Flesh and Francis Bacon

There is nothing pretty about humanity in Francis Bacon's art. For him, we are no different than animals, always scratching and clawing to satisfy the needs of our flesh.

No madonnas here with mothers adoringly looking at offspring. No next generation on the horizon, at all. Bacon depicts sex, but not for procreation. God is not going to save us from our lower instincts and take us to a higher plane.

No wonder Bacon's pope is screaming (left). His purple ecclesiastical garb cannot protect him from howling in pain: The pain at knowing that Homo sapiens will do whatever it takes to live during our short interlude and then we die, subject to the decay of all biological creatures. Morality and purpose in life seem to be nonexistent to Bacon.

Bacon's relationships also do not escape brutal depiction. In the double portrait of George Dyer, Bacon's lover from 1964 to 1971, (above right), a grey business suit gives the illusion of respectability. But Dyer smokes, driven by addiction, and underneath his garb, as seen in the mirror image within the painting, is his pink skin, muscle and skeleton, writhing, even though he is just sitting. Three years after this portrait was painted 1968, Dyer commited suicide on the eve of a Bacon retrospective in Paris.

Bacon's work is pure id, violence and survival of the fittest, without a hint of altruism. Except Bacon did give us a gift: He created an art that shows us some truth about ourselves.

The Francis Bacon (1909-1992) retrospective with 63 other paintings runs at the Metropolitan until August 16, 2009.

(Pictures courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art: Left, Head VI, 1949, Oil on canvas, 36 11/16 x 30 1/8 in. Arts Council Collection, Southbank Centre, London, © 2009 The Estate of Francis Bacon / ARS, New York / DACS, London; Right, Two Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer, 1968 Oil on canvas, 77 15/16 x 58 1/16 in. (198 x 147.5 cm) Sara Hildén Foundation / Sara Hildén Art Museum, Tampere, Finland, ©2009 The Estate of Francis Bacon / ARS, New York / DACS, London.)

1934 Depression Era Art Resonates Now

(Washington, D.C.) -- Between December 1933 and June 1934, in the first U.S. government program to provide direct support to the arts, 3,750 artists traveled the country to portray the “American Scene.”

It was the Great Depression. Unemployment was rampant. American confidence was shaken. Food was scarce. But the artists saw beyond the economics. They portrayed an America, still rippling with a muscularity in its people, landscapes, buildings, industries and cities.

That brawniness of America even under challenging circumstances is a physical and spiritual presence at “1934: A New Deal for Artists,” an exhibition at the Smithsonian American Art Museum of 56 paintings from the Public Works of Art Project (PWAP) on the 75th anniversary of its creation. Fifteen thousand artworks were produced in the program, costing $1.3 million.

The artists helped shape a narrative of the value of hard work, perseverance and community for the nation as it hoped to overcome the hardship of the Depression. The artists weren’t told what to paint but knew their works would get public display.

In fact, President Franklin D. Roosevelt hung 32 paintings in the White House, seven of which are in the exhibition. Another 130 paintings hung in the Department of Labor Building and 451 in the House of Representatives Office Building. Building on PWAP's success, other New Deal programs gave artists opportunities to paint murals in federal buildings and the Works Progress Administration supported writers, musicians, actors and artists from 1935 until 1943.

The aesthetic of the paintings in "1934" is deemed Social Realism, an art movement of the early 20th century that depicts working class activities as heroic, social and racial injustice and the economic hardships people face. While some of the artists may have had socialist leanings, their works are distinct from Socialist Realism, the official art of communist Russia. Both are similar in honoring the common man, but America’s social realists probably had more choice in what they painted and could criticize the status quo.

Above are three examples of the exhibition's paintings, all 56 of which can be seen on a Flickr site put together by the museum. The portrait of an old woman in “The Farmer’s Kitchen” by Ivan Albright (above left) shows the burden of life she bears and has beared, more than words can ever describe. Yet even given that hardship, she does her chores and peels her radishes. As do workers building the Golden Gate Bridge during the height of the Depression, even though they are physically absent in Ray Strong’s painting (above right), which Roosevelt hung in the White House.

