"Art Now and Then" does not mean art occasionally. It means art NOW as opposed to art THEN. It means art in 2020 as compared to art many years ago...sometimes many, many, MANY years ago. It is an attempt to make that art relevant now, letting artists back then speak to us now in the hope that we may better understand them, and in so doing, better understand ourselves and the art produced today.
A favorite at weddings, perhaps because of the symbolism--swans mate for life.
A few days ago I mentioned in passing an art form which I had never written about before (there are getting to be very few such topics any more). There's an old joke aboard cruise ships about the woman who asked, "What do you do with your ice sculptures after they melt?" The answer to that may be, "Use them to water down the drinks, of course." All kidding aside, as I pointed out in writing about food sculpture (03-28-13), there has always been a close connection between food and this elegant, if fleeting, form of sculptural creativity. It's an art form that has to "die," towering over the buffet line in order to be appreciated. Although they are nearly ubiquitous aboard cruise ships, ice sculptures also accompany the more elegant wedding buffets, anniversaries, and birthdays once the years climb well into the higher double digits. They range in size from molded ice cubes (which really don't count) to mammoth extravaganzas limited in size only by their weight and how many men it takes to hoist them into position without creating an ignoble pile of crushed ice.
Harbin's Ice and Snow World--148 acres, over 2000 palaces, all built in just 14 days.
The history of ice sculpture dates back to the frigid realm of 17th century China to the province of Heilongjiang and the small fishing town of Harbin. There ice fishermen used to freeze buckets of water then remove the bucket and carve out a deep hole in the center in which they mounted a candle to create a crude lantern as a means of lighting their way to their favorite hole in the ice. This may be the oldest reference to "fire an ice" as well. Apparently it was cold enough that the candle didn't significantly melt the ice surrounding it. When Russia's Trans-Siberian Railroad hit town in 1897, Harbin became the home of it's own ice and snow carving festival. (Maybe I should write sometime on building snowmen.) Since then, ice carving festivals have sprung up in a long list of countries around the world, some of which are so tropical their duration may well be counted in minutes rather than days (there's one in the Philippines, for instance).
Ice is a bit easier to carve than marble.
If we limit our appreciate of ice sculptures to buffet table adornments and high speed carving competitions, we do the art form a grave injustice. There is also ice architecture (to support ice gargoyles, I suppose). The first such ice palace was commissioned by a Russian empress named Anna in 1740, complete with ice cannon firing ice cannonballs (what happens if a snowball fight escalates into an arms race). In 2000, Saint Petersburg built a replica of Anna's original ice palace, some 21 feet tall covering nearly a thousand square feet using ice blocks from the Neva River and then fusing them together (with hair dryers, perhaps?). Actually, ice sculpting tools range from small chain saws to rotary grinders, razor-sharp chisels, and even blowtorches. Not to be outdone by their Arctic neighbors, Sweden builds an ice hotel every year complete with icy beds, chairs, and of course the standard, run-of-the-mill ice bar, specializing in vodka. The room rate also includes lots of furry bedclothes.
Sweden's annual ice hotel--cozy, even a round bed. What, no ice bucket?
With apologies to Robert Indiana, some people LOVE snow.
That's snow ordinary Batman, and far removed from an ordinary snowman.
First you collect a LOT of the stuff. This sculptural medium is prone to very rapid deterioration on days like today in Ohio (92 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade). Seriously, I went in search of a cool topic for a very hot summer day. (It came down to either snow or air-conditioned art museums.) Although few people would claim to be sculptors, a similar few have never, ever, tried their hand at this sculptural media. And before you wonder why I'm waxing eloquent regarding the "Frosty" front lawn guardian of winter, let me assure you, this versatile, though quite frustrating and technically demanding medium, soars far beyond the common, everyday, run-of-the-mill snowmen we've all created as children or parents of children.
The Japanese have even perfected the art of snow portraiture, in this case, golfer, Ryo Ishikawa.
