Why do we make and look at pictures? By pictures I mean paintings, drawings and artists' prints produced by hand. Why do some of us still enjoy the action of deliberately looking at, of studying face-to-face so to speak, two-dimensional artwork made by other men and women? And, perhaps more to the point, why do some people, I amongst them, want to make these objects in the first place? I have asked myself these questions because ever since I was at art school - and before - painting as a 'valid' activity, that is, the making of pictures, has been regarded in some quarters, by some art movements and theorists, as passé, as redundant, as irrelevant.
Live long enough and one will witness the passing of many 'isms', the ephemeral nature of many contemporary theories and ideas, of many attitudes. All the while, the great art galleries of the world are busier than ever, full of people wanting to do something which, as just said, is seen by some as absolutely redundant; leaving aside the very existence of art galleries per se, as even those have been threatened. And, ever since the unfortunate and, to my mind dreary contribution of Marcel Duchamp, there has been a certain section of the 'art world', those who regard themselves as at the forefront of development, which has attempted to turn people* - artists and public alike - away from the enjoyment of pictures and towards the (often incredulous and perplexed) pondering of bits-and-pieces of this-and-that, the obscure meaning of which apparently lends to such things an air of intellectual sophistication (obviously unattainable by the masses); that is, towards works which, cogitated at such a simplistic level, a level of banality so low, so obvious (especially politically-motivated work) as to be an affront to anyone taking the whole activity seriously. The role played by ego - that of the 'artists' as well as that of the various hangers-on - is nowadays such a part of the whole 'industry' that certain of those involved have reached the level of pop celebrity (I won't say whether that level is upwards or downwards), a dubious and dangerous accolade.
But, to return to the original question ... why? Why, notwithstanding all the cultural and social changes which have occurred just in my lifetime alone, why do people still want to make and look at pictures hand-made by other people? And here I stress the term 'hand-made', that is, produced by the manual manipulation of 'stuff' - paint, pencil, ink, etc. - by another human being. One of the charges levelled at people serious about such things, and at museums and art galleries, is that the activity is 'elitist'; elitist is a 'dirty word', a term implying that something is only for the enjoyment or delectation of a select few, a limited group of those 'in-the-know', or perhaps rich enough to participate in such rarefied activities.
Growing up when I did, I could see the reasoning behind such attitudes and, like many of my generation, attempted to accomodate my artistic activity (oh, is that where I should say 'practice?) to such a view. Now things (and I) have changed: I now believe that the true or real enjoyment of art is elitist, but in the sense of being an elitist capacity; it is elitist (if by that term I may signify only certain people rather than certain privileged people) because at a given level, the deep enjoyment of visual art is a possibility for those with a particular turn of mind, with a particular aptitude for the appreciation of such objects. I am not for one moment suggesting that the enjoyment of art is, or should be, restricted to some specific group or other, I am merely stating what I have observed: that deep engagement with art is a natural capacity - as opposed to a prerogative of the wealthy for instance - within some people but not within all. Of course, there are those who choose to inform themselves, to develop a strong interest in, even a passion, for art; but I am referring to those for whom such a passion comes naturally, for whom it is innate.
That said, one can only really talk about one's own enjoyment of hand-made visual artwork. My first experiences of two-dimensional artwork were when I was a very young child and I found myself enjoying enthusiastically the illustrations in various books that were introduced into my home by my parents. These were illustrated story and history books, not art books; but I was, if anything, more captured by the illustrations than by the written content. The next step, one common to many visual artists, was that of copying those same illustrations followed by the desire to invent one's own drawings: that is, to imagine, for example, battle scenes (with lots of gore naturally) and individual particular studies of military dress, weapons and so on (of course, I am describing my own experience and do not presume to suggest that other children, boys or girls, did the same as me). As I grew older, my interest in drawing became an interest in art, that is, I became aware that there was a discipline called Art and that some people spent their adult lives doing what I was doing; I became aware of The Artist!
In my case, the childhood awakening of the 'visual self' was the first step in a life-long process, one which led me to attend art school and then to a brief formal study of art history. But I suppose I could say that my 'learning' and understanding began much later, when I lived in Italy and was 'tempted' from all sides by one form of art or another; naturally, with some rare exceptions, I am talking about 'old' art: ancient Roman, early Christian, Byzantine, Medieval, Renaissance and Baroque (indeed, the gym I frequented in Florence, situated in an old 'palazzo', had Rococo frescos on the ceilings). Interestingly, it was there, in Florence, that I discovered that a very great deal of important art is not in museums but is, rather, to be found in those places for which it was initially made, the churches and monasteries, and secular public buildings. This discovery was critical for my appreciation of the importance of place for the understanding of the significance of a lot of 'old' art.
