Conceptual art is an institutionalized system of promotion and trade. Period.
Objects traded within that system are called art simply because nobody wants to call them what they really are. Commodities, things, rhetorical solids.
Rhetorical Solids.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Robert Hughes... where did you go?
Robert Hughes was a critical genius, which he made evident in his use of plain language to weave elegant and complex relations between things. He was a writer first, a content expert second… or should I say… a content expert by way of being a writer. He was committed to language as the tool by which to condense complex meanings from observation. That is the essence of poetry, and Hughes was surely a poet of critical thought. The content experts of academia don't (as professional practice) condense complexity from observation. Instead, they explode complexity by reworking existing academic formulations. They don't go back to nature, they don't judge the point at which bone grinds on earth, and they do not grasp the nature of things in themselves. That is for men like Hughes. That is why he is great, and that is why he is so often marginalized and parodied by those who want to locate themselves within the privileges of academia or the art world.
What I appreciate most about Hughes, is that despite however negative his assessment of the current scene gets, he is not cynical about the prospects for art. He is simply strong enough to accept that the entire scene may be missing the larger meanings of art, both historically and personally. Perhaps history will judge him to have missed the point of the current postmodern malaise. Time will tell. But Hughes doesn't hedge his bets, he doesn't waffle on his judgements. That takes courage, commitment, belief, judgement. Balls.
The emperor of culture is indeed naked. But knowing that is not enough. If one then follows that observation with endless railings against the cultural hegemony that underwrites the yes-man-ism of the emperors courtesans, then one is falling into a counter-punching relationship with a social power that has no historical or moral authority. Calling out such bankruptcy, and throwing some punches at it is necessary. But to engage in an perpetual analysis of the emperor's nudity is to (unwittingly, and by implication) sanction it and give it relevance. I don't know where to draw that line. It isn't always obvious, and the persistence of said nudity seems to require endless rebuttal arguments, lest our silence be confused with acceptance.
But the talking does need to end at some point. This is difficult for the critic, I suppose, whose very purpose is to carry on discourse. But for artists themselves, the critical engagement can end. The emperor and his cultural context can be called out, critiqued, and rejected. An opening can be clawed out thusly… an opportunity for an alternative. But nature abhors these vacuums, so unless one is ready to fill that space with something else, that big pile of bullshit will just slough back down and burry these efforts.
We fill that space with positive proposals, with new theories, by championing things that make sense, and by making art that makes sense. Hughes is inspirational on this point. At the end of his critical writings, or at the end of his video segments, when he looks into the camera and summarizes so clearly, and draws us into the confidence that rational men share… one can feel very primed to break free from all the troubling errors of the world. Hughes is already there. He passes judgement, turns away from the camera, and is done. We should be as brave.
The significance of Hughes is not simply what he says, but the way he says it, and the quality of the man behind these things. If the medium is the message, then Hughes was truly a message unto himself, the literal embodiment of the courage to draw the conclusion, and to move on. He is bigger than all the wrong ideas he sees so clearly. He is bigger even than his own opinions, great as they are, tied to his character, yet like all living things, they tremble in the cold light of day. His content and his medium are one. But whereas the content of any man's life must end, the lessons of his medium (his character) go on.
The sadness of the critic, so isolated in time, is that his course may be run whence he has so clearly understood these things. The endgame outlasts their prime, rendering them easy targets to the new breed eager to make their reputations by picking the bones of the old. But such derivative musings soon fade, leaving the world hungry for something real... and maybe the spirit of Hughes can reincarnate in the form of someone with intelligence, wit, and honesty. We shall see, I hope.
But the artist only moves forward, and must, else surrender the field to the very thing Hughes revealed. If the artist wants to honor the idealism of Hughes and react against the bullshit of cultural hegemons, then they must act like a man. They must have the courage to construct something, to assert it, and then step back and let it breath. Like Hughes himself… know it, say it, and then be still.
