The Guggenheim Bilbao

The Guggenhem Bilbao

Abstract architecture housing
abstract art,

Some time ago I wrote about the Japanese entry into the museum of contemporary art space race. It's not really a race but there is an element of friendly competition in being the proud owner of such a facility. MASS MoCA in North Adams, Massachusetts, puts the US in first place in terms of voluminous empty space in which such art can be exhibited. The Japanese definitely have the edge in terms of relaxing ambiance and refined sensibilities while in Europe, London has its entry in the form of the Tate Modern, spaciously housed in the old Bankside Power Station. And in the somewhat unlikely city of Bilbao, situated in the Basque province of Spain, the Spanish, in cahoots with the Guggenheim Museum in New York, have what has to be the most visually spectacular entry in this contest. If MASS MoCA looks like something out of the 19th century, while the Tate bears the distinctive markings of the 20th, and the Hiroshima entry looks like something from our 21st century, then the Guggenheim Bilbao would seemingly take its style from the 22nd...or maybe even the 23rd century.




Photo by Didier Descouens

Puppy, 1992, Jeff Koons, found a permanent home in Bilbao in 1997.

The sensual, yet cubist curves of Frank O. Gehry's spectacular architecture make even Frank Lloyd Wright's New York Guggenheim with its daring funnel shape and circular slopes seem downright stodgy by comparison. Inaugurated in 1997 and for a time, home to Jeff Koon's Puppy in its second incarnation, the Guggenheim Bilbao owes much of its existence to some of the same figures responsible for the initial effort in giving birth to MASS MoCA. They were lured to the Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation as a result of their efforts in North Adams, and in Bilbao, found both more money and far fewer bureaucratic obstacles than they'd encountered in the U.S. The Guggenheim Bilbao is, in fact, basically a gussied up MASS MoCA. Unlike the U.S. and England, who found it desirable to recycle existing structures to the demands of Postmodern art, the Spanish, like the Japanese, started from scratch with a new, specially designed facility for such purposes. And in doing so, the Iberian monument to contemporary art reaps the museum architectural award for daring excellence.

Interior of the Guggenheim Bilbao featuring Richard Serraren Denboraren's
Matter of Time, 1994-2005

Bilbao Guggenheim's soaring atrium leaves little doubt that you are entering a work of art.

Though not quite as large as MASS MoCA, Bilbao's 240,000 square feet makes it a respectable second in the space race. Composed of nineteen galleries of every conceivable size and shape, the museum is nothing if not versatile. It's largest hall is some 100 feet wide and almost 400 feet long, a pillarless space larger than a football field including the end zones. Architecturally, one might best describe the complex of galleries, and auxiliary facilities as "sculptural" bearing some resemblance to a flower (abstractly speaking). Huge glass walls, curved walkways, glass elevators, a breathtaking atrium housed in a soaring tower stagger the senses. Stone and titanium compete where glass leaves off to form the gleaming skin of this inspiring work of art designed to house works of art. And unfortunately, like its wrightian older brother in New York, this Guggenheim must also endure the justifiable criticism that it competes unfairly with the very art it's designed to showcase. That's a burden none of the other MoCAs have to bear. But then again, maybe that's not the fault of the museum itself but a weakness of the Postmodern art it contains.

Glass, titanium, stone, just add water and the museum comes to life, from virtually any angle, especially at night and during exceptional weather conditions.

Giotto's St. Francis

 



St. Francis, painted during his
lifetime by an unknown artist.

It is unfortunate, but even among artists, what we know about the history of painting usually begins with Michelangelo and the Renaissance. One would almost think the man must have had to invent the paint brush before he could do his Sistine ceiling. Somewhere in the back of our minds we recall that cavemen daubed around a little, as did the Egyptians, and that a few Roman Frescoes survived Mt. Vesuvius. Then came the so-called Dark Ages, probably so named because we're largely in the dark regarding the events of this era. Of course painters were merely anonymous craftsmen during much of this time and even those whose names we know are mere vague memories from boring art history classes--Cimabue, Duccio, Giotto, Masaccio, etc.