Perhaps more importantly though was what might be termed the 'deep immersion' afforded by the experience of living in Italy. One became aware of the profound importance of drawing - for Florentine art especially - and of the infinite variety of expression: for instance, an extremely common subject, the Annunciation, could have dozens, if not hundreds, of interpretations (that is, in formal pictorial terms). This might seem obvious but, especially for those coming from 'new world' countries, such a theme as the Annunciation may have formed in the mind as a sort of sclerotic image, that is, one may have developed, as it were, a 'standard' Annunciation; in fact, there are as many differences amongst Renaissance depictions of this subject as there are artists painting - or sculpting - it.
Visual phenomena of many kinds feed me as if they were food: all sorts of things-seen stimulate the same or a similar response as that which I experience when looking at pictures. I can't say whether or not a love of pictures led to a wider appreciation of visual phenomena in general - the landscape, the light on particular buildings, incidental shadows or reflections, the effect of the wind on those things, and so on - or whether that more general appreciation is just part-and-parcel of a particular visual sensitivity. Whatever the case may be, a love of pictures is not an indiscriminate love of anything and everything, quite the contrary; for me, much of what finds its way into contemporary public and private art galleries is a modern version of the old Roman pacifier panem et circenses (bread and circuses): keeping people happy, even supposedly cultured people, with ever more novelty, things which illicit the desired 'ohhs-and-ahhs' but which are forgotten as soon as the next one appears, and often well before. Being entertained is quite different from being a lover of pictures!
Needless to say, many artworks in the past were created basically to amuse and perhaps flatter the individual who commissioned them; these are (or were) often to be found in the homes of, usually, wealthy people, and in the palaces of princes, kings and queens; depending on who it was who required such pieces and upon who executed them, their content, the result, might contain more-or-less of the 'art' element - or more-or-less of the purely decorative element. Much Rococo art for example may be regarded as quite frivolous when compared, for instance, to the Disasters of War etchings of Goya; in fact, there is absolutely no relationship between the two, other than the fact that both may be grouped under the heading 'Art'. Goya's deep and personal experience of the French occupation of his country is light-years away from the comfortable, fundamentally aristocratic ability to surround oneself with a kind of painted fantasy-land. Goya's images of the brutality of war deal in hard facts ('hard' in both senses); the depiction of fairy-like mythical gods and goddesses is, however beautifully or skilfully done, a retreat into a superficiality only certain strata of society could permit themselves.
To return to our original question, why do we make and look at pictures? One answer may be that of René Ricard who said: "Pictures are an extension of the artist's need to see them". From a historical point of view, such an explanation can obviously be applied to much 19th and 20th century art although it is a little problematical when we consider the 'craftsman' status of the 'artist' of earlier periods. Earlier artists were tradesmen employed to perform certain tasks, tasks often amounting to no more than the imitation of what others had done before them. Over the course of many centuries, those tradesman (and sometimes women, as in the case of nuns illustrating manuscripts) eventually moved up the social ladder and gained the epithet of 'artist', implying a certain degree of autonomy (and respect), especially concerning the manner in which they depicted or sculpted their subjects. With the decline of their usual 'client base' - the rich and powerful, in particular the Church - and the gradual rise of wealthy professional and merchant classes, artists obtained, de facto, more-or-less complete independence and therefore freedom: freedom to make their own decisions about what to make and how to make it.
It would seem however, that, even in by-gone times when artists were employed to fulfil the wishes of clients and patrons, the type of individual who elected to become a craftsman-artist (Michelangelo being a classic example) was the same type, in a general sense, who might choose to be a painter or sculptor today. That is to say, a person with a strong natural tendency, a passionate desire even, to make tangible objects which are the result of a combination of idea, invention and manual skill; a sort of transactional fusion, a transmutation of conceptualisation into physical existence, resulting in the visual statement (an object) of the relationship between idea and concrete form. Using Ricard's definition therefore, when artists are free to do what they wish, the prime-mover of why we make art is the will of a certain type of individual in society; the reason we look at his or her products is, initially perhaps, a natural curiosity about what this particular type of individual is up to, this then joined to a personal identification with the given work - if not with the maker him- or herself. This desire to see (and possess) such objects has led to the foundation of 'picture galleries' and museums; here we might recall by the way, that the very word itself, museum, derives from the Greek word for the Muses, the sister-goddesses of the arts and learning, that is, inspiration.
