The Calling of Art According to Goethe

         I recently picked up a book purely for the title: Goethe on Art. Who better, I thought, to guide me through the intriguing world of German Romantic art than he? Goethe was an author (among many other things) who was an early figure in the Romantic movement as it came to fruition in Germany. This book, as I was soon to learn from the inside flap, was the first English edition of Goethe's writings on art since 1845. Gold. The volume is a collection of letters, essays, reviews, and articles by Goethe on the subject of art; edited and translated by John Gage, lecturer of art history at the University of Cambridge.

Goethe was always interested in art, famously saying: "I have lived among painters and learned, like them, to look at objects with the eye of an artist...The eye was the organ par excellence, through which I apprehended the world." He founded two art periodicals, ran a series of painting competitions. He drew often himself, and we have many of sketches still today.

John Gage primarily chose writings that dealt specifically with art criticism. It was for this reason that I was especially interested: I thought I could gain some insight into a brilliant yet non-philosopher's mind on questions such as "what is art" or "what is beauty." He does not address these questions directly, but he does offer some insight into what he thinks is important in a work of art. For example, here is what he had to say in his rather stark comparison of Rembrandt and Raphael:

"When Rembrandt presents his Madonna and Child as a Dutch farmer's wife, any little critic can see that this goes quite contrary to history, which relates how Christ was born in Bethlehem, in the land of the Jews. 'The Italians have done it far better,' says he. But how? Did Raphael paint anything more, or other, than a loving mother with her first and only child? And was there anything else to be extracted from the subject? And has not motherly love in all its nuances been a rich source of material for poets and painters in all periods? But all the simplicity and truth has been taken out of the Bible stories by the attempt to ennoble them and adapt them to the rigid decorum of the church; they no longer hold the sympathy of the heart, but dazzle the blunted sense. Mary now sits between the curlicues of a tabernacle, as if she was exhibiting her child to the shepherds for money, or perhaps she has been using the enforced idleness of childbed to make herself beautiful for the honour of this visit. That fits; that is appropriate; that does not conflict with history! How does Rembrandt deal with this objection? He takes us into a dark stable which want has forced the mother, with her child at her breast, to share with the cattle. They are both buried up to the neck in straw and clothing, everything is dark except a lamp which lights up the father, sitting with a little book from which he seems to be reading some prayers to Mary. At that moment, the shepherds come in. The first, carrying a lantern, peers into the straw as he takes off his hat: could the question 'Is this the new-born King of the Jews?' ever be more clearly expressed?"

Goethe is impressed with how Rembrandt illuminates the "truth and simplicity" of the historical and religious event without giving too much priority to religion or history. Truth seems to be what is important to Goethe, or at least his version of it. Not only does he speak of retaining the simple truth of Jesus' birth, but also in other scenes such as landscapes. One painter he particularly thought skilled at this was (no surprise, perhaps) Caspar David Friedrich. In speaking of some sepia drawings by Herr Friedrich:

"[Friedrich] is an artist who holds fast to nature with earnestness and truth, who unfolds his inner self in his works, and strives towards significance, who, in a word, unites the particularity of the general idea with a characteristic rendering of the individual parts, this artist can never lack the support of the public, for he brings new things to light, and, at the same time, has the quiet reward of being right. But even those who are accustomed to making higher demands must praise him, for the endeavour to strike out an individual path itself demands no ordinary courage and talent, and since already in the simple, characteristic, true imitation of Nature an appreciable level of art is attained, there is no reason why the old and tried rules should not be strictly observed."

Goethe doesn't stop there though, he goes on to speak of a truth that is beyond the physical world. A 'true ideal' in which an artist could idealize a landscape in order to achieve a higher truth. In speaking of a collection of Claude's landscapes:

"Here for once you see a complete man, who thought and felt beauty, and in whose mind there was a world such as you will not find outside of it. The pictures are true, yet have no trace of actuality. Claude Lorrain knew the real world by heart, down to the minutest details, but he used it only as the means of expressing the world of his beautiful soul. That is the true ideal, which can so use real means of expression that the truth which emerges gives the illusion of actuality."