What I appreciate most about Hughes, is that despite however negative his assessment of the current scene gets, he is not cynical about the prospects for art. He is simply strong enough to accept that the entire scene may be missing the larger meanings of art, both historically and personally. Perhaps history will judge him to have missed the point of the current postmodern malaise. Time will tell. But Hughes doesn't hedge his bets, he doesn't waffle on his judgements. That takes courage, commitment, belief, judgement. Balls.
The emperor of culture is indeed naked. But knowing that is not enough. If one then follows that observation with endless railings against the cultural hegemony that underwrites the yes-man-ism of the emperors courtesans, then one is falling into a counter-punching relationship with a social power that has no historical or moral authority. Calling out such bankruptcy, and throwing some punches at it is necessary. But to engage in an perpetual analysis of the emperor's nudity is to (unwittingly, and by implication) sanction it and give it relevance. I don't know where to draw that line. It isn't always obvious, and the persistence of said nudity seems to require endless rebuttal arguments, lest our silence be confused with acceptance.
But the talking does need to end at some point. This is difficult for the critic, I suppose, whose very purpose is to carry on discourse. But for artists themselves, the critical engagement can end. The emperor and his cultural context can be called out, critiqued, and rejected. An opening can be clawed out thusly… an opportunity for an alternative. But nature abhors these vacuums, so unless one is ready to fill that space with something else, that big pile of bullshit will just slough back down and burry these efforts.
We fill that space with positive proposals, with new theories, by championing things that make sense, and by making art that makes sense. Hughes is inspirational on this point. At the end of his critical writings, or at the end of his video segments, when he looks into the camera and summarizes so clearly, and draws us into the confidence that rational men share… one can feel very primed to break free from all the troubling errors of the world. Hughes is already there. He passes judgement, turns away from the camera, and is done. We should be as brave.
The significance of Hughes is not simply what he says, but the way he says it, and the quality of the man behind these things. If the medium is the message, then Hughes was truly a message unto himself, the literal embodiment of the courage to draw the conclusion, and to move on. He is bigger than all the wrong ideas he sees so clearly. He is bigger even than his own opinions, great as they are, tied to his character, yet like all living things, they tremble in the cold light of day. His content and his medium are one. But whereas the content of any man's life must end, the lessons of his medium (his character) go on.
The sadness of the critic, so isolated in time, is that his course may be run whence he has so clearly understood these things. The endgame outlasts their prime, rendering them easy targets to the new breed eager to make their reputations by picking the bones of the old. But such derivative musings soon fade, leaving the world hungry for something real... and maybe the spirit of Hughes can reincarnate in the form of someone with intelligence, wit, and honesty. We shall see, I hope.
But the artist only moves forward, and must, else surrender the field to the very thing Hughes revealed. If the artist wants to honor the idealism of Hughes and react against the bullshit of cultural hegemons, then they must act like a man. They must have the courage to construct something, to assert it, and then step back and let it breath. Like Hughes himself… know it, say it, and then be still.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Head of a child
Of what beauty I saw there
In that cheek and chestnut hair
A glimpse if that to make my way
And faded light to scrape the floor
Withholding breath for what's to come
With falling leaves what's done is done
But still in all as time has shown
As other world's have come and gone
Our dreams of each other
Are held in reserve
To explain who we are
"Head Of A Child", Picasso, 1896
In that cheek and chestnut hair
A glimpse if that to make my way
And faded light to scrape the floor
Withholding breath for what's to come
With falling leaves what's done is done
But still in all as time has shown
As other world's have come and gone
Our dreams of each other
Are held in reserve
To explain who we are
"Head Of A Child", Picasso, 1896
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Barnes Foundation: New vs. Old vs. Whatever
Is it possible to find fault with the new Barnes without rhapsodizing
the old?
The Merion location was unquestionably less accessible, and the process for gaining admittance seemed intentionally obscured to discourage visitation. Once there, the process of parking and getting into the collection was overseen by a band of Blue-Hairs and Mainline types trying to substitute elocution and neat handwriting for efficient management.
So puh-lease, don’t glorify the stodgy, dusty, old Barnes.
Having said that, I do agree that the new Barnes is an uninspiring tourist attraction, created by the one-percenters as a feather in their civic caps. I too find the entrance confusing and oddly cramped behind the gigantic doors that have a very tight turning radius, thus requiring significant heft to open.