This is not about the seemingly more noble medium of ice sculpture (04-01-13). Though they might appear to be similar, snow is different from ice. Though winter wonderland artists might endlessly argue the point, to my way of thinking, and bearing in mind my rather limited experience in either medium, I'd say snow is probably the more technically difficult of the two. Ice is firm, hard, and relatively strong. Snow is none of these. Sculptors attack ice with chisels and chainsaws. Snow is delicately formed with butter knives, shovels, spoons, and maybe the occasional hacksaw. If all else fails, bare hands may be the order of the day. Whatever the case, the operant description of the medium, under even the coldest, most blustery, ideal winter conditions is "fragile." (Whee, I'm feeling cooler already.)
It doesn't snow much in Athens, Greece, so the Japanese constructed their version of the Parthenon to commemorate the Athens Olympics in 2004. (14 meters high, 20 meters wide, 26 meters long)
Snow sculptures (along with those of ice) are the hallmark of today's highly popular winter carnivals spread broadly over the northern hemisphere among countries all around the world. Harbin, China, has one of the oldest ones, St. Paul, Minnesota, one of the best in the U.S. If you're thinking in terms of rolling up a giant snowballs, and perhaps stacking them and patting them into shape with clumsy mitten-clad hands, you're definitely a rank amateur. Serious snow carvers pack their 20-30 degree material into rectangular cubes, leaving it to refreeze overnight, before upending their molds and moving the resulting blocks into position for carving not unlike the Egyptians used limestone three-thousand years ago.
How it's done--scaffolding, a broom, and a steady hand.
The difference is, aside from the temperature and overall weight of the materials, snow sculptors today are far more creative than their Egyptian counterparts. The best the Egyptians could do was Ramses II and maybe a sphinx or two. Though snow sculptors are the first to recognize and respect the limitations of their medium, there is virtually no theme (from the mean machine to the obscene extreme) which they will not attempt. There are failures. Snow does not "overhang" well (and if it does, not for long). Height seems to be no limitation, and snow takes well to small details, modeled or molded when the need for repetition arises. Far more than their icy counterparts, snow sculptors must be "engineers." Forget starting out with only a vague idea and hoping for the best. The most successful snow sculptures are drawn out, sometimes to full-scale, front, side, and top, then executed with all the precision of Michelangelo carving his David. Yet, unlike white marble, white snow is more forgiving, allowing for inspired, momentary creativity far more akin to wax or clay than any other medium. The only problem seems to be the lack of the sizable freezer space sufficient to preserve such works of art.
If you build it, they will come--the biggest fans of snow sculpture.
Waco (Texas) Friends of Peace/Climate art exhibit banner, 2018.
About 1988, our family visited the James Deering estate he called Vizcaya, situated on Biscayne Bay, in Miami. Located a few yards off shore behind the mansion is a stone breakwater known as Cleopatra's Barge (below). I recall that the steps and central section were roughly three feet above sea level. In 2015 when we again visited the estate, the steps and center deck were under about eight inches of water. Even allowing for a tidal range of as much as 2.5 feet (we visited about the same time of day both times) there was left little doubt in my mind that what I was seeing first hand was the sea level rise associated with what we're now calling climate change (as opposed to "global warming".) Until then this controversial phenomena was something I'd only read about. Today, the scientific data is indisputable. And the art...it's pretty indisputable too...even in Waco, Texas (above).
Sea level rise in just 30 years. The water level was actually higher than seen above (several inches over the steps) when we last visited Vizcaya in 2015.
Though Waco, Texas, is a relatively small, local, art community, there is nothing small or local about climate change or its art. And just as the effects of climate change, now and in the future, are quite diverse, so too is the work artists from all over the world are now creating to attract attention to this looming disaster, as well as to enlighten and change public opinion on its significance. Sometimes the message is quite subtle and really quite beautiful, as in the CD album cover designed by Iago Pico & Michel Sult Condition for the Icelandic band, Deathwalking (below). The imagery evolves from hellish to heavenly, though a reversal of that transition might be considered more accurate.
Condition, Iago Pico and Michel Sult
American Gothic Underwater, Mandrak.