The Homage of a Simple Man, 1290, Giotto

Probably the greatest name from this period was not at artist at all, though his life certainly came to inspire several of them. He was born in 1181 and died some 45 years later near his hometown of Assisi, in central Italy, never having traveled further than Rome in his entire lifetime. Since the year 1280, we have known him as St. Francis, founder of the Franciscan Order of friars; and what we know about him today is largely through the work of two men, a Franciscan monk known by the name, St. Bonaventure, and an artist by the name of Angiolotto, eventually shortened to Giotto. St. Bonaventure (below) wrote the book, The Greater Life of St. Francis, and Giotto illustrated it, not on parchment pages but in fresco on the walls of the church dedicated to the most beloved saint of all times.



St. Bonaventure, 1650-60, Francois Claude

The Church of St. Francis of Assisi is actually two churches, one built atop the other, the lower one, containing the crypt, used by the clergy, while the upper, newer sanctuary is used by the public. It is there where Giotto painted his extensive, 28 fresco panels, preserving in pigment and plaster the highlights of the saint's life. The figures are life-size, each space about fifteen feet square. They depict in chronological order, based on St. Bonaventure's telling, scenes as inspirational as The Homage of a Simple Man (above, right), the first in the series, to the last, miraculous Liberation of Peter the Heretic (bottom). The work began in 1290 and was finished by 1296. Giotto didn't paint every stroke. He had a large, active workshop which traveled with him. The figures are stylized, but more natural than was common for the time. The perspective is awkward, and in general quality of the work from panel to panel is uneven, giving rise to speculation that Giotto may have actually painted only a small part of the series, but the overall design as ones focus moves the length of one wall, around the back, and up the length of the opposite wall, is breathtaking in its scope, obviously the creation of a master artist. One has to wonder who is most responsible for the veneration of St. Francis down through the ages since his death, Bonaventure, Giotto, or the saint himself.

Liberation of Peter the Heretic, 1296, Giotto

 

Graffiti Art

Nothing classy about it.

As in nearly every profession, there is a group known as "bottom feeders". In the Law profession, they're called "ambulance chasers." In show business, we know them as Elvis impersonators. In the retail business they're seen at fair booths where they are sometimes referred to as "slicers and dicers". On TV, they host talk shows where the guests exchange blows  or inhabit "reality" television. In the world of art, they're called graffiti artists. City workers use powerful, abrasive, chemical cleansers to eradicate their work, or simply paint over it. (In which case, ironically, they have prepared a new, blank canvas upon which these subway rats with their cans of spray paint may turn out yet another dastardly masterpiece.)



Kieth Haring, simple lines and symbols.

In 1980, a group of artists, writers, and critics organized what they called the "Times Square Show." The bottom feeders moved up a notch in the art world. The show featured exclusively the work of New York graffiti artists in all their anti-establishment glory. It was held in a former "massage parlor" in (where else) Times Square, an area of city which, at that time, had degenerated into a conglomeration of XXX-rated movie theaters, strip-joints, and pornographic bookstores. Critics disagreed as to whether it debased art or "uplifted" the neighborhood (probably a little of both. Whatever the case, it brought to light a number of very talented (though untrained) artists with a certain rough freshness which the New York art world at the time badly needed.



Unlike Haring, Jean-michel Basquiat looked the
part of the rebellious street punk artist. So did his art.

