Turkish Protest Art

 Just returned from Istanbul, where artbouillon visited Taksim Square and the adjoining Gezi Park, cites of a major protest against the government of Prime Minister Tayyip Edorgan in Turkey.  The protest began when Erdogan announced plans to converted this area (some of the only greenery in central Istanbul) into a complex that would include a shopping center, a mosque, and building paying tribute to the historic triumphs of the Ottomans.  Protestors occupied the park as demolition began, and then police tried to forcibly remove them with tear gas, water canons, and mass arrests.  This led to riots throughout the country.  Thousands took back Taksim and Gezi, where they remain, celebrating all night.  There has been extensive political vandalism and, amidst all that, some striking spontaneous art, both intentional and inadvertent.  The painted wheels on the overturned car above, go beyond political messages, and turn this remnant of violence into an objet d'art.

Several buses have also been vandalized, and used as barricades to slow down police should they try to assault the occupiers again.  Graffiti-covered and gutted, these have become interactive installations, which any one can enter.  The back of one has an advertisement that has been shattered in what amounts an an anti-capitalist version of pop art.

More overtly anti-capitalist are several ATM machines that have been painted and rendered dysfunctional.  This one has an ugly color scheme, but the neon hues add irony to what is otherwise an anti-aesthetic act of defilement and defiance.

Much greater aesthetic value can be found the the defaced bilboards.  This deconstructed tryptic brings the work of Jacques Villeglé and Raymond Hains to a new level.  Equally impressive was the accidental masterpiece below:

Anarchism and nihilism are expressed throughout Gezi.  This unsubtle message says it all:

Bricks are also everywhere.  Brick paves streets have been dug up in some places to use as supplies for making barricades.  The strewn remains of those efforts create interesting patterns, like a Carl Andre piece after a storm.

In addition to cars and buses, some work vehicles have been vandalized.  Some of these were used to start the park demolition and were commandeered by protestors.  Their enormous iron shovels have been transformed into urban polychrome sculptures.

All these examples come from Gezi and Taksim, but there are also interesting examples of vandal art throughout the city.  Farther afield, the sublimely enhanced construction sign below was close to the Blue Mosque, one of Istanbul's most famous sites, in a more conservative part of the city.  I'm not sure whether these enhancements antedate the events at Gezi.

The Gezi protestors often use images of Atatürk, the leader who modernized Turkey.   Flags, posters, and t-shirts with his image abound.  Ironically Atatürk is also used as a symbol by Erdogan.  Both sides claim to be he heirs to his vision of a progressive, powerful, and secular nation.  Images of Atatürk can also be found in the streets.  This portrait, on a street that leads to Taksim, shows him as a mature statesman.

Best of all was this double portrait, showing Atatürk in his military days, set against a minimalist background.  Appropriate because there are many Atatürks in Turkish public discourse--hero to many sides, each version corresponds to a different conception of how the past indicates a path to the future.

[I dedicate this blog entry to the protestors who are fighting against totalitarian rule in Turkey, including those who have been injured on imprisoned.  Protest art expresses the spirit of hope that motivates and pervades the movement.]

Floating Worlds Revisited

The Japan Society is in the final week of its exhibition, Edo Pop, which explores in the influence of ukiyo-e prints on contemporary art.  The show was co-currated by the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, and the classic prints on display are borrowed from its impressive holdings.  In addition, there are works by ten contemporary artists, from Japan, England, Scotland, the United States, and even a Belgium-based artist from Guadeloupe. The juxtapositions are inevitably unfair to these contemporaries, since the older prints are often so spectacular that their latter day heirs cannot compare.  Still, it is exciting to see the enduring influence of ukiyo-e and it is refreshing to see contemporary artists who draw on Japanese sources without taking their cues from anime and modern manga.

The term ukiyo-e means images of a floating world.  Originating in the 17th century, these prints were mass produced for ordinary consumers, and they depicted the theater personalities, courtesans, mythic tales, landscapes, and the vicissitudes of daily life.  Edo Pop focuses on the final phase of ukiyo-e production, in the 19th century.  The most impressive works are by Hokusai and Hiroshige.  Hiroshige owes a debt to Hokusai, whose work is said to have prompted his own pursuit of art.  A gorgeous Hokusai, in yellow and blue, is shown above.

The show is not thematically unified, though several motifs recur.  Among the nature pictures, we see the compulsory Hokusai waves and (above) views of Mount Fuji.  An even more striking, technicolor mountain by Hiroshige is shown below.

There are also some striking efforts to depict the rain by Hiroshige.  The best of these has a rhythmic echoing of form that anticipates futurists, like Balla.