People who have innately the desire to paint pictures or make sculptures can otherwise be described as being inspired to do so; and perhaps, other people who do not see themselves as inspired in this particular way - the visual way - are nevertheless drawn to admire, to enquire into, to enjoy the products of those who are. It should also be pointed out that it is not necessary for everyone to be interested in the arts any more than it is for everyone to be interested in wine or sport. The arts, and maybe painting in particular, are there for those that find them naturally attractive, and that may not be at all times or throughout an entire lifetime. Certainly, the existence, dating back millennia, of cave and rock art in places all over the world would seem to support the notion that art is a natural product of being a human being; that the making of images which reflect the occupations of our minds and bodies is a kind of necessity. If that be true, is it any wonder that 'art' which drifts too far away from that function becomes very quickly tiresome and irrelevant?
An unfortunate recent development in fine art is the need for artists to, as it were, excuse this basic human activity, their own artwork in fact, with 'art-speak' justifications. Currently popular 'concepts' such as 'challenging', 'subverting', 'disruptive' and so on, have found their way into artists' biographies and 'statements'; apparently, the simple desire to paint an image is no longer acceptable 'practice'. In a contemporary exhibition catalogue seen a few days ago, the majority of exhibitors seemingly felt the need to support their visual work, their physical objects, with a certain amount of politically-correct verbiage, establishing thereby it would seem, their social and art-industry credentials! Merely painting a picture is no longer sufficient, it must be accompanied - nay justified - by words, that is, by a different medium. The fact that most of this verbiage is unoriginal mimicking of the currently acceptable ideas is not the point but heaven help anyone who diverges from the present orthodoxy! (Orthodoxy and avant-gardism ... surely that's an oxymoron! Nineteenth-century academicism had nothing on today's gallery hierarchies). For a good part of the 20th century, it was common practice (there's that word again) for painters to hang their paintings on the walls of a gallery and let the viewing public make what it might from looking at the work ... not at the explanation stuck on the wall beside the picture which, in those times in any case, was merely indicative of the subject-matter ('Light-house at Sunset' for instance) together with the name of the artist and the date of the work. A significant aspect of the current malaise is that all sorts of individuals who are not themselves artists (and who often have only a rudimentary grasp of grammar) are, nevertheless, making a career out of precisely this sort of obfuscation; at this point, they are simply writing about writing and are so far removed from actual pictures that the understanding and sheer enjoyment of them is beside the point.
My feeling is that if an 'artist', art commentator, gallery director or curator, art historian or critic wants 'challenging', he or she should take him-or-herself off to various parts of Africa, Asia, the Middle East or Central and South America to find out what 'challenging' means in real life! Surely by now we know that, compared with the real life-experience of many millions of people, to invoke words such as 'challenging', 'confronting' or 'subverting' in an art context - not to say an artistically barely literate, middle-class one - is just so much intellectual (and not very, mind) self-abuse ... as religious people used to call it!
* This trend has even entered many art schools (universities, I beg your pardon) so that, today, 'art' students no longer learn to make pictures but are, let's say informed (or 'indoctrinated'?; no, that's something which happens at high-school level ... and in totalitarian states) about all sorts of social and political concepts and about the most appropriate ways to express 'their' opinions. Of course this is all nonsense: what students need are the skills and techniques traditionally ascribed to artists (be they painters or sculptors) and to be allowed to observe the world and arrive at their own conclusions about what they want to express and how they want to do it. Contemporaneously, the very word 'artist' has become so debased that some now much prefer to describe themselves using the humbler term 'painter' or 'sculptor' or 'printmaker', rather than the ubiquitous and all-encompassing (thus meaningless) one of 'artist'! To be fair, I was recently surprised on a visit to a local art school (opps, there I go again! university!) to discover that some students at least were actually using brushes and paint on canvas; perhaps there is some hope! On a probably irrelevant historical note, I don't believe that Giotto, Donatello, Piero della Francesca, Leonardo, Verrocchio, Bartolomeo della Gatta, Michelangelo, Raphael, Artemisia Gentileschi, etc., etc., etc. had university degrees; just think how much better their work would have been had they had one!
Note: all images painted and photographed by the author who claims and reserves copyright.
I need to catch my breath after this, brush up on some terminology & then I will be more lucid. Cheers. Leonie
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