Two of these were Keith Haring (above, left) and Jean-michel Basquiat (right). Haring, born in 1958, didn't fit the image we have of the New York street punk. His paintings on black photographic paper were actually quite light-hearted and amusing. After making something of a name for himself as a result of the Times Square Show, he took his work into the subways where he worked with chalk on the black panels used to block out obsolete advertising. Basquiat's work was much darker in nature with Caribbean motifs and witty philosophical texts. After the Times Square show, he began studying the work of Picasso and Dubuffet. Like Picasso, his work often had a childlike quality in dealing with various black/ethnic themes. In keeping with his Haitian ancestry, he often painted on crude "wooden canvases" made up of whitewashed slats mounted over a wood frame. Both artists died in their 30's. Neither ever used spray paint.

Philistines, 1982, Jean-michel Basquiat

 

Anna Mary Robertson Moses



Anna Mary Robertson Moses,
December, 1953, the matron
saint of Christmas art.

When we think of Christmas we summon up a host of beautiful images--Nativities, Santas, greenery, carolers, even the hustle and bustle of gaily decorated department stores filled with harried last-minute shoppers. On a quieter note, the holiday brings to mind the solemn stillness of deep, blue, snowy winter nights--silent nights. It brings to mind lovely New England snowscapes, of busy little New Hampshire villages teeming with children, playing in the snow, sled-riding, skating, and the musical jingle bells on a one-horse open sleigh. It brings to mind Anna Mary Robertson Moses. She lived in upstate New York and embroidered pictures with yarn until neuritis and failing eyesight forced her to give up needlework in favor of painting.

Catching the Turkey, 1940, Anna Mary Robertson Moses, one of her earlier pieces.

Her exposure as an artist was limited for many years to local county fairs where her paintings were displayed next to her canned preserves. She was discovered by collectors in the late 1930's, already well into her seventies, and though she painted her fun-filled interiors and busy rural landscapes depicting New England life in all seasons, it is her winter scenes that seem to make her the matron saint of Christmas artists. Today the work of Grandma Moses can be seen most profusely in the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Folk Art Center in Williamsburg, Virginia, set amongst the elegant splendor of the colonial capital of the state, which is especially beautiful during the Christmas Season. Folk art, like Christmas, does not apply to a particular time period of long ago, but rather it is always present.

County Fair, 1950, Anna Mary Robertson Moses

We're all familiar with the work of Anna Mary Robertson Moses. If not, maybe we at least know the work of "Grandma" Moses. We see and read about her art in our art history books or in the massive "coffee table" books based upon some editor's conception of how her works have traditionally been viewed. Except for the occasional traveling exhibit, for many, these ungainly tomes are the closest they will ever come to actually seeing great art. We know her as the 101-year-old great grandmother who didn't start painting until the age of 80 when she could no longer see well enough to embroider. We know her as a folk artist painting quaint rural scenes as she remembered them, without regard for the niceties of linear perspective (or any other kind for that matter) and without much concern for volume, scale, shading, or ambient color, but with an incredible eye for design, narrative detail, and visual textures. We know her as a creative dynamo that turned out more than 1,600 original oil paintings in the last twenty years of her life. Most of us couldn't do that in a lifetime of work.



Grandma Moses insisted, "Painting is not important.
The important thing is keeping busy."

This is the stuff legends are made of, the image proclaimed in the pretentious coffee table art galleries overflowing with gorgeous color reproductions printed on expensive glossy pages designed to tempt the reader to rip them out and frame them. Yet such works are bound to the ancient wisdom that a picture is worth a thousand words. But sometimes, a few thousand words might be a nice substitute for some of the pictures. Words are important if we are to go beyond the legend and probe the more esoteric elements of her work as well. For example, most of us are unaware that Anna Moses created her paintings using a kind of "assembly line" procedure. She hated to waste paint (decades of near poverty had taught her not to waste anything). So, she did the blue skies of several paintings at a time. Then she'd do the green areas in each of them, or the snow, or whatever, for the same reason. Painting extreme detail in oils naturally also meant waiting for paint to dry. Her granddaughter recalls her having as many as a dozen paintings at a time "in progress."

