moves forward – and there are also many biases that need to be addressed and dealt with. (I will talk about some of them here; links to this and other recommended materials are below.)

In her recent blog post for the Getty Iris, Murtha Baca, the head of the Getty Research Institute’s digital art history program, talked about what she calls the “St. Augustine Syndrome” — the perception and tradition of scholars writing and researching in solitude. This is perhaps the greatest problem facing art historians as we discuss what “digital art history” actually is, because not only does “digital art history” suggest an immense amount of collaboration and interaction with colleagues and even the public online, but the “St. Augustine Syndrome” also emphasizes the drastic difference between the reality of art history and the romance of art history. The reality of art history as it stands today is that there is a codified manner in which one gets published, advances their career, and becomes accepted and recognized as a member of the scholarly community. The romance of art history is that this can change. Digital art history efforts are increasing by individual scholars and institutions alike, and yet there is a serious problem in that these efforts are given little attention or credence. It is perhaps the worst for those who attempt digital publishing. With some specific exceptions, the work that scholars publish online is often not treated as equal to that of its print counterpart. It is, for whatever reason, perceived as a threat or simply as inferior work. Even if this is an unintentional or unconscious response from the art history community, the truth is that we cannot afford not to address these issues. A serious conversation must begin to take place among scholars about the viability of digital technology for furthering the field.

I mentioned that within art history, there is a codified manner in which we work. Must we feed these conventions? I’m not suggesting in any way that we reject traditional modes of scholarship (e.g., print publishing, conferences, etc.), but I am suggesting a reform within the field that finds impactful ways to use the technologies and international network given to us by the internet. Let’s discover and create new ways of practicing art history. Let’s redefine ‘art historian.’ In doing so, we’ll face practical and ideological roadblocks (discussed in Ms. Zorich’s report), but to get to a point where we can begin discussing these obstacles, we need to do a few things. First, we need to address the fact that the digital age isn’t going away. It’s not a fad. Art history will have to reckon with it at some point, so why not now?  Second, we need to recognize and dissect our biases. It is because these unspoken biases exist in the shadows that digital art history cannot advance. Third, we need to ask some hard questions, including things like: What would digital art history ideally look like? What would its publishing forms be? Where would print publishing fit into this? How would authors secure their copyright in this new form of scholarship? Would ‘digital art historians’ be a new breed of scholar?

I would also suggest that in addition to thinking about how the digital age can assist the art historical community, we begin efforts to make art history more accessible to the public. The Getty Research Institute has been a leader in this regard, as have many other museums and institutions. I specifically mean individuals and their work. Obviously, if one fails to see the merit of digital publishing, then sharing research online to the public is likely a ridiculous idea. Concern about online publication isn’t without reason; copyright infringement and plagiarism are easier than ever with the advent of the internet. But I think that for the public, there would be great value in having professional opinions and research available about art and art history. Misconceptions about art history and art abound, and scholars who are active and make their work available online can assist in dispelling some of those misconceptions. With digital art history, there is the possibility of taking education outside of university walls and into the vast, nearly limitless realm of the Web.  How art history and art historians fit into and interact with the public online is at least something to consider as part of the larger conversation about ‘digital art history.’

Art history is thriving… but more could be done. Right now, the conversation about digital art history is of a murky, confusing, uncomfortable sort, but we must address the elephant in the room, because the elephant is growing. We don’t want to find ourselves unprepared and scrambling for answers and solutions in 20 years because we failed to take the issue of digitality seriously. We are at an incredible moment in history where technology has made the world immediately accessible to us and us immediately accessible to the world. What will we do?

Author’s note: This article stems from a post I made in response to the Getty’s Tumblr asking for input about the state of art history in the digital age. The Getty’s Tumblr entry can be found here. My response received so much support (and was even mentioned in the Getty’s Google+ Hangout) that I decided to write this and expand on some of the ideas presented in that post. You can read it here.

Related links:

Murtha Baca,  Susan Edwards, and Anne Helmreich, ”Rethinking Art History,” recording of live Google+ Hangout, March 4, 2013.

Murtha Baca, “Rethinking Art History,” The Getty Iris, March 4, 2013.

Nuria Rodríguez Ortega, ”It’s Time to Rethink and Expand Art History for the Digital Age,” The Getty Iris, March 5, 2013.

Diane Zorich, “Transitioning to a Digital World: Art History, Its Research Centers, and Digital Scholarship,” Kress Foundation, 2012.