In addition, there are images of birds, tigers, and other creatures.  I was especially drawn to two fish prints, one by Hiroshige and and another by Kuniyoshi.  Both were students of Utagawa Toyokuni, as was Kunisada, whose work is also on display.  They all took on the surname Utagawa, which can cause some confusion.

 

The exhibit also includes the usual host of actors, courtesans, geisha, and  beautiful people ("bijniga").  There are is even a female impersonator and a male prostitute.  Images of actors and courtesans were banned in the mid 19th century, along with the Tenpo economic reforms.  Forty years earlier, Utamaro, created the image below, called Love for a Farmer's Wife.  Utamaro was famed for his bijinga images, as well as his womanizing, as suggested by Mizoguchi's film Five Women Around Utamaro.

Some of the prints in the show have supernatural themes.  Here is a demon by Hokusai, and a group of supernatural foxes gathering by a shrine at New Year's emitting small red flames.

 

There is an amusing Hokusai showing a worm-like spirit, whose body consists of dinner plates woven together by hair.  Apparently this depicts the legend of a servant who became a ghost after being thrown into a well for breaking a precious piece of china.  The image is remarkably reminiscent the smoking caterpillar in Alice's Adventure's in Wonderland.

Other curious include a image by Hokusai of dancing children dressed too look like vegetation, and some instructions for making shadow puppets by Hiroshige.

Such images show the diversity and invention of traditional ukiyo-e prints.  Sadly, the tradition died out in the 19th century, though it was occasionally revisited in the 20th century by artists such as Ito Shinsui and Hasui Kawase.  Edo Pop does not include these figures.  It jumps ahead to the present, and presents an impressive range recent of ukiyo-e inspirations.

Most orthodox in technique is Masami Teroka, who has been making prints using traditional methods for decades.  At a quick glance, these might be mistaken for old prints, but a closer glance reveals modern themes.  One shows a tattooed woman slurping noodles in the foreground, while a geisha clutches a McDonalds hamburger in the background.  Another shows a kimono clad maiden licking ice cream.

Other artists depart from the ukiyo-e aesthetic a bit more: A Brooklyn-based Japanese tattoo artist, named Aiko designed the entry art for the show (top); a Scott named Paul Binnie makes prints, like the weeping woman below, that are true hybrids between Western and Eastern styles; Narahashi Asko, of Tokyo, took the below seascape photo, which pays homage to Hokusai's Fuji prints.

There are other works in mixed media, paint, and a series of computer generated images, by London's Emily Allchurch, printed on glowing lightboxes.  These artists are drawing on ukiyo-e in inventive ways, and their presence in the exhibition serves as a reminder that great traditions in art need never die.  The greatest gift of Edo Pop, however, is the Edo side, rather than the Pop side.  The classic prints are often reproduced, but seeing them up close is a special thrill.  The prints were made as mass art, and, to that extent disposable, but their value is certainly enduring.  Indeed, the best of these printmakers stand up to the best painters of Europe.  Hokusai's sense of color, line, and design is unsurpassed in the history of art.

In Riga, Poland Meets Flanders

The Baltic states are not on the art map for American and Western European travelers, but perhaps they should be.  Especially Riga, the capital of Latvia, which boasts a beautifully preserved historic city and some of the best Art Nouveaux architecture in the world.  The image below, with an elongated head motif, is from Riga's most photographed building, which was designed by Mikhail Eisenstein, father of the famed director.

Riga also a number of museums.  The main one was closed during my last visit, a week ago, but I found it more of a curio on an earlier trip: three centuries of Latvian artists painting in international styles, but only a handful of standouts (such as the constructivist, Gustav Klutsis and the modernist, Voldemārs Matvejs).  This trip took me to the Art Museum Riga Bourse, which was well worth a visit.  Situated in a gorgeously restored building in the heart of old Riga, the collection includes some impressive minor works from past centuries of Latvian art, as well small collections from East Asia and Egypt.  It also has a grand hall, rich with classical detailing, for temporary exhibitions.  I was lucky to catch a show called "Four Moving Poems" by Lech Majewski.

Majewski is a Polish artist and filmmaker.  He gained initial fame internationally when he wrote the screenplay for Basquiat.  Two years ago, he released a stunning feature called The Mill and the Cross.  Seek it out if you missed it.  The film painstakingly reconstructs Bruegel's painting, The Procession to Calvary.  Using an innovative technique that sets several layers of live-action film against a painted backdrop, Majewski manages to bring Breugel's masterpiece to life.  More than that, he enters into the painting, creating narratives about various characters who appear as anonymous miniature figures in the original painting.  The film is a technical triumph, but it also does much to capture the mood of the time.  We learn, for example, that Flanders had been conquered by Spain, and the red robed horse riders in the painting are actually Spanish soldiers.  The painting is part of the passion cycle, but Majeweski reveals how Bruegel has politicized it, by depicting Christ's Roman persecutors as the occupying forces from Spain.