Though quite beautiful in its own way, there's nothing subtle about the image and messaging of American Gothic Underwater by Mandrak (right). Grant Wood is probably rolling over in his grave, but if art from the past serves any purpose at all, no higher calling could be imagined than keeping the world as we know it (and its art) high and dry. The artist here takes the familiar and (with a touch of humor) then attempts to shock the viewer by marrying it with the unfamiliar. The old farmer must be pretty good at holding his breath. Equally attractive, but from a left-brain statistical point of departure is the seven-piece watercolor series by Jill Pelto (below). Whereas other climate change artists rely on humor or an emotional awakening to bear their message, Jill presents graphic charts to support her remarkable images. Pelto holds two degrees from the University of Maine, one in earth science the other in studio art, thus allowing her to create paintings based on graphs of data on the environmental effects of climate change. Pelto’s paintings (below) are based on several different data sets that measure glacial melt, animal populations, and forest fires, among others. Each set focuses on the ways that climate change has affected these aspects of the environment.
The effects of climate change by the numbers.
When creating a piece, Pelto looks for something important that is happening but isn’t well-publicized--something people aren’t paying much attention to. Most of her data comes from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, Climate Central and other researchers whose work she has studied. Pelto hopes that her pieces can work as a visual link to the data, grabbing the attention of people for whom those numbers aren’t enough. “As someone who’s interested in science, I’m intrigued by a graph in an article,” she said. “But I know the majority of people aren’t. They’re going to just skim over a graph. I think a much bigger percentage of people are attracted to the visuals of art.”
Climate Change art, Stephanie Granada
Climate change data has its problems. It's often seen as lofty and complicated, hard to digest, and even harder to conjure into feelings of urgency. But artists like Jill Pelto and Stephanie Granada (above) are stepping in to marry data with their crafts, bridging the gap between scientific information and human connection. Recognizing that people often act by heart rather than logic, these two artists aim to help viewers understand the data while developing an emotional attachment that convinces them to do something about it—now.
I Don't Believe in Global Warming, Banksy. Rhetoric versus reality.
Meanwhile, some artists, such as the famed New York graffiti painter, Banksy (above), have taken to street art to make their point. Rather than rely on graphic imagery, street art is all about placement in the (usually urban) environment. Though seeming to echo climate change deniers Banksy, in fact, pokes fun at their obstinance. Quite apart from statistics, how many floods, fires, super storms, and high tides will it take to shake loose such scientific ignorance? Ask those in North Carolina, Florida, or Paradise, California. Banksy's climate change art is often about as subtle as a bulldozer.
Street art from Uganda--nothing subtle, beautiful, statistical, or unemotional here.
Street art can be found on the bare walls of streets all over the would. With all the other problems Africa endures, and particularly the country of Uganda, it might surprise some to find that artists of this third-world country are so deeply involved and emotionally committed to art exposing climate change. Communicating climate change is complicated, and forecasting the impacts even more so. How do you communicate uncertainty? Using jargon and technical language often leaves audiences switched off. In 2012, the Kabarole Research and Resource Centre, along with private sector partners in Uganda, started to organize an Annual Street Art Festivals on Climate Change in the town of Fort-Portal, by profiling artists communicating about climate change. Participants take part in street debates broadcast live on radio, they watch films on climate change, and present musical and dramatic performances. The festivals have so far been quite successful. The events are interactive and fun, and participant numbers grew from 300 in 2012 to over 1,000 the following year.
Waiting for Climate Change, Isaac Cordal, Château des Ducs de Bretagne in Nantes, France.
Masterplan, Chad Wright --sand castle art
Californian designer Chad Wright has made a sandcastle mold of a typical American house to recreate post-war suburbia on the beach (left). For this project he created a plastic mold that could be filled with sand and lifted off to reveal simplified L-shaped bungalow forms, complete with chimney breasts. Rows of these sand sculptures were constructed on a beach to mimic layouts of sprawling communities across the US. As the tide came in the sandcastles were slowly eroded by the waves, leaving them cracked, crumbling and unrecognizable as homes. Sometimes social and global issues are so pressing that they reflect in art of the times. A recent climate change cam-paign in Berlin by Brazilian artist Nele Azevedo was extremely creative and dark. It was an instal-lation art consisting of 1000 tiny ice sculptures of men sitting on the steps of Berlin Concert Hall (below). Though the original idea behind this installation art of melting men sculptures was to question the role of monuments in the cities, the work has a stronger impact as climate change art. Environmental activists could never put the message across more subtly and explicitly. The melting ice sculptures symbolize the possible impact melting of Arctic ice on the entire planet. It could trigger ultimate meltdown and disappearance of life on earth.
Melting Men, Nele Azevedo, Berlin Concert Hall.