The Quilting Bee, 1940, Anna Mary Robertson Moses

Also, few of us are aware that Grandma Moses was an impressionist. She never studied their work, of course. In fact, she never saw an impressionist painting until she'd been painting for years. Never one to be impolite, her reaction was, "They sure used up a lot of paint." But her unfamiliarity with art history hadn't kept her from using many of the same divided brush stroke techniques and visual color mixing methods used by Impressionists. Keep in mind that, born in 1860, she was of the same generation as many of the Impressionists; she'd just had better things to do at the time. Her color techniques were born not from painting but from needlework, where often she did not have the luxury of using the exact color desired and thus found it necessary to "mix" colors by juxtaposing stitches of two or more different colored threads to obtain the desired hue. Close examination of her paintings often reveals a similar propensity.

Sugaring Off, 1955 greeting card,
Anna Mary Robertson Moses

Despite the colorful coffee table books, most of us are similarly unaware of just how popular Grandma Moses' paintings have been. One year, during the 1950s, a greeting card company printed 16 million copies of her work, and this at a time when the international art world was embracing the non-representational work of Abstract Expressionism as being the only type of painting appropriate to a superpower nation. Critics at the time scoffed at her work as belonging to pop culture. Today, Grandma Moses' work rises above "pop" even the "folk" label and is seen in the landscape tradition of the Hudson River School while some of her originals have been known to bring as much as $100,000.

 

Giotto's Last Judgement

The Universal Judgement, 1304-05, Giotto, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua, Italy

As we go about our daily lives we try to do what's right. Our ideals of right and wrong our so ingrained within us almost from birth that, except for unusual circumstances, we seldom give them much thought. And regardless of how religious we are, or the exact details of our religious beliefs, there remains lodged in the back of our minds, the ultimate reason why we strive to favor right over wrong--the promise of heaven if we do, the threat of hell if we don't. It's a simple either-or situation and society today hates situations without shades of gray. We have come to complicate the whole matter with the field of ethics in which we attempt to evaluate our actions based upon the circumstances of the moment, or we invent a halfway house such as purgatory where there is the opportunity for atonement before the final judgment. Though there is little or no Biblical support for such an idea, during Medieval times the church found this concept a slick way to raise funds by working out various financial arrangements with the heirs of wealthy deceased individuals whereby the loved-one's time in purgatory could be reduced by the contribution of guilt money or the doing of good works.

Scrovegni Chapel, Padua, Italy

One of the greatest works of art from the Medieval period was the result of just such a dubious deal. Reginaldo Scrovegni of Padua was a notorious usurer, lending money at exorbitant rates--interest often approaching 100%. Today we would call him a loan shark. His sins were so grievous he was listed amongst the damned in Dante's Divine Comedy. In 1302, his son, Enrico, set out to "rescue" his father's damned soul, or more likely the family's reputation, by building a glorious chapel known today as the Scrovegni Chapel (sometimes referred to as the Arena Chapel, above, right). He commissioned the best architects, workers, craftsmen, and most of all, the best artist of the day to implement his guilt trip. And in 1302, that meant Giotto (see the previous article below). Inside, over the main entrance, Giotto painted a last judgment (appropriate under the circumstances) that was to reign as the supreme statement on the matter until Michelangelo gave us his impression of the subject over the altar in the Sistine Chapel nearly 250 years later.

The Last Judgement (detail, hell), 1225, Coppo di Marcovaldo

Torcello Cathendral Last Judgement,
12th Century mosaic.