I thought a key phrase here was, "the truth which emerges gives the illusion of actuality." He is essentially saying that Claude is able to find beauty and then present it to those who look upon his work in a way that we can understand.This falls in line more with the Romantic notion of genius and inspiration.

The written works of this volume are primarily Goethe's thoughts on different works of art from a technical perspective. Sprinkled throughout, however, are little nuggets that help one to see more clearly what Goethe thought was important in art. He thought it was truth. Though I'm not sure what that meant exactly to him from these particular writings, I can't say that's a bad starting place.

Fictional Sculpture

     What a great murky depth of the human experience is fiction. At once it pokes, prods, and otherwise disturbs common conceptions of truth while at the same time being one of truth's greatest promoters. After all, is not the very definition of fiction something that didn't actually happen? How then has it been allowed to exist for so long pervading every aspect of life, if it is essentially a lie? For many reasons, of course, but not the least of which is the fact that it is a proven method for demonstrating truth. To say a story didn't actually happen is only to say that it is not grounded in historical truth, but historical truth is only one kind of truth. Oscar Wilde once said that a man needs a mask to tell the truth: perhaps we may also say that stories need a mask to tell the truth as well. Let us say that history is a story that tells us the 'what,' and fiction is a story that tells us 'why.' It is hard to reconcile these together without sacrificing the integrity of one or the other.

    The way fiction tells us truth is through the use of layers. Looked at very simply, stories have two basic layers: the plot or narrative and an underlying philosophy or moral. Though sometimes more intentional than others, all stories have both of these things. The value of the 'story' layer is determined by its entertainment,  ability to captivate the reader, and believability while the value of the 'philosophy' layer is determined by its trustworthiness and enlightenment. Some stories are more successful at one layer than the other, but they are always both there.  Generally speaking, when a volume becomes a classic it is because both layers are considered successful.

   Even stories that are highly fantastical and imaginative demonstrate truth to the reader. This is another power of fiction. If a random person stops you on the street to tell you that they saw an elf or dragon it is unlikely that you would believe it. However, if Tolkien, in the comfort of a piece of fiction tells you there are elves or dragons in Middle Earth it much easier to believe. What truth can be derived from such incredible fairy tales? In Tremendous Trifles, Chesterton tells us that children don't need fairy tales to tell them of 'bogeys,' these they know of from the time they have an imagination. They need fairy tales to show them that the 'bogeys' can be defeated. Additionally, in Orthodoxy he tells us that fairy tales are more than ethical or life lessons, they are needed to remind us that the world we actually live in is itself magical. Fantastical and imaginary worlds show us how our world might have been and that it is magical the way it is: as full of surprises and unpredictability as any Shire, Gotham, or Wonderland.

    I submit that this is true of sculpture as well. Sculpture is fiction - a two layered story. The way the sculpture appears is the 'story' layer and whatever meaning it has is the 'philosophy' layer. On the surface, a sculpture is successful based on its visual appeal (not necessarily prettiness) and its ability to captivate the imagination. The underlying layer tells a truth. Just like fiction in literary form, sculpture may emphasize one of these layers more than the other. Some pieces are created merely to make a statement, but that does not release it from the responsibility to try and attract the eye whether it be with aesthetic appeal or some kind of 'shock factor.' Conversely, some sculpture may primarily intend to please the eye. However, a piece cannot intend to please the eye without an underlying concept of what is pleasing to the eye, or making a statement about beauty in general.

     My principle reason for demonstrating the parallel between fiction in literary form and in sculpture form is to offer a helpful way to look at sculpture - but specifically abstract sculpture. I fear that there is a temptation to try and 'get' abstract sculpture. As if classical sculptures are just for the looks and that modern sculpture is just for making a statement. This is a false dichotomy. Both classical sculpture and modern/abstract sculpture are multi-layered fictions.