It’s unfortunate that there is no “front door” onto the grand Benjamin Franklin Parkway, as a front door onto a grand boulevard would be in keeping with grand boulevard logic in general. Why put a museum on a grand boulevard, and have the entrance on a side street?
I also agree that the museum should have just re-engineered the space to show the works in more conventional ways, so that I don’t have to crane my neck to see paintings that are 9 feet off the ground, simply because that was the best spot for it in the over-crowded mansion. There can be no doubt that the ensemble arrangements of Dr. Barnes… though thoughtful and educated in their conception… are not bigger than the works themselves, nor bigger than the alternate arrangements that scholars of future generations may require. The pompous, unquestioned regard for these arrangements is nauseating, and you have to hear it intoned repeatedly at the Barnes if you are unlucky enough to be within earshot of guided tours.
Here’s a fun fact that supports the supposition that art museums are simply playthings of rich, with only lip service to any deeper meanings. The fact is… you CANNOT DRAW or SKETCH in the Barnes galleries. This is an absurdity, especially considering that all of the artists in the collection would have regularly visited museums and drawn from the masters. To disallow it in the Barnes is to ignore the history of art education… and this from a supposed master of art education.
A principle conceit of the Barnes is that they presume to have the authoritative approach to educating the public on how to view and understand the art in the collection. Having “A Way” to understand something is fine… the more the merrier… but to claim to have “The Way” is disturbing. It announces an institutional insularity that is inconsistent with the ongoing efforts of hundreds of other intellectuals and institutions.
The only good thing about the Barnes Foundation is the art itself. The non-conformist Barnes (relatively speaking, for an industrial millionaire) imbued his foundation with an authoritarianism and exclusivity (albeit non-conformist exclusivity) that have cultivated (over time) a stale culture of maintaining the dream of a dead man, wherein the great art has been viewed an accessory to Dr. Barnes success in collecting it.
Organizational ruin was inevitable given the stakes involved, and the resulting New Barnes tourist site is a fitting memorial to the money and power that usurps all other values in this society.
The Merion location was unquestionably less accessible, and the process for gaining admittance seemed intentionally obscured to discourage visitation. Once there, the process of parking and getting into the collection was overseen by a band of Blue-Hairs and Mainline types trying to substitute elocution and neat handwriting for efficient management.
So puh-lease, don’t glorify the stodgy, dusty, old Barnes.
Having said that, I do agree that the new Barnes is an uninspiring tourist attraction, created by the one-percenters as a feather in their civic caps. I too find the entrance confusing and oddly cramped behind the gigantic doors that have a very tight turning radius, thus requiring significant heft to open.
It’s unfortunate that there is no “front door” onto the grand Benjamin Franklin Parkway, as a front door onto a grand boulevard would be in keeping with grand boulevard logic in general. Why put a museum on a grand boulevard, and have the entrance on a side street?
I also agree that the museum should have just re-engineered the space to show the works in more conventional ways, so that I don’t have to crane my neck to see paintings that are 9 feet off the ground, simply because that was the best spot for it in the over-crowded mansion. There can be no doubt that the ensemble arrangements of Dr. Barnes… though thoughtful and educated in their conception… are not bigger than the works themselves, nor bigger than the alternate arrangements that scholars of future generations may require. The pompous, unquestioned regard for these arrangements is nauseating, and you have to hear it intoned repeatedly at the Barnes if you are unlucky enough to be within earshot of guided tours.
Here’s a fun fact that supports the supposition that art museums are simply playthings of rich, with only lip service to any deeper meanings. The fact is… you CANNOT DRAW or SKETCH in the Barnes galleries. This is an absurdity, especially considering that all of the artists in the collection would have regularly visited museums and drawn from the masters. To disallow it in the Barnes is to ignore the history of art education… and this from a supposed master of art education.
