The cornucopia of contrasts afforded by the enigmatic vistas of Los Angeles are no doubt a photographer’s dream, and the work of some of the very best has been collected in the recently published Both Sides of Sunset: Photographing Los Angeles, featuring sharply insightful interpretations of a city where paradox tinged with the surreal lies around every corner. Legends such as Bruce Davidson and Garry Winogrand as well as edgy contemporaries like Alex Prager are just a few of the photographers who have set out to define their visions of what makes LA a place like no other.
The two images shown here capture the unexpected juxtapositions that somehow make perfect sense in a locale known for the fantasies it manufactures; the angularities, if you will, that in their own way shape a metropolis that can be said to be more a state of mind than anything else. John Baldessari’s shot at top, along with its title, is an apt summation of the experience – a metaphorical attempt to bring alignment to imbalance (no matter how long it takes).
Similarly, Dan Lopez – who calls Los Angeles “a virtually endless and ever-changing treasure map of transient landscapes” – manages to imbue the image shown above with an innate understanding of atmospherics and context: it’s compositionally precise, and at the same time, oddly evocative.
Along with so many other photos in Before Sunset, it demonstrates how LA will always defy cliché.
Love, Again: There’s a saying about true love stories never really having an ending, and I thought about that in a very literal sense when I had the chance to see a production of Love Letters, the highly successful Broadway play by A.R Gurney that recently began a national tour with Ali MacGraw and Ryan O’Neal in the lead roles.
For those who may or may not remember, O’Neal and MacGraw starred in a rather famous movie called Love Story, from a phenomenon of a book by Erich Segal (it eventually sold 21 million copies) that came to the screen in 1970. It can be described as The Fault in Our Stars of its time, an all-out tearjerker that immediately created superstars of the two actors who played the protagonists (more due to their physical attractiveness than for their actual acting talents, it should be said).
Seeing the film as a youngster, I would have been hard-pressed to believe I would be watching the pair on a theatre stage 45 years later, obviously a bit weathered for wear, but surprisingly, still with touches of the chemistry that contributed to Love Story’s timeless appeal. As the characters in Love Letters sit at a desk on a barren stage reading correspondence from a relationship that spanned almost 50 years – while never actually looking at each other – it was easy to imagine the Melissa and Andy of the play as senior versions of the Oliver and Jenny of Love Story.
Which proves there’s something to be said for nostalgia. Looking around at the theatregoers, it was pretty clear what the target demographic was for Love Letters, which is essentially designed as a vehicle for past-their-prime stars to pull in audiences who remember them from their heyday. But the writing has its moments (the play, after all, was a finalist for the Pulitzer in 1990) and for the veteran troupers O’Neal and MacGraw it provides some eerily reminiscent allusions that recall scenes from their career-making movie of decades ago.
If, as in the iconic line uttered by MacGraw in Love Story, “love means never having to say you’re sorry,” sometimes it can also mean never having to say goodbye.
“The yellow glistens.
It glistens with various yellows,
Citrons, oranges and greens
Flowering over the skin.”
― Wallace Stevens
In some recent news that caused a bit of concern in art circles, researchers have confirmed that those golden hues so brilliantly used in paintings by Henri Matisse (as well as Vincent van Gogh) have been slowly degrading over the years into dullish, beige-like tones, giving the works a considerably altered appearance since their creation a century ago.
It’s all due to a complicated chemical process involving the pigment known as cadmium yellow (not to be confused with chrome yellow, which falls differently on the color spectrum). Used by artists from the 1880s until the 1920s, cadmium yellow was a popular compound among the Impressionists and Post-Impressionists at the time (though, alas, not Edgar Degas, who once harrumphed, “What a horrible thing yellow is.”) The ramifications of this not-so-mellow yellow debate are not insignificant: “Literally billions of dollars’ worth of art is affected by this chemistry,” said one scientist at the Winterthur Museum in Delaware.
Henri Matisse was, of course, the “master of color” — and naturally, the master of yellow. The intensity of his passion for all things chromatic is captured in several conversations cited in the book, Matisse on Art, an illustrious detailing of the artist’s insights on the subject. In one interview, he talks in gushing terms of a cactus flower in his French garden: “…look how it shines like a burning coal against the grayish green background, like a spider web hanging above thick dark silk!” In another, he speaks of the blue tomatoes that appear in a famed canvas. Why blue? “Because I see them that way, and I cannot help it if no one else does,” he answered. (You go, Monsieur Matisse!)
As for yellow, it’s one of the colors (blue and green being the others), which appears most often in his work. A hue he specifically derived from the blossom of the cactus tree, he considered yellow an abiding and life-affirming symbol.
I wondered about Matisse’s thinking in the use of the color in “Young Girl with a Yellow Sofa,” above (the painting was unaffected by the cadmium controversy, as it was produced in his late career). More than just a splash or a highlight — it’s red that he chose to do that with here, even on the chair itself — the yellow envelops the reclining figure in an almost organic sense. And is it too farfetched to think the patterns on the young lady’s blouse as well as those that appear directly behind her, put together, are reminiscent of cacti? Maybe a stretch, but the artistic mind works in curious fashion, as they say.
“Color acts in the way that music does,” the Cubist Georges Braque once mused. “You put a blob of yellow here, and another at the further edge of the canvas: straight away a rapport is established between them…”
The yellow glistens, in the poet’s words — and it sings, as well.