Year	c. 25 BC
Type	White marble
Location	Vatican Museums, Vatican City

c. 25 BC

White marble

Vatican Museums, Vatican City

   This is more obvious in pieces such as Lacoon and Sons. This piece not only tells a story, but it does so in a visually striking way. The emotion and action exhibited here are undeniably captivating. Because this piece is from a story, the underlying philosophy is fairly evident. This piece depicts a scene of truth, sacrifice, and tragedy. Does this depiction of human mortality and divine intervention arouse sympathy? Is there beauty in a martyr for truth? These questions are the ones that arise from the underlying layer of meaning.

Artist	Alexander Calder
Year	October 25, 1974
Type	painted steel stabile
Dimensions	1,620 cm (636 in)
Location	Chicago

Alexander Calder

October 25, 1974

painted steel stabile

1,620 cm (636 in)

Chicago

For my abstract example, I have chosen one of my favorites: Alexander Calder's Flamingo. Since this piece does readily represent something we are familiar with, it is tempting for an initial response to be something like, "what does it mean?" Calder once said that the model for his sculptures was the Universe itself. The way that different forms and densities interacted, some in movement some static. He explored the disparity of shape, movement, and form. To him, the Universe is an abstract combination of wild and wonderful things. This sculpture is like one of Chesterton's fairy tales, it reminds us that this is a world of surprises and unpredictability. However, whatever this sculpture 'means' or represents there is still a strong 'story' layer. While this piece might not seem 'pretty' it is certainly striking and fun to look at. Its placement among the dark, square skyscrapers makes it even more striking as it contrasts them with bright color and a playful shape. Any viewer can enjoy this piece without once thinking of its deeper meaning.

     Like literary fiction, sculpture fiction is multi-layered. Yes, the pieces have meaning of varying success, but it is a form of self-deprivation to miss the joy and fun of sculpture by looking at a piece only through the lens of metaphysical scrutiny. The deeper meaning will come more naturally if it is engaged on a more simple level of whether or not it is nice to look at. To read A Tale of Two Cities only to look for the symbolism and social commentary is to miss out on Dickens' masterful storytelling, character development, and humor. The same goes with sculpture: enjoy it without the pressure of deeper meaning, and consequently it will be easier to 'understand.'

The Eye of the Beholder

      It was the fourth century, and a newly ordained priest called John had just begun to offer his first sacrifice of the mass. However, he was so overcome with a feeling of unworthiness that he shed his ecclesiastical robes and fled into the wilderness instead. In the rocky wilderness he embraced the ascetic life, spending much time in prayer and meditations. One day, a princess from a nearby kingdom was whisked to his cave by a magical wind. Fearing that she was an agent of Satan, he refused her entry. Eventually, she was able to satisfactorily convince him that she was not from hell. Despite this, fearing sensual temptation, he drew a line down the middle of the cave and stated that she could remain in the cave on the condition that she stay on the opposite of the line from himself. Apparently the line was not enough to inhibit the most primal urge of humankind, and in one lubricious moment he crossed the line and gave into his passions. They both immediately plunged into contrite repentance. Overcome with grief, the priest, fearing further sin, carried her off and cast her off of a cliff. Again, he realized the error of this action and fled to the pope begging for absolution. When the pope denied it, the priest vowed to crawl on his hands and knees until he could be forgiven. Fifteen years later, a queen had a child. For the christening feast a huntsman went into the forest, happening upon a strange beast, he captured it and brought it back to the queen. Meanwhile, the child was to be baptized. However, the child refused to be baptized and spoke up in an unnatural voice that he would, "only be baptized by John." Just at this moment, the huntsman had brought the strange beast forward to present to the queen. The beast, upon hearing the child speak, slowly looked up. The beast was, of course, John.