Not only did Michelangelo not invent the idea of the last judgment as a painting theme, but neither did Giotto in fact (though some would say Michelangelo was heavily influence by Giotto). From about the year 1000 on, the church found it beneficial to emphasize, through its art, the ultimate dispensation of justice. A 1225 mosaic of the Last Judgement (above) by Coppo di Marcovaldo features quite prominently a horrendous, flesh-eating devil while the Torcello cathedral has a Byzantine style mosaic Last Judgment (above, left) dating from the 12th century featuring a river of fire sweeping away the damned. A later fresco, the work of Pietro Cavallini in Rome's Santa Cecilia in Trastevere, Rome (bottom), is a much more touching and serene depiction. Giotto's version is a refinement of all these. It is just as colorful and graphic, especially given its greater realism, but shifts to emphasis much more toward the divine judgment seat of Christ. Giotto is said to have been quite sensitive to the needs of the Scrovegni family in decorating their chapel. He was, in fact, not above a form of usury himself. The wealthy artist was in the habit of hiring out his looms for exorbitant fees to the poverty-stricken weavers of his hometown of Florence.

The Last Judgement, 1293, Pietro Cavallini, Santa Cecilia in Trastevere, Rome.

 

Giotto's Bones

Artists often lead very restless, even turbulent lives. Some of us work so hard sometimes, we barely take time out to eat, sleep, and go to the bathroom. And even though someone once said that death is nature's way of telling us to slow down, quite a number of artists might likely say when their time comes, "Don't bother me now, I'm too busy." Epitaphs sometimes reflect this, such as: "Who? Me? Dead?" Or another: "Just waiting for my paint to dry." Another reads a bit more hopefully, "Gone to help Michelangelo paint that great ceiling in the sky." Perhaps it was a sculptor, perhaps not, whose stone bore the epitaph, "Pardon my dust." Maybe I'm being morbid, but I've pondered my own epitaph a few times. Right now I'm kind of leaning toward: "Ready to paint the second coming." Of course since I usually work from photos, I'm hoping when the time comes they bury me with my digital camera. And for the artist too busy living to even think about dying, they can always fall back on the old standby, "Rest in Peace."

Dr. Francesco Mallegni with a
reconstruction of the head of
Giotto based upon skeletal
remains.

Of course even that might be wishful thinking. In this day and age, and even in the past, one's "final" resting-place may not be all that final at all. In 1337, the great medieval painter, Giotto di Bondone was laid to rest in a grave... well...somewhere. No one alive today really knows for sure. Inasmuch as the man considered the "Father of European Painting" was a Florentine, presumably his earthly remains were interred in some prestigious location within the city of Florence. One man who thinks he knows where Giotto was buried is Dr. Francesco Mallegni, an anthropology and palaeontology professor at the universities of Pisa and Palermo. Some forty years ago, the bones of a man buried about the time of Giotto's death were unearthed during restoration work on Florence's landmark Duomo cathedral. Mallegni studied them for  several months. A chalk outline of the scull bears a striking similarity to a presumed self-portrait of the artist (bottom) in frescoes located in the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua.

Giotto, up close and personal
to an accuracy of 90%.

 

Mallegni's analysis shows a short, somewhat stocky man with a larger than usual head and indications of a hooked nose. The bones indicate the presence of osteoporosis, suggesting that the man was in his 70s at the time of death. Giotto's date of birth is estimated to be between 1260 and 1270 making him between 61 and 71 years old when he died. The bones also indicate high levels of aluminium, arsenic, zinc, lead, and other substances used in 14th century paints. Likewise, the bones in his neck are thicker than normal, as one might expect from an artist who spent a lot of time looking up. Also, analysis of the teeth indicate the deceased my have used them for holding a paintbrush. Mallegni plans to have DNA tests done of the teeth, comparing the results to tests of Giotto's known descendants.

 

 



Believed to be a
self-portrait of Giotto
from The Universal
Judgement fresco in
the Scrovegni Chapel.

The grave itself was well inside the walls of the cathedral, discovered as workmen were reinforcing the foundations of some interior piers. However, when Giotto died, the cathedral was barely under construction. Mallegni explains this factor in that the present-day cathedral was built around the old Church of Santa Reparata, which was still in use in 1337, even as the cathedral that was to replace it literally went up around it. The grave would therefore have been a place of honour just outside the old church walls. Critics of Mallegni's work question both the accuracy of the chalk scull reproduction as well as the assumption that the face in Giotto's Scrovegni Chapel fresco is, in fact, a self-portrait. They also point out that the skeleton could easily be that of another painter of the time. All of which serves to suggest that if one really wants to "rest in peace" the best choice might be fire or water--cremation or burial at sea--or both. But then again, where would one put the clever epitaph?