Meanwhile in England, Eden TV, a new UK-based natural history TV channel, recently began broadcasting. To celebrate their launch, the network built a 16-foot-high sculpture of a mother polar bear and her cub stranded on an iceberg (below). Also meant to increase awareness about the plight of the polar bear and their dwindling habitat as a result of climate change, the sculpture was sent to float down the Thames river. The event took place on January 26, 2019, and started at Greenwich, South East London. traveling to the Tower Bridge and then to the House of Parliament. The 1.5-ton sculpture was created by a team of 15 artists, who worked for 2 months to build the 20-feet by 20-feet sculpture.
Climate change art floating down the Thames. No, it was not an ice sculpture.
Quite apart from the work of painters and sculptors, perhaps the most influential climate change art comes from the pens and brushes of political cartoonists such as Horsey and Feggo (below). Theirs is often in the form of dark humor--clever and thought-provoking, but seldom funny. Frequently such artists can get away with saying things in a cartoon modality writers and painters art reluctant to render (for various reasons). I could do an entire discourse on such art and the men and women who create it but I'm already running long here. So finally, to add insult to injury, I've included my own entry into the flood and firestorm of such art (bottom).
These were two of the milder examples of the social and political brands of climate change cartoons.
The Paper Tutu. Printed paper often adds a lot to a sculptural work.
Chinese Hemp Paper 100 BC.
The link between art and paper is nearly as old as paper itself, beginning with a sort of paper made by the Egyptians from papyrus reeds as early as four-thousand B.C. Modern paper from cellulose fibers dates from China, about 100 BC (right). Paper sculpture (origami) dates from the 17th-century (some sources claim as early as the 6th-century). Thus art on paper is much older than art of paper. Virtually every artist since the invention of paper has probably rendered work on paper (drawing, watercolor, printing, calligraphy, etc.). Yet, even today, few artists have tried making art of (or from) paper--paper sculpture. The likely reason is that few artists are sculptors--few artist think three-dimensionally. As one who has tried to teach this mindset, I can tell you it is one of the most difficult art skills I've ever tried to impart.
Paper Cloud Ceiling, Tara Donovan--tape, paper, and drinking straws
Embossed paper, Simon Schubert
Besides the folding of paper mentioned above, sculptural techniques often involve the simple bending of paper, as well as cutting and curling, molding, embossing (left), layering, and various combinations of some or all of these techniques. Sometimes household materials such as paper drinking straws and facial tissues are used. When I was a child, my mother taught us how to make carnation corsages from facial tissues and green pipe cleaners. We handed them out at church on Mother's Day. Each one took less than five minutes once you learned the knack. Of course, paper flowers have long been a staple of the paper sculptor, and in fact, may have been one of the earliest subjects for such work.
Geo #1, 2006, Josh Sperling
Paper floral sculpture
Obviously, the kind of paper used has a great deal to do with how the paper is manipulated and in the finished work. Needless to say, tissue paper looks and behaves differently than corrugated cardboard (yes, that counts as paper). For years I taught architecture using corrugated cardboard to build model houses. Likewise, methods and outcomes also have a lot to do with the quantity of paper used. As a child I can remember making Christmas trees by folding the pages of old Sears and Roebuck catalogs (roughly two inches thick back then) causing the binding to form a tube allowing the pages, when folded, to form a cone shape. We then spray-painted our "trees" green, gold, or white, decorating them with what amounted to painted "spitballs."
by Allen Eckman
Molded paper
Flocked (torn) paper sculpture, Anna-Wili Highfield’s
One of the beauties of paper in creating sculptured art is that, first of all, it's relatively inexpensive (as compared to 18K gold, for instance). Second, it's relatively light in weight (as compared to bronze, for instance). Third, it's available in vast quantities (as compared to gemstones). Fourth, it's relatively long-lasting (as compared to ice and snow); and most of all it's fairly forgiving of errors (as opposed to carving marble). Along the same line, I might also add that the learning curve in creating sculptural works from paper is quite gentle. I used to teach 3-D paper art in first grade (construction paper) as well as 12th grade (cardboard), with students attaining much the same degree of success relative to their ages.
Layered paper sculpture, by self-taught Korean artist, Cheong-ah Hwang, Columbus, Ohio.