For a nice overview of these issues, I refer you to 3 Pipe Problem’s article “The Moment of Digital Art History?” (December 2012)

Tags: Academia, Art History, digital art history, digital humanities, publishing, research, scholarship, The Getty, the internet

In this 2010 photo, visitors admire the portrait of Caravaggio by an unknown painter during the presentation to journalists of an exhibit dedicated to the Lombard painter titled: "Caravaggio in Rome", in Rome. (AP Photo/Pier Paolo Cito file) via CBS

Yesterday,  the art world exploded with news that 100 new Caravaggio paintings and drawings had been discovered by a team of art historians in Milan at the Sforzesco Castle. The Castle is home to a collection of works from the studio of Milanese painter Simone Peterzano, who was teenage Caravaggio’s teacher for four years, from 1584 to 1588.

Art historians  Maurizio Bernardelli Curuz and Adriana Conconi Fedrigolli, who made the discovery, had been studying the Peterzano collection for two years. They are the first to attribute these works to Caravaggio. It is of importance that, as the Castle has said, all of these works have been readily visible and accessible for years, and that no such attribution has been made before despite the collection having been studied in the past:

The strangeness of the “discovery” sits with me, as well, and with many others across the web, who have commented varyingly that such a discovery would be “astonishing” and that the desire to publish the findings so quickly seems “premature” and “rushed.” The second I read the headline for this news, I was immediately skeptical. Caravaggios on such great scale? How did no one notice this before? Surely, with the growth of Caravaggio studies especially in the past couple decades, someone, somewhere, would have at the least entertained the idea.

Indeed, confusion about the discovery’s timing is a major contributor to apprehension about the research. Why, if these works have been in the castle’s collection for years, has no art historian or Caravaggio specialist ever hinted at these works’ creator? If these works had been discovered in 2010, some might attribute such a large scale find to the 400th anniversary of Caravaggio’s death – and the rush of scholarship and attributions and new discoveries that went along with that magnificent and flurried year for Caravaggio studies. But these works have been in the Castle’s collection for years.  The Castle’s administrators themselves were uncertain about the discovery and the rushed publication of the research:

The reason for the immediate eBook publication is indeed perplexing. Perhaps, however, the art historians wanted their research to be immediately accessible without waiting for the red tape and process that accompanies publication in academic journals. I’m not sure of the motives behind the quick publication, but skepticism is reaonable.

The largest and most pressing mystery is, of course, is the validity of the attributions. The news has been ablaze again today with debate over the accuracy and methodology of the research, and the scholarly community has begun expressing both doubt and excitement about this new theory. Art historians are divided. Even the Vatican has commented on the validity of the attributions, saying that the readiness to attribute such a large body of drawings to Caravaggio was greatly optimistic. For now, I am inclined to agree with art historian John T. Spike, who told the Telegraph today:

Dr. Spike has also noted via Facebook that one of the sketches is quite possibly of a sculpture that was not yet made (“make that ninety-nine” possible artworks! — put a smile on my face)!

Click to enlarge.

The debate has highlighted that there is still plenty of mystery surrounding Caravaggio’s life, and if these paintings and drawings prove authentic, they will open up a floodgate of new work that will be worth years of additional studies about Caravaggio’s art and life. If, however, these works are deemed as falsely attributed, they will have begun a fresh dialogue in the academic and art communities about Caravaggio, and hopefully new ideas will blossom about his early life based on this find and the discussion it has already begun to  ignite.

The findings have been released in a two-volume  eBook, available on Amazon. The ebook is formatted for Amazon Cloud Reader, Kindle for PC/Mac (iPad), and Kindle Fire and is available in multiple languages.

Have you been following this story? Do you think the paintings and sketches are of artistic importance, or do you agree with those, such as Dr. Claudio Strinati, who find the research “interesting but not important”?

Tags: Academia, Art History, Caravaggio, Debate, John T. Spike, Museums, News

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:

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.”

Tags: Academia, Academic Competition, Film, Footnote, Israel Prize, Musings, School, Shorts

In the March 2012 issue of the Art Bulletin, Notes From the Field discusses anthropomorphism. What is it? Is it a good term, or bad? Does it make sense in the modern world? Is it in the eye of the beholder, or can we define it in concrete terms? I am not a distinguished professor (if I can state the obvious), but I nevertheless am compelled to respond to some of the explanations presented.

I suppose I should begin by defining what I think anthropomorphism is, although given all the debate presented in the Art Bulletin I am beginning to doubt that any single definition is sufficient let alone if I will ever really know what it means. Carolyn Dean argues that “[t]o practice anthropomorphism is to employ a category that does not resonate universally.” While I understand her point (which we will examine below), I can’t say I agree. Anthropomorphism to me is the resemblance of humanity in a work of art and/or the implanting of human characteristics, ideals, etc. into a work of art. Perhaps the latter can be termed anthropomorphic meaning and the former is simply, anthropomorphism, or (physically) resembling humans.