The exhibition at the Bourse Museum included three large video works in this same style, called the "Breugel Suite," which appeared earlier at the Louvres and the Venice Bienalle.  There are also selections from three other video cycles made over the last ten years.   One screen shows a group of museum goer's reenacting Rogier van der Weyden's deposition.  I was struck by the concept because the art historian, David Freedberg, has used this Rogier painting as an example when arguing that viewers are disposed to spontaneously imitate the actions and emotions depicted in artworks.  I don't know if Majewski knew of Freedberg's work when he created the piece, but it is a remarkable coincidence, if not.  The piece also exemplified Majewski's affection for old northern masters.  In a terrific interview at Arterritory (a Baltic/Slavic/Skandi art blog), he expresses contempt for contemporary art.

Majewski's attitudes toward contemporary art are ironic, since nothing in more au courant than video art.  Still, these works have a classic sensibility.  This is a source of their strength, but they occasionally lack freshness as a result.  All are expertly crafted.  Most of the imagery is original and affecting, but there are occasional lapses.  One showing a woman undressed in the woods and another showing a woman boxing on stage struck me as bit trite.  Overall, however, the artist emerges as an undeniable virtuoso.  A piece called The Roe's Room (last still below) is a visualization of an opera based on Majewski's autobiographical poetry.  Majewski is nostalgic for a time when artists did everything.  Nostalgia is a bit of a liability, but Majewski's best work uses cutting edge techniques to bring his Renaissance aesthetic into modern form.  The Bourse Museum was a perfect setting for this work: an old interior updated.

Vittore Carpaccio, Stillness and Space

Of all the Venetian masters--including Bellini, Mantegna, Giorgione, Titian, Tintoretto--there is none I like more than Vittore Carpaccio.  "Carpaccio?" you ask.  No, not thin meat slices on a plate, but one of the major painters in Venice at the turn of the 16th century.  Better known in Italy, Carpaccio remains something of an unsung hero in the Anglophone world, and, after a recent visit to some of his masterpieces, I'm delighted to sing his praises on artbouillon.

Carpaccio is best-known for his grand multi-figure painting cycles.  The two most important can seen in Venice.  At the Accademia, visitors can find nine enormous canvases that tell the legend of St. Ursula.  Daughter of the British king, Ursula took her new husband, a pagan convert to Christianity, on a pilgrimage to Rome.  On returning, they and their fellow pilgrims, were massacred by the Huns, after Ursula refused the advances of the Hun leader.  The paintings are lavishly detailed and almost formal to a fault.  The three standouts are the panel showing Ursula meeting the Pope, Ursula's martyrdom and funeral, and a depiction of Ursula asleep, having a dream that portends her impending death.  Each shows off a different aspect of Carpaccio's talent.

The Pope panel appeals in large part because of Carpaccio's use of visual repetition (right).  He depicts a group of cardinals in conical hats, beneath raised banners, creating a visual pattern that is at once rhythmic and still.  Another Carpaccio trademark, in the deeply recessed landscape.  Carpaccio has an extraordinary sense of space.  His characters often appear lines up at the front of expansive clearing with extraordinary architectural details and nature scenes in the distant background.

The martyrdom and funeral panel shows a brutal massacre on the left, and a funeral on the right.  The massacre is brutal and grotesque, but retains Carpaccio's sense of stillness.  Ursula kneels, statue-like, ready for the sword.

My favorite panel is the dream.  Another Carpaccio trademark is the empty chamber, with one or two figures.  Ursula's still body is the visual echo of her position in the funeral panel, but the empty space her contrast sharply with the chaos of the martyrdom.  Carpaccio's use of empty space reminds me of Antonio, who famously used emptiness to great psychological effect.  Here, in the serenity of the room, viewers are invited to fill the open areas with images of the coming violence.

Violence is also a theme in another remarkable Carpaccio at the Accademia.  In his Ten Thousand Martyrs of Mount Ararat (below left), Capraccio depicts a ghastly scene, with an army of Roman soldiers on the ground, and trees strewn with dying bodies.  Once again, the violence is presented with classical reserve, with rhythmic repetitions.