     This is one part of one of the many extraordinary legends that surrounds early church father John Chrysostom. However, this little slice of hagiography is extremely unlikely to contain much more than the smallest kernel of truth. Regardless, it became the subject matter for a piece by Italian painter Mattia Preti. This eye-catching oil on canvas piece measures an ample 96" x 75." Painted in 1640, the work shows John Chrysostom on all fours in the foreground. Behind him stands the huntsman, opposite him are the queen holding the child, an unidentified child, and a hunting dog. This chiaroscuro scene is set in front of a classical background, though the characters are all appareled with clothing contemporary to the artist. In the triangular foreground the rich colors of the garments are a stark contrast to the olive colored, emaciated figure of John.

     I recently spent a long time in front of this work, and it spawned many fascinating avenues of thought that I happily traveled down. But the most interesting thing about this painting was the ambivalence that Preti has created regarding John's spiritual status. The temptation that he had given into in the cave was a young woman of royalty, and here in front of him stands a beautiful young queen. In her fashionable and subtly seductive clothing she is the very picture of his original mistake. Between him and the lady, however, is the child. The child is a not so subtle representation of the Christ Child, reaching out his hand in forgiveness. The question that I tried to answer while looking at this work is this: what is John looking at? Is it the child or the queen? After all those years of penitence is he still in the grip of temptation and lust? Or has his contrition become complete? Repentance or relapse?

     Additionally, Preti shows a progression that starts with the hound and goes to the huntsman. The dog represents the carnal primal urges, the child in front of the dog represents a childish curiosity. Two things that caused John to end up in his current position. Both the dog and the child are facing away from the queen and child. The ragged, destitute, and anemic John is the symbol of one who has fallen to lust. Though there may be indecision on his part, he looks up from his depravity to the one who can pardon him. The hopeful future is represented in the dark background by the well-dressed, healthy, huntsman bows his head humbly to the child. The huntsman is a shadow of what John can become if pardoned; however, should John fall to temptation again the chain is ready to pull him into the pit. A story of redemption in one frame. Preti displays in this painting consequences of past mistakes and potential mistakes - but also the possibility of restoration.

We Cannot Climb by Night: Part 2

     I recently spent some time experiencing the paintings in Nikki Toyama's show called Edifice. Her show is about the interaction of light and architecture in an urban setting. The show starts out with a work called Into the Mission which I wrote about here. At the end of the show is another painting called Driving to Tabernacle. These are the biggest two paintings, and are arranged in a way that you can encounter them individually and then side by side. It was while I absorbed these two paintings simultaneously that I began to notice complementary contrasts between them which helped me to approach them each on their own again. These two paintings show the contrasting forces of light and architecture working with and against each other. They show how light, so ephemeral and transparent, can wield a power over the sturdy solidity of the buildings. Nikki shows this power by showing the movement of light. Movement that is simultaneously evanescent and lasting, powerful and delicate, blinding and illuminating.

        The road slopes away from the center of itself, the light that streams onto the road seems to function as motion lines. The upper surface has strong lines that follow the movement of the vehicles and tilts in such a way that we feel rapid movement through the tunnel. The vehicles move forward and are enveloped in the light, almost as if in just a few more moments they will disappear from sight. Interestingly, the painting is able to make the viewer part of the scene. There are two somewhat subtle vertical lines in the painting. One in the bottom left of the painting and the other on the right wall at the very end of the tunnel. These two lines parallel each other, but they are not completely vertical. The one on the right is part of the tunnel's structure, but the one in the bottom left is not obviously recognizable. It serves to help frame the picture in such a way that pulls the viewer forward and into the picture. The red of the taillights stand out against the black and white in one of the only colored parts of the picture. The only other colorful part of the painting is the warm yellow glow of the doors lining the street in the background. 