Pedro de Mena, St. Francis (detail), 1663.

The first discussion, by artist Elizabeth King, discusses anthropomorphism as the notion that anthropomorphism is the physical resemblance of humans, and that we in turn respond to and recognize that resemblance.  Of a polychrome sculpture of Saint Francis, she writes:

It’s easy to respond to something that we recognize as being like ourselves. St. Francis is human, after all, even if a saint. We see him catching his breath, responding and living within this small sculpture the way we respond and live, reminding us of the realities of faith.

But what about when the art we view is not so “human,” not so readily recognizable as being similar to us? Then again, who is “us“?

Carolyn Dean explains anthropomorphism from the worldviews of the Quechua speakers, who live in the Andes, and the Inca. For the Quechua speakers, anthropomorphism in “our” (or “Western”) terms presents itself as something unfamiliar to “us.” The Andeans

For the Quechua speaking people, then, anthropomorphism in its own way has been ubiquitous across their culture for centuries: human beings are called runa, and runa are categorized according to the above. Anthropomorphism isn’t a relevant term to art of this culture since they have their own set of criteria for determining what is and is not like them. Art historians of “Western” thought wouldn’t necessarily define anthropomorphism in this sense. Art displays anthropomorphic traits when it is simply resembling humans — there is no deeper distinction or division.

And this brings us to Carolyn Dean’s next point, that for the Inca, anthropomorphic qualities were seen in things that were inherently not human (by scientific terms), namely, in rocks:

Dean’s discussions of the Quechua speakers and the Inca beg the questions if anthropomorphism, like many things, is in the eye of the beholder, if its definitions vary by culture, if it’s even a wise or relevant term that art historians can use to describe human qualities.  I wouldn’t have understood rocks in Inca culture to have such qualities unless someone had told me. Someone did, and now that rocks are imbued with humanity, what is the signifier in art that denotes that I am looking at something anthropomorphic, like me?

Is anthropomorphism — humanity in art — simply not possible in a world that increasingly reduces things to scientific terms, as J.M. Bernstein toys with? He writes:

Can or should we support “scientific naturalism” — taking anthropomorphism and its qualities, and trading them for a humanity that  is measured solely through science? What would become of art, that “natural abode of anthropomorphism”? Art is, after all, as Bernstein describes it “a moment in an endless effort to ascribe human form to the forever nonhuman, as if we could only make sense of humanity by seeing it projected onto what is patently other than human.” Art, as an inanimate object, isn’t human. Yet, we imbue it with human form, have it eschew human morals and beliefs, recognize it as being in a way “like us.”

But what happens when art, for its viewers, is human, or … divine? Jane Garnett and Gervase Rosser collaborate to discuss the miraculous image.  Miraculous images are found all over societies, on walls, in churches, in private chapels, in homes, causing the faithful to remember the power of these images and respond to the divine with thanks. Although I found the discussion slightly out of place in the consistent and thorough discussion taking place of “anthropomorphism” proper, the article was nonetheless thought provoking. The questions it addressed and raised were how humans respond to art, especially art that portrays a divine event, is itself imbued with divinity, and/or commemorates the faithfulness of the divine. Often, these images lend themselves to a communal yet private experience. For example, an effigy of the Virgin Mary was paraded through the streets of one village. In those moments, she was Mary, bringing with her all the virtues of her heavenly position. The effigy connected with the community as a whole and served as symbol of their collective faith but it also lent itself to private experiences of awe and worship with individual members of the community as they gazed up at her. Such experiences are not just for the modern world. In Baroque Spain, for instance, polychromed sculptures, usually specifically designed for procession, pasos, would be carried through the streets, with the community gathered. In ancient Egypt, too, similar processions occurred with divine art. Communities come together and recognize the common deity among them. They are often in human form — with human bodies and characteristics. They bleed and cry and gaze up in awe and yet there is something intrinsically otherworldly about them and in this way, they are not human. We, the viewers, are the lesser beings before these images, asking for mercy or aid or simply being struck with the sacredness of the image. We are wounded along with these images, as Elizabeth King wrote.

And after all of this, what is anthropomorphism, really?

I will never truly know, but I can grasp at it.

Tags: Academia, Anthropomorphism, Art Bulletin, Art History, Art Theory, Artistic Intention