Even more impressive than the Accademia paintings are those on display in the Scuola Di San Giorgio Degli Schiavoni.  Here there are several cycles, lining the upper walls, depicting patron saints of the Scuola.  These are my favorite paintings by Carpaccio.  On the west well, we find depictions of St. George.  The panel depicting his conquest over the dragon illustrates, once more, the artist's tendency to  present violent scenes with poetic stillness.  George is on a leaping horse, driving a spear into the dragon's jaws, but the moment is completely frozen, and it is almost impossible to imaging the figures in motion.  We also find repetition and opposition, the vile dragon is the mirror image of the noble horse.  The landscape is classic Carpaccio: an open plain with fantasy architecture on the horizon.

It is also a grizzly scene, strewn with the dismembered parts of the dragon's victims.  Particularly poignant is the naked upper body of a bisected woman, whose final repose, above above a still life of body parts, looks more like a calm sleep.

The east wall of the Scuola hosts my favorite of all Carpaccio's: St. Jerome and the Lion.  While living as a hermit, Jerome tamed the savage beast by plucking a thorn from it's paw.  Upon return, he presents his feline friend to his fellow monks, who scatter in terror.  Visual repetition, dynamic stillness, and expansive space are all used to masterful effect here.

Also charming is the panel showing Jerome's burial: a trademark horizontal body flanked by columns of reverent monks, set against a deep background dotted with exotic trees.

Carpaccio's most famous painting is also in Venice (below left), but at the Correr museum in the St. Marco complex.  When I was visiting it had been temporarily relocated to another exhibition space, to be included, bizarrely in a Manet show.  (That show's most exciting feature was a juxtaposition of Titian's Venus of Urbino and Manet's Olympia, which is bases on the Titian.  Amazing to see these side by side.)  The painting shows two ladies on a balcony, and it filled with subtle doublings: two vases, two doves, two birds with long tail feathers, two shoes, and two adorable dogs (one aggressive, one scared).

Recent scholarship has revealed that this enigmatic work is actually the lower half of a long painting that was split.  The upper register shows a hunting party (above right), and is owned by the Getty Museum.  I combined them here to give an impression of the unified work.  The two ladies are evidently waiting for the hunting husbands to come home.  The combined work reveals this to be another exercise in pictorial depth.  The receding landscape forecasts Yves Tanguy, and has a dreamlike quality that would be appreciated by the surrealists.

Animals are pervasive in Carpaccio's works.  Dogs and birds make frequent cameos, and I have also mentioned Jerome's lion, and St. George with his horse and dragon.  The grizzly detail from the St. George painting also includes a gaping lizard, a micro-reflection of the dragon above, gesturing, perhaps, at the ubiquity of evil. Below the lizard there is also a frog and a snake.  The Jerome paintings include a donkey, horses, deer, and an exotic creature with a long body and a tufted tail.

One of the Ursula panels includes a peacock next to a monkey.  Searching for these hidden critters adds a further layer of enjoyment to the work, and also reveal Carpaccio to be an observant naturalist.  He also seems to be an animal lover.  His dogs sometimes appear to be symbols of fidelity (for example, an elegant canine stands just below St. George in a panel showing his baptism), but sometimes they are mere companions.

The Schiavoni Scuola has a magnificent portrait of Augustine.  This geometric interior is compositionally similar to the one in Ursula's dream, but instead of an angel visiting the main figure, we find a little white dog.  A similar dog also appears discretely in another celebrated Carpaccio painting: The Miracle of the True Cross, at the Accademia (top).  Ostensibly a painting of the old Rialto bridge in Venice, the titular miracle is presented inconspicuously in the upper right: a possessed monk is cured of his madness.  The left side shows gondolas in the grand canal, one of which contains the white dog.

I will end with a final image, which lives, alas, not in Venice but in the spectacular Gameldegalerie in Berlin.  This is a lamentation of Christ, which embodies too of the features so striking in Carpaccio's work.  First, there is the sense of space.  This picture seems to stretch miles, with the main action lined up in the front, and then a layered succession of scenes receding into the picture plane: lamenting Marys, tomb guards in Ottoman regalia, musicians in a hill, ruins, and distant crosses.  Second, we get Carpaccio's stillness: the outstretched Christ, the guards leaning on a stone tomb door, and the lamenters who lean against each other in sullen mourning, rather than flailing in despair.  As with most of Carpaccio's paintings, the lines tend to be horizontal or vertical, creating grid-like composure, and there is a carefully contrived repetition of red accents, trees, and sculls, which give the picture a a rhythmic coherence.  Carpaccio gives us a harmonious world, filled with endless details to explore.  His paintings are not so much seen as entered, and, even when topically dark, one discoverers such profound comfort there, that those who enter will never want to leave.