FOR TODAY’S GENERATION of pop music fans, the initials “JT” may stand for Justin Timberlake. But for those of a certain age, they will always be synonymous with another JT: James Taylor, who – lo and behold – recently scored his first No. 1 album on the Billboard music charts at the age of 67 with Before This World, his first recording of original material since 2002.
With summer now upon us, a deeper meaning to a lighthearted season comes by way of some evocative lines by the great American poet Mary Oliver from her poem, “The Summer Day” — and its challenging conclusion:
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
It’s not often that one runs across an artist who effortlessly bridges the seemingly polar-opposite fields of art and medicine.
When I saw the work of Colombian-born sculptor Santiago Medina, I was immediately captivated not only by the beauty of his pieces, but by the fact that he had a dual career as a physician and radiologist. And even more intriguing was his use of medical technology — in this case, computerized tomography (CT) and MRI scans — to help fashion the sinuous creations that have been featured at notable art-fair venues like Art Basel Miami and Arte America, and installed on the campuses of such exalted halls of higher learning as Harvard, Stanford, and Tufts.
The 51-year-old Medina has a history of forebears in the medical profession, but it was the grandfather who added art to his resume who was an inspiration to his similarly multitalented grandson, who went on to specialize in diagnostic radiology and neuroradiology (otherwise known as brain imaging). At the same time, Medina was building on the artistic training of his youth to pursue his goal of bringing “inert stainless steel to life by creating timeless masterpieces full of light and movement for art lovers.”
Medina cites the abstract painter Wassily Kandinsky, who was also an accomplished lawyer, as an archetype of the unusual path he was to follow, as well as the creative influences of Picasso and Brancusi, and — not surprisingly – the British sculptor Henry Moore, whose spirit can be felt in many of Medina’s monumental sculptures.
Of course, Moore would have been awestruck at the many facets of technology that can now be applied in the creation of art. Case in point is Medina’s distinctive use of digital imaging in the processing of his work. “Using medical imaging as part of my sculpture career and artistic expression arises from the highly sophisticated software that is available for medical imaging, specifically three-dimensional reconstructions,” he commented in a recent e-mail.
“Once I’m done with the initial model for my sculptures in Styrofoam or clay, I scan them primarily with CT, which uses very low-dose radiation, to get images of the surface and inner structures of the sculpture model. I then export these images to a computer station where I use very advanced medical software to generate multiple three-dimensional reconstructions.
“Some of the reconstructions show the surface of the sculpture and others reveal the inner part of the sculpture with its supporting internal skeleton. I can then do multiple renditions of the original sculpture model. Modifications of the original model on the computer can then be recreated using a 3-D printer.”
The idea, Medina says, is to “take my sculptures to a completely new level, which enhances their volumetric appeal and sculptoric form.”
It’s a fascinating example of form following technological function, and in this case, brings new meaning to the phrase “breaking the mold.”
Two extraordinary creative minds, centuries apart, both united in their daring artistic visions. Leonardo da Vinci and Salvador Dalí may not immediately seem the most likely of pairings, but Dalí and da Vinci: Minds, Machines and Masterpieces, an exhibit at St. Petersburg, Florida’s Dalí Museum, brings home similarities in temperament and instinct that are deeper than they may initially seem.
Dalí’s affinity for da Vinci was both lifelong and indelibly felt, from his own version of the The Last Supper completed in 1955, to the “Hommage to Leonardo da Vinci” series, a celebration of inventions throughout the centuries in a portfolio from 1975. (His bow to da Vinci’s breakthroughs in the field of aerodynamics is illustrated in the “Airplane” sketch shown at left.)
Dalí is responsible for one of the more famous of the 20th-Century parodies of the Mona Lisa (to be joined later by reproductions by artists such as Andy Warhol all the way to Banksy). His Self-Portrait as Mona Lisa, at top, is actually an image taken by Philippe Halsman, the renowned photographer and frequent Dalí collaborator. The concept, of course, is sheer Dalí, including the bag of coins that “Mona Dalí” holds in his/her lap. It’s the reason for the eternally enigmatic smile, the artist later said.
(It’s interesting to wonder what Dalí was up to with this spoof, as he curiously later published an article in Art News, “Why They Attack the Mona Lisa,” in which he defended the painting from such caricatures as Marcel Duchamp’sobjet trouvé of the venerated masterpiece, where she’s depicted with a moustache and goatee.)
Ambitious, but with a sense of the whimsical, the Dalí and da Vinci exhibit groups the artists’ mutual themes of interest into several categories, such as Youthful Scientific Dispositions, Invention, and the Power of Mathematics. Dalí’s quasi-obsession with the Italian genius bridged the psychological as well; he was fascinated by Sigmund Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams, a work that one can assume had an outsized influence on the Surrealist movement and its wanderings into the subconscious. For Dalí, another of Freud’s essays, “Leonardo da Vinci: A Memory of His Childhood,” a psychoanalysis of Leonardo as a youngster, was revelatory — details from da Vinci’s youth found their way into the paintings of his adoring acolyte, hundreds of years later.
From early designs for bicycles and helicopters to perpetual-motion machines, da Vinci as inventor would have kept a modern trademark office working overtime. Dalí was no slouch in this department either. Among his out-there creations, not realized in his lifetime: a giant sphere, which would now be described as a sort of hamster ball, that humans could play around in. (As Peter Tush, the Dalí Museum’s curator of education recently quipped, “Now you can find them on Amazon.”)
In Dali’s own words, that were as true for himself as for his Renaissance alter ego: “The one thing the world will never have enough of is the outrageous.”
[Dalí and da Vinci: Minds, Machines and Masterpieces runs through July 26.]