A principle conceit of the Barnes is that they presume to have the authoritative approach to educating the public on how to view and understand the art in the collection. Having “A Way” to understand something is fine… the more the merrier… but to claim to have “The Way” is disturbing. It announces an institutional insularity that is inconsistent with the ongoing efforts of hundreds of other intellectuals and institutions.
The only good thing about the Barnes Foundation is the art itself. The non-conformist Barnes (relatively speaking, for an industrial millionaire) imbued his foundation with an authoritarianism and exclusivity (albeit non-conformist exclusivity) that have cultivated (over time) a stale culture of maintaining the dream of a dead man, wherein the great art has been viewed an accessory to Dr. Barnes success in collecting it.
Organizational ruin was inevitable given the stakes involved, and the resulting New Barnes tourist site is a fitting memorial to the money and power that usurps all other values in this society.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Composition & Perspective
My drawing has taken another one of those mysterious steps forward. A big part of this improvement is my recent discovery (while in Europe) that to situate figures (or any object) in a landscape, one must first compose the landscape on the page, and place the figure within it. To make the figure the sole focus of the drawing is to NOT SITUATE the figure in relation to anything else, making the figure a portrait or a study, but probably not a composition.
This last point is becoming increasingly clear to me… the need to make a composition. Certain things arise in making a coherent composition that do not arise in making studies. First, one must consider the relation of the overall space to the more specific objects within that space. Second, one must consider perspective. Not simply linear perspective as usually understood (i.e., making houses and fences look like they recede)… or aerial perspective as usually understood (reducing tone and color saturation as objects recede). Instead, I'm thinking of perspective in the broadest possible way… as in… how does the visual field relate to myself.
The visual can relate two ways… first, in terms of visual perception (how do the objects appear to my vision)… and secondly, in psychological terms (what do these objects mean to me). These two things are related, as the ability to access psychological meanings is related to the ability to understand how things appear to you visually (visual perspective, so to speak). This seems intuitively true, as whenever we draw something well, we feel a connection to the drawing. We might think that that success of such a drawing magically derives from out connectedness the subject matter of the drawing….but I think that our connectedness to it derives first from our ability to draw it in the first place.
The kind of visual perspective required to make compositions (vs. studies) is important. To seriously persue visual perspective requires certain basic structures be enforced in a drawing. This might all seem trivial, but I think they are not so much trivial as they are fundamental… and like all fundamentals, they are easily overlooked… and the resulting works become unhinged. The first fundamental is the establishment of a horizon line. Without this, one can easily lose track up what is up and what is down. This is probably not a problem in figure studies and portraits and other such close-up work, where the object is not integrated into a visual space. But if you try to construct larger spaces, and to represent complex spatial relations, you must know what is above your eye line, and what is below.
It is not necessary to literally draw the horizon line (obviously), though it is useful to do so in the beginning of the drawing. I realize that doing so seem silly to a more experienced draftsman, who is (in a sense) beyond such rudimentary techniques, and can probably maintain a horizon line instinctively in their minds. But I have to wonder how many people can actually do this consistently… or how many people can render complex spatial relationships without such techniques.
I suspect many people begin their drawing by focusing on an object of interest and drawing it, and then fitting other things around it. These "other things" end up being the space in which the object is located… i.e., the context of the drawing. Such drawings are (in a sense) done in reverse… where the space is constructed AROUND the object, rather than the object being place WITHIN the space. The difference between these two approaches may not be very apparent in the finished work.
For example, if I draw a bottle sitting on a table top, I can approach it in either of these two ways. I can draw the table top and the surrounding space, and then situate the bottle on top of it. Or, I can draw the bottle, and then draw the table-top and surrounding space. The two drawings might be very similar… BUT… if I draw the space first, I am able to consider MANY possible relationships from the beginning, whereas if I prioritize the bottle by drawing it first, I can accommodate FAR FEWER spatial relationships… if for no other reason than that simply by choosing a size of the bottle (at the beginning of the drawing) I constrain the size of all the other relationships, and it is possible that I don't leave enough space for other visual elements to be realized. These unrealized relationships represent possible limits on the drawing.