The Universal Judgement (detail, lower left quadrant), 1304-05, Giotto. The
presumed self-portrait (enlarged above) is in the black box, lower left 
section of the above image.
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Note: Dr. Mallegni is now in search of the bones of the actual Mona Lisa.

 

Luca Giordano

Anyone who has ever taught adults to paint will tell you that quite often the finished product of the student is virtually indistinguishable from the work of the teacher--at least to the untrained eye. Although it's been almost ten years since I've taught adult students, I witnessed this phenomenon innumerable times, and not always with regard to the work of long-time students. A particularly receptive, particularly adept student, one who took instruction well, often turned out work of professional quality after only two or three paintings--to the surprise and delight of everyone concerned, including themselves. It other cases it took longer, but it very often happened.

 

Luca Giordano Self-portrait,
 1692, stern and bespectacled,
he seems to have taken himself
and his art quite seriously.

I once had an adult student do a landscape (from a photo I'd loaned him) that was virtually identical to the one I'd done and sold just a year or so before. And, to add insult to injury, he sold it for more than I'd got. I was a little surprised and dismayed, but decided to take it as much a reflection upon my earlier instructional efforts as his talent as a painter. The point to this little story is this. Perhaps the greatest difference between the work of a professional and that of an amateur (or student) is not the quality of the work but one of time. The painting I did took perhaps three or four hours. The work of my adult student took something like twenty hours under regular supervision. I don't buy it, but it could be argued that I really painted the landscape twice, the second time through a surrogate. In this case, the man, an elderly, retired gentleman who had taken up painting late in life, I'm sure could have done as well on this particular work without me, it would just have taken longer yet.

Triumph of the Medici in the Clouds
of Mount Olympus, 1684-86,
Luca Giordano

It's been said that the hallmark of a professional artist is that he or she makes the difficult look easy. That may be true but we should add that they also do so quickly. The work of Luca Giordano (above, left), the Italian Baroque master painter of the seventeenth century is a good example. He probably came as close as possible in that age to being an artist of international fame. His nickname translates to "Luca work quickly." His surviving works number in the thousands. In the modern era, it's not too unusual for a particularly prolific artist to have painted several thousands of works over a lifetime, but keep in mind, this was the 1600s, and these were not couch paintings of pastoral landscapes or expressionist renderings of wet city streets dashed off in a few hours for the wholesale "starving artist" market. These were major religious and mythological works each involving numerous figures and complex, often strongly diagonal compositions, their dimensions best measured in feet not inches.

St. John the Baptist Preaching, ca. 1695, Luca Giordano

Luca Giordano was born in 1634 in Naples; and it was there he studied under the Spanish painter Jusepe de Ribera. Later he picked up influences as diverse as Veronese, Rubens, Pietro da Cortona and Velázquez. His style was universal and his practice international. He worked all over Italy, in Naples, Florence, Rome, and Venice, as well as in Spain and France. And because he worked quickly, he was also quite wealthy for an artist. St. John the Baptist Preaching (above), from around 1695, depicts the hermit firebrand as a muscular prophet, glowing with divinity, exhorting his multitudes in the desert. Painted during Giordano's Spanish period, works such as this were later a strong influence upon Goya. In fact, unlike so many Post-Renaissance painters, Giordano's work remained popular long after his death in 1705. It continued to influence artists throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. And, though his paintings were widely collected in the U.S., except for a show at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art several years ago, he has been largely forgotten by the art world until quite recently as seen below.

We Are All Flesh, Berlinde De Bruychere, based upon paintings by Luca Giordano,
becoming more influential today.