Leo Breslau’s “Plowing” (below) is an idyllic landscape of a farmer plowing his field. The notes say Breslau never left his Brooklyn apartment to paint this picture, but instead relied on his imagination. They continue:

"What could be farther from the despairing of breadlines in Depression-era New York City or the Dust Bowl than this green, rustic realm where honest work is richly rewarded? The farmer, raising a new crop, offers hope for the nation.”

All the paintings in "1934" likewise offer hope to the nation today as we struggle through a new hard times. America got through that period and presumably will get through this difficulty.

Yet, the exhibition raises many art historical questions, such as how did the artists manage after they lost government support? What was the selection process in determining which artists would get support? Why did so many of them seem to paint from a similar “school of art”? What were the political ideologies of the artists and how did they influence their works? How did these PWAP works influence other artists, whose names we actually recognize and are in museum collections?

And, finally what would artists today paint given a similar mission as those from PWAP?

The exhibition runs through January 3, 2010.

(Images courtesy of the Smithsonian American Art Museum.)

"Younger than Jesus" at the New Museum

I wondered as I took the subway from the Upper West Side to the Bowery's New Museum if I would relate to the art at its "Younger than Jesus" show, which features works from 50 artists from 25 countries who are younger than 33, the age at which Jesus died.

As someone older than Jesus at his demise, would I appreciate the cultural and historical references of artists all born after 1976? Would I even care about what they were saying? Would the art in this exhibition, the first of the museum's to explore such a generational exploration, "transcend" its temporal framework?

As the Beatles said, yeah, yeah, and yeah. Without question, this crop of artists is asking relevant questions about identity, society, and how we got to be where we are in this moment in time, as other artists who came before them have asked of their moments.

There were works about power, AIDS, insane consumerism, destroyed environments, family dynamics, truth and illusion in images, life's meaning and life's sensations, among other important ideas.

Generally, photographs, videos, technology, site installations--and very few paintings--expressed these themes. Many works were actually quite disturbing, such as mutant cyborgs seemingly emanating from a global warming Armageddon, or screeching youngsters engaged in hateful acts in videos, or a drugged model sleeping in a bed under a white comforter while viewers observed. That's okay. Sometimes you have to scream, even silently, to be heard.

Three somewhat more reserved artists, however, resonated with me. Ahmet Ogut's staged photographs that seemed "real" provoked the proverbial question about whether we can trust what we see, especially now when we are bombarded by so many images. His pictures all seemed perfectly plausible--a woman delivering Turkish tea on a bicycle (see photograph upper left); young students without socks in a gymnasium with a loner sitting by himself; someone carrying lots of gear on a skateboard; and two girls walking in the cold and connected by a scarf. But they were completely artificial.

Liu Chang's three site installations of possessions he bought from three people ask how what we carry and wear may determine who we are. (Right.) Akin to traditional portrait paintings that depict the accoutrements of a person's profession, Liu's displays of clothing, cosmetics and cell phones reveal three people at a particular moment, maybe even their last, in time.

Finally, approximately 40 drawings made by artist Katerina Seda's grandmother two years before the elder woman's death were extremely moving. Seda pushed her grandmother to draw pictures everyday of objects (left) she could remember from the housewares store where she had worked before retiring. The older woman had been depressed and Seda hoped drawing would help her overcome a sense that her life hadn't mattered.

Vanity of vanites, all is vanity. What meaning is there for any of us? And do the experiences that define a generation, such as AIDS or the Berlin Wall coming down, make the people who lived through that time see themselves as different or related to history before and after them.

"Younger that Jesus," which runs until July 5, 2009 gives a range of answers to those questions.

(Images courtesy the New Museum.)