By focusing on the object of interest, I feel like I a hamstring my drawings from the beginning. The drawing becomes a glorified study, rather than a composition… as the object isn't COMPOSED into a space, but the space retro-fitted around an object. It occurs to me that this has a parallel in personal identity… such as… do we exist in the world, or does the world revolve around us. When we become ego maniacal and demand that the world revolve around ourselves, we limit what we can consider. The ego maniac only considers things that directly relate to themselves at the moment, and therefore cut themselves off from maximum experience. Drawings that proceed from the focus on a single object have the same problem… they are egomaniacal drawings, so to speak.
At any rate, I suppose both approaches are valid, but I know for sure that taking the OVERALL approach is necessary for making the kinds of large narrative type paintings one might admire. When I see the David paintings, the Gericault paintings, and the Delacroix paintings in the Louvre… I know for a fact that I am looking at visual constructions of high complexity. I think to myself… "How does one get to that level of composing ideas?". It's tempting to think that their paintings result from some SUPER DRAWING SKILL and SUPER PAINTING SKILL, wherein they make things LOOK REAL. And while they do have high level drawing and painting skills, that is not what their paintings are fundamentally about.
Their paintings are fundamentally about composed elements… and those composed elements are realized through an appropriate level of drawing and painting skills. The more that one can draw and paint, the more things can be coherently incorporated into the composition. Consider Holbein's "The Ambassadors", with two richly clad figures standing on either side of a table that contains many symbolically important objects. Such a composition is not possible without the ability to draw and paint the many detailed elements of the painting. If Holbein's skills were less richly detailed, he would have to do a different composition. This is not to say that detailed painting is required to do great compositions… but some level of proficiency is required, otherwise visual elements cannot be rendered, leaving one fewer and fewer things to work with. After all, you need to have actual things you can represent and relate. At the very least, one's drawing and painting skills need to be appropriate to the ambition of the composition.
Without content, one is hard pressed to created meanings through composed associations. That's actually a good definition of composition… COMPOSED ASSOCIATIONS. You compose the associations of visual elements in order to convey some intended meanings. Without content (visual elements), you end up on the far abstract end of the spectrum, like Rothko, where you compose in color blocks. One can argue that Rothko's compositions are beautiful and meaningful… but the beauty and meaning of such works derives NOT from an expression of the intellect as it relates to the specifics of the visual world, but to unconscious associations between formal elements of line, color, shape, etc. Such highly abstracted relationships are not invalid, but I do not think they serve to purpose of expressing meanings directly, in the way that representational compositions can.
It is not necessary that one work in the styles of Gericault, or David, or Delacroix… or to use their subject matter. The issue is more fundamental than that. The issue is… how can one construct visual meaning in representational work. That meaning can be narrative, it can be symbolic, it can be allegorical, it can be whatever… but whatever form of meaning one pursues, it must be presented inside of the space of the painting in terms of composed elements.
I was talking earlier of the need to establish a horizon line, for the simple purposes of keeping track of what is above and below the eye level. But I've noticed something more than that… that the horizon line is necessary for projecting a ground plane… and for coherently establishing major shapes upon that ground plane. Imagine Gericault's "Raft of the Medusa". There are figures above the horizon line and below it, and they are pitched and tilted in complex relations… all of which are themselves related to the plane of the raft, which has it's own perspective. The point of this example isn't to exalt Gericault's draftsmanship, but to point out that the composition (composed elements) require that VISUAL PERSPECTIVE be established and maintained consistently throughout the painting. Without such discipline, not only couldn't all the complex figures be rendered.. BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY… the composition could not be realized. A figure draftsman might be able to draw each of the figures individually, but to have them all composed together into a coherent space is a different issue.
This is my big point… that composition relies on perspective. We tend to think that perspective is simply a rudimentary drawing device… and it is. But it is also a compositional device, and it is a compositional device first. This is where drawing and composition blend together. To talk about drawing and composition as distinct things is something of an artificial distinction. The term composition is usually considered to be some highly abstract idea of the painting, whereas drawing is considered to be the way in which such a high abstraction is realized. But composition is really the arrangement of space and the visual elements in that space. It might begin in the imagination and in abstract notions, but it takes shapes by a consideration of the rectangular canvas, and of the projection of space within that rectangle. In other words, it takes shapes through the establishment of a visual perspective system that is unique to each painting. Such a system sets up and establishes the drawing, so much so that I would call it the meta-drawing. Once established, the drawing takes place within that compositional structure.