      The painting pulls the viewer in because of the vortex of bright white light. It simultaneously streams into the tunnel and pulls you out of it into the open. This painting is not static; it moves and moves the eye. Like Into the Mission, this painting has two components. Unlike Into the Mission, which had two separate fields and energies, both of the two components run together seamlessly. The first section is the actual tunnel. The tunnel is the feature that the artist uses to show the interaction of building and light. The tunnel takes up most of the painting; it dominates the foreground, and is the largest subject in the work. Large and dominating as it is, the tunnel gives way to the light. In fact the tunnel serves the light. The only function of the tunnel is to show the light. If there was no tunnel, the painting would be blinding, all that would be there was a piercing white light. However, with the tunnel the light is able to reveal itself without getting lost. The light and the building are dependent upon each other in this work. Without the light, you could not see the tunnel and without the tunnel you could not see the light. 

    This work is all about forward movement. The viewer is moving through a tunnel, the cars ahead are moving forward, the light draws the eye into an indiscernible distance. The fact that the doors are the only thing visible in the background seems to indicate movement also: one portal leading to another. What does this movement of light against the cold tunnel mean? The interplay could be making a metaphysical or existential statement, just think of how many metaphors a tunnel can be used for. This could represent death, or progress, or even time. Of course the painting could also be a capture of a moment in time, not to mention the possibility that it's both. The key to this lies in seeing this together with Into the Mission. The stillness of those two cars heading to the mission explodes into action here. They speed ahead; even the tunnel can't hold them for long. They now have the light they require to move, and move they do. 

We Cannot Climb by Night: Part 1

 

       I recently had the pleasure of experiencing Nikki Toyama's exhibit called Edifice. In the show are a series of paintings that explore the interaction of light and architecture. In her manifesto she says:

"Man's power is signified through the construction of the metropolis. Simultaneously, light continues to make its steady impression on man's work. The city, represented in these 'unshakable' forms made by man, dissipates underneath the natural forms of light."  

     She shows how light 'has its way' with the buildings by accentuating the contrast between the dark, static nature of the architecture and light's ability to create movement and life. In fact, it is the movement of light that gives it its power. The two largest of the paintings of the show were displayed in such a way that at the correct angle you could see them both side by side, though they were on different walls. I can't help but to assume this was intentional, and if it was, I thought this installation choice was successful. It gave me the chance to see both paintings individually, and then as I moved through the exhibit I saw them again, only this time side by side. Alone they spoke clearly, but together their voices spoke an even stronger message of the power of light.

     The very first painting that you come across in the show is called Into the Mission. This large painting (I don't have the exact measurements but approximately 4' x 5') is painted almost completely in gray scale. The picture is very straight; the lines, for the most part, are only vertical and horizontal. The buildings stand straight and tall contrasting with the low, flat underpass. The underpass hovers over a flat gray road, upon which is mounted three blank road signs. The three signs are in the middle of the painting with the biggest one being in the center. The signs are supported by a black railing that reaches from one end of the painting to the other. At the right  edge of the railing a lonely, somewhat wispy plant grows. Two cars, one white and one black, sit on the road facing the city. They are surrounded on four sides: the underpass on top, two thick walls on the sides, and the road underneath. Ahead, yet another underpass looms.

     This painting has two portions. The first is the sky. The sky is filled with movement, the vertical lines and faint shadows of other buildings in the background give the whole upper part of the painting a shimmering, almost radiant appeal. Even though the buildings are flat and square, from left to right they gradually lead up into an apex that fades into the light. The shape of the skyline, the shimmering light, and the faint glimpses of pointed roofs (steeples?) in the distance give the whole sky a near transcendental aura. The reason it seems transcendental is simply the fact that the movement all points upwards. The emphasis of the sky is not depth, but movement.

    Everything changes on the bottom half. There is plenty of depth, but no movement. Stillness. The two cars sit on the flat road with their lights off, the fact they aren't going anywhere seems exemplified by the ghost signs which are erased of any destination. The support railing for the road signs is in the shape of a fence, barring any progress. Even if the cars were to move forward, the only thing ahead of them on the road is just another underpass. The stillness of the road is defined by the darkness. In fact, the darkness is the reason for the stillness, below those road signs are only shadow and dimness. The darkness in the lower half of the painting chokes the life from it...shown by the lifeless, leafless shrub.