From postcards to digital photography

An argument can be made that there is a direct aesthetic and philosophical connection between the early 20th century postcards collected and appreciated by photographer Walker Evans (1903-1975), which are now on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and digital photography today.

The postcards (above left  of Santa Fe station, and below, a birdseye view of Lincoln, NE) which Evans liked because they presented scenes of America in a direct and artless quality, are similar in manner and intention to pictures people take every second, at this point, when they travel throughout the world.

First, let's discuss the postcards. During his life, Evans collected about 9,000 postcards, which the photographer meticulously organized into different genres, such as factories, automobiles, street scenes or New York venues. Evans also wrote articles about his postcards in 1948 and 1964 for Fortune Magazine, where he worked as an editor, and even lectured at Yale about them in 1965, before he took a faculty position there.

The Metropolitan exhibition, called "Walker Evans and the Picture Postcard," offers about 700 of his postcards, organized around his themes and, on the entry wall, for the monumentality in their smallness and similarity. The exhibition also shows how in 1936 he transformed several of his New Deal photographs, by cropping them, into the postcard format. (Above right is one of those images.) The results ultimately led to his first retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art in 1938 and his fame. In 1994, the Met acquired the Evans archive, which contain the postcards, negatives, prints, diaries and other personal effects.

The show’s curator, Jeff Rosenheim, is suggesting by the exhibition that the straightforward nature and anonymous quality of the postcards influenced Evans as a photographer. Evans started collecting the postcards before he actually became a photographer. He valued the postcards’ non-sentimental and documentary nature, which eventually became the essence of Evans’ photographic works. He never aimed to copy the images, per se. There is only one example of Evans reproducing a postcard scene.

To manufacture the postcards in Evans’ collection, which date from the beginning of the 20th century to the 1920s, itinerant photographs would shoot main streets, railroad stations, interesting buildings, hotels, seashores, new technologies, mountains and tourist attractions throughout the United States. From the negatives, printing presses in Germany and in Detroit would print inexpensive postcards, which local towns or merchants would purchase so visiting members of the public would buy them and send the images with cute little notes to family and friends back home when they traveled.

Today, people do exactly the same thing with their digital photographs of the places they visit as people in the past did with postcards. We email a photo or create slide shows so friends and family can watch the pictures on their own computer, with text captions or even voice-overs describing the images. The obvious difference between the postcards and digital photography is that today we can literally put ourselves in the picture. We control the means of expression.

But the democratization of photography started with those postcards and Evan’s co-option of them, one could argue. Evans’ appreciated the postcard form, which informed his vision of photography, that of photographers of his generation and that of all successive photographers and artists. Once Evans made accessible the “beauty” in the ordinary, such an aesthetic became apparent to us all.

What is amazing to me when I scan Flickr or other photosharing sites on the web, is how many digital photographs of staggering beauty and power so-called “average” people are taking. Some are panoramas of nature, while others are snapshots unveiling the character of an urban side street covered with graffiti, or a hotel, or a beach. Even the unusual is captured: such as an airplane landing on water in the Hudson River.

The Metropolitan show of Evans’ postcards, which runs until May 25, provides a historical context for the evolution of photography. What photography will look like in the next hundred years is anybody’s guess. But given the proliferation of social networking, collaboration among people --as in 4 a.m. project and the public-curated show of photography at the Brooklyn Museum --may play a role in photoimagery, at least in the near term. I suspect in the future we will still like buildings, seascapes and escapes from it all. Who knows, though?

(Images courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which owns the copyright for them. Left, Unknown Artist, Santa Fe Station and Yards, San Bernardino, Calif., ca. 1910 Postcard, Photomechanical reproduction, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Walker Evans Archive, 1994 (1994.264.1.2); Right, Walker Evans (American, 1903– 1975) [Detail of Penny Picture Display, Savannah], 1936, Postcard format gelatin silver print, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Purchase, The Horace W. Goldsmith Foundation Gift through Joyce and Robert Menschel, 1991 (1991.1076))