I'm sure this sounds very longwinded and tortured and hopelessly idealistic. But I don't think it is. It might be longwinded to explain, but the realization of these ideas is elegant in actual practice. How else can meaningful representational paintings be created?
This last point is becoming increasingly clear to me… the need to make a composition. Certain things arise in making a coherent composition that do not arise in making studies. First, one must consider the relation of the overall space to the more specific objects within that space. Second, one must consider perspective. Not simply linear perspective as usually understood (i.e., making houses and fences look like they recede)… or aerial perspective as usually understood (reducing tone and color saturation as objects recede). Instead, I'm thinking of perspective in the broadest possible way… as in… how does the visual field relate to myself.
The visual can relate two ways… first, in terms of visual perception (how do the objects appear to my vision)… and secondly, in psychological terms (what do these objects mean to me). These two things are related, as the ability to access psychological meanings is related to the ability to understand how things appear to you visually (visual perspective, so to speak). This seems intuitively true, as whenever we draw something well, we feel a connection to the drawing. We might think that that success of such a drawing magically derives from out connectedness the subject matter of the drawing….but I think that our connectedness to it derives first from our ability to draw it in the first place.
The kind of visual perspective required to make compositions (vs. studies) is important. To seriously persue visual perspective requires certain basic structures be enforced in a drawing. This might all seem trivial, but I think they are not so much trivial as they are fundamental… and like all fundamentals, they are easily overlooked… and the resulting works become unhinged. The first fundamental is the establishment of a horizon line. Without this, one can easily lose track up what is up and what is down. This is probably not a problem in figure studies and portraits and other such close-up work, where the object is not integrated into a visual space. But if you try to construct larger spaces, and to represent complex spatial relations, you must know what is above your eye line, and what is below.
It is not necessary to literally draw the horizon line (obviously), though it is useful to do so in the beginning of the drawing. I realize that doing so seem silly to a more experienced draftsman, who is (in a sense) beyond such rudimentary techniques, and can probably maintain a horizon line instinctively in their minds. But I have to wonder how many people can actually do this consistently… or how many people can render complex spatial relationships without such techniques.
I suspect many people begin their drawing by focusing on an object of interest and drawing it, and then fitting other things around it. These "other things" end up being the space in which the object is located… i.e., the context of the drawing. Such drawings are (in a sense) done in reverse… where the space is constructed AROUND the object, rather than the object being place WITHIN the space. The difference between these two approaches may not be very apparent in the finished work.
For example, if I draw a bottle sitting on a table top, I can approach it in either of these two ways. I can draw the table top and the surrounding space, and then situate the bottle on top of it. Or, I can draw the bottle, and then draw the table-top and surrounding space. The two drawings might be very similar… BUT… if I draw the space first, I am able to consider MANY possible relationships from the beginning, whereas if I prioritize the bottle by drawing it first, I can accommodate FAR FEWER spatial relationships… if for no other reason than that simply by choosing a size of the bottle (at the beginning of the drawing) I constrain the size of all the other relationships, and it is possible that I don't leave enough space for other visual elements to be realized. These unrealized relationships represent possible limits on the drawing.
By focusing on the object of interest, I feel like I a hamstring my drawings from the beginning. The drawing becomes a glorified study, rather than a composition… as the object isn't COMPOSED into a space, but the space retro-fitted around an object. It occurs to me that this has a parallel in personal identity… such as… do we exist in the world, or does the world revolve around us. When we become ego maniacal and demand that the world revolve around ourselves, we limit what we can consider. The ego maniac only considers things that directly relate to themselves at the moment, and therefore cut themselves off from maximum experience. Drawings that proceed from the focus on a single object have the same problem… they are egomaniacal drawings, so to speak.