     The painting employs a rather prosaic scene, driving into the city, to reveal its truth. In reality, one might think that it would be the bottom half of the scene that would be the busy one. The road would be filled with moving cars, which would be filled with moving people. Each underpass would only be seen for a few moments (barring traffic) and the signs would confidently present your destination. The lights that would be the most obvious would be the lights of the car in front and beside you. The sky would be motionless. In fact, the high rise buildings would stand so tall and proud that the sky itself would be reduced to some kind of super sized wallpaper upon which the city skyline can present itself. The painting completely inverts this. The sky holds the force of movement and becomes the sole conduit of light, and the city below has no choice but to submit. The painting does not contradict the reality, but instead enhances it by showing the power, necessity, and beauty of the light.

     In Dante's Purgatorio*, all the souls have one task: to constantly move upwards in their purging journey towards God. Being in purgatory is no great joy and they all want to move through as quickly as possible, however, after nightfall everyone immediately stops moving. Curious,Virgil asks why this is, and the guide says, "We cannot climb by night." He explains that anyone of them could continue walking all night, but without the light which represents God's grace, it would be impossible to make progress. Because of the darkness they would lose their way and end up never taking even one step forward. Therefore, they must wait until morning to travel again. It is darkness alone that hinders Dante's travelers, and I think that it is darkness that hinders those two cars. Though their intentions are benevolent, as indicated by the painting's title; the shimmering, lively light in the sky must descend on the road for them to continue onto their work. One might speculate a little further and say that not only must they wait for the light, it is the light that gives their work purpose at all. 

*Canto VII lines 40-63

Atrium With a View

                                         
     In his recent visit to Harvard's Graduate School of Design, well established architect John C Portman shared some of his "advice and wisdom." His signature work is the Hyatt hotel in Atlanta, GA built in 1967. When it opened it was a massive success for himself and the city. In describing it Portman said, "From my office I can go all the way to Frankfurt, Germany, without putting on a coat, or getting wet." Early visitor and Atlanta native Andrew Young remembered it this way in his documentary John Portman: A Life of Building:

"Its neck-craning, 22-story atrium was a completely new idea. Everyone became a country bumpkin when they walked into the Hyatt, you had to say: Oh, my God, what is this?”

      In speaking of his work, Portman calls himself a humanitarian explaining that his works are about the people more than the "things." However, he takes his vision even further:

 “I’m interested in taking the physical world and the individual, spiritual world together,” he said — a holistic vision of architecture that depends as much on Emerson and Toynbee as it does on engineering. “I would like to reset how we look at architecture.”

                              
      It is a bold thing to want to reset architecture, but had anything like this been done before? I think that it is interesting that he refers to Frankfurt for there resides the St Bartholomew Cathedral. This structure was built in the 14th and 15th centuries on the site of an even earlier church from the 12th century. The impressively tall tower has caused it to be dubbed "Frankfurt's first skyscraper." When this was built during the time of the Holy Roman Empire, this massive structure would have had the same humbling effect on villagers who visited but multiplied many times over, possibly causing them to cry out to their God as well. It even has a viewing platform for the public at sixty-six meters. 

     This structure certainly brings the physical and spiritual worlds together, but in an ancient and orthodox method that long predates Emersonian metaphysics. The high vaulted ceilings inspired by the trees, and the magnificent windows allow the experience of the architecture to be merged with the natural world, but it goes further than that. The high vaulted ceilings draw the visitors eyes consistently upward towards the heavens. The tall stained glass portals of that shaded light enhances the experience of the worshiper and tries to bring them closer to God. In fact everything about the architecture draws the eyes upward. 

                     

    
      Portman's impressive architectural victory indeed caused visitors to look upward in amazement at his fusion of natural elements into his building. Indeed, it wasn't long before Portman's designs became widely used and popular. However, long before Portman or Emerson, churches were fusing the natural, spiritual and architectural worlds in a way that still amazes and impresses and leads the eye ever upwards.

The article concerning Portman's visit Harvad's GSD can be found here.