At any rate, I suppose both approaches are valid, but I know for sure that taking the OVERALL approach is necessary for making the kinds of large narrative type paintings one might admire. When I see the David paintings, the Gericault paintings, and the Delacroix paintings in the Louvre… I know for a fact that I am looking at visual constructions of high complexity. I think to myself… "How does one get to that level of composing ideas?". It's tempting to think that their paintings result from some SUPER DRAWING SKILL and SUPER PAINTING SKILL, wherein they make things LOOK REAL. And while they do have high level drawing and painting skills, that is not what their paintings are fundamentally about.
Their paintings are fundamentally about composed elements… and those composed elements are realized through an appropriate level of drawing and painting skills. The more that one can draw and paint, the more things can be coherently incorporated into the composition. Consider Holbein's "The Ambassadors", with two richly clad figures standing on either side of a table that contains many symbolically important objects. Such a composition is not possible without the ability to draw and paint the many detailed elements of the painting. If Holbein's skills were less richly detailed, he would have to do a different composition. This is not to say that detailed painting is required to do great compositions… but some level of proficiency is required, otherwise visual elements cannot be rendered, leaving one fewer and fewer things to work with. After all, you need to have actual things you can represent and relate. At the very least, one's drawing and painting skills need to be appropriate to the ambition of the composition.
Without content, one is hard pressed to created meanings through composed associations. That's actually a good definition of composition… COMPOSED ASSOCIATIONS. You compose the associations of visual elements in order to convey some intended meanings. Without content (visual elements), you end up on the far abstract end of the spectrum, like Rothko, where you compose in color blocks. One can argue that Rothko's compositions are beautiful and meaningful… but the beauty and meaning of such works derives NOT from an expression of the intellect as it relates to the specifics of the visual world, but to unconscious associations between formal elements of line, color, shape, etc. Such highly abstracted relationships are not invalid, but I do not think they serve to purpose of expressing meanings directly, in the way that representational compositions can.
It is not necessary that one work in the styles of Gericault, or David, or Delacroix… or to use their subject matter. The issue is more fundamental than that. The issue is… how can one construct visual meaning in representational work. That meaning can be narrative, it can be symbolic, it can be allegorical, it can be whatever… but whatever form of meaning one pursues, it must be presented inside of the space of the painting in terms of composed elements.
I was talking earlier of the need to establish a horizon line, for the simple purposes of keeping track of what is above and below the eye level. But I've noticed something more than that… that the horizon line is necessary for projecting a ground plane… and for coherently establishing major shapes upon that ground plane. Imagine Gericault's "Raft of the Medusa". There are figures above the horizon line and below it, and they are pitched and tilted in complex relations… all of which are themselves related to the plane of the raft, which has it's own perspective. The point of this example isn't to exalt Gericault's draftsmanship, but to point out that the composition (composed elements) require that VISUAL PERSPECTIVE be established and maintained consistently throughout the painting. Without such discipline, not only couldn't all the complex figures be rendered.. BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY… the composition could not be realized. A figure draftsman might be able to draw each of the figures individually, but to have them all composed together into a coherent space is a different issue.
This is my big point… that composition relies on perspective. We tend to think that perspective is simply a rudimentary drawing device… and it is. But it is also a compositional device, and it is a compositional device first. This is where drawing and composition blend together. To talk about drawing and composition as distinct things is something of an artificial distinction. The term composition is usually considered to be some highly abstract idea of the painting, whereas drawing is considered to be the way in which such a high abstraction is realized. But composition is really the arrangement of space and the visual elements in that space. It might begin in the imagination and in abstract notions, but it takes shapes by a consideration of the rectangular canvas, and of the projection of space within that rectangle. In other words, it takes shapes through the establishment of a visual perspective system that is unique to each painting. Such a system sets up and establishes the drawing, so much so that I would call it the meta-drawing. Once established, the drawing takes place within that compositional structure.
I'm sure this sounds very longwinded and tortured and hopelessly idealistic. But I don't think it is. It might be longwinded to explain, but the realization of these ideas is elegant in actual practice. How else can meaningful representational paintings be created?
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