Fruit Basket, 16th century, Giuseppi Archimboldo two paintings in one, just hang it upside down.
There was a time when one mentioned the word "sculpture" the image that came to mind was automatically a white marble statue. However, ever since Picasso discovered glue and started poking through the Parisian dumpsters for cheap art supplies, the range of acceptable sculptural media has broadened to include virtually any three-dimensional substance. I've long pointed out that artists choose their content based upon its importance in their lives. In dealing with food sculpture, that same axiom may also apply to their choice of media as well. I mean, what's more important to an artist than food (putting aside sleep and sex).
The Cupcake Wars --judges high on cupcakes.
Actually artists started painting food before they began sculpting it. Actually, the first food sculptures probably came from the hands of confectioners and bakers rather than artists, though today, that line has pretty much disappeared. Just watch The Cupcake Wars on the Food Channel sometime (left). One of the earliest artists to explore food sculpture as a subject was the 16th century Italian painter, Giuseppi Archimboldo (top). He virtually made a career of it. Of course, the major problem food sculptors encounter over their painting counterparts is that of archival considerations. Modern day photography helps, but no one has yet developed a method of preserving food sculpture more than a few days before a feast for sore eyes becomes little more than a feast for more flies.
Automotive calories--Rice Krispies sculpture
Years ago when I taught school, I had as an optional art activity I called edible sculpture. Along with an assortment of fruits and vegetables, cakes and breads, one of my students developed a whole new sculpture medium--Rice Krispie treats (having since become quite popular). Her cereal and marshmallow creme creations each year came to be highly anticipated by her classmates and grew ever more sophisticated, involving candies, icing, and painted food coloring. The best part, was that after presenting her work, photographing it, and discussing it, we all got to "evalueat" it.
Supposedly an owl, though the sculptor took considerable liberties with the beak.
One of the staples of cruise ship chefs is the buffet with edible sculptural decorations (no one ever actually eats them, of course). Watermelons are probably the favored medium (after ice, if you want to call that food). Here, fruits and vegetables dominate and ingenuity, coupled with excellent manual dexterity and eye-hand coordination, are a must (those knives are sharp). I've even seen sculpted lard as well as butter. My wife loves this sort of thing and never misses one of their "how to" workshops. Her own efforts tend to be limited to edible flower arrangements, which do sometimes get eaten ("ooo, it's too pretty to eat.")
I've debated a little as to whether to call this "Craft Stick Art" or "Popsicle Stick Art." The Internet was no help, they seem evenly divided on the subject. It's pretty much irrelevant in any case except that the term "craft sticks" has been broadened to include everything from toothpicks to tongue depressors, even those little wooden paddles they used to provide for eating ice cream samples. In my years of teaching sculpture at all grade levels, I've probably utilized all of the above in sufficient quantities to have done severe damage to at least one good-sized tree.
Popsicle enticements from roughly a hundred years ago.
Popsicles are what we in the field of art education call a "happy accident." In 1905, an eleven-year-old boy named Frank Epperson, from San Francisco, invented the popular hot-weather treat as we know it today. One cold evening Frank forgot and left a mixture of powder flavored soda water with a stir stick in it on the back porch. Because of the cold weather outside, he awoke the next morning to find a frozen treat on a stick. It was, however, seventeen years later, in 1922, that Epperson first served his ice lollipops at a Fireman’s ball where they were a huge hit. It didn’t take long for him to realize the commercial possibilities of his accidental invention. A year later, in 1923, he introduced the frozen pops on a stick to the public at Neptune Beach, an amusement park in Alameda, California. Again, they were a huge hit. Epperson applied for and received a patent for a quiescently “frozen confectionery,” in 1924, which he named the “Epsicle Ice Pop”. He began producing them in different fruit flavors on birch wood sticks. The name, "Popsicle" came when Epperson’s kids began calling them "Pop’s cycles." So, on their insistence, he renamed his invention the “Popsicle,” a name which has stuck for nearly a century (above).
The Popsicle grenade (no glue needed)
As for my history with Popsicle sticks, I go waay back. I was probably little more than six or seven when my friends and siblings used to save the fruity stained Popsicle sticks left over from our indulgence in the sticky sweet treat. They were sticky and sweet for good reason--sugar--which also served to keep them from freezing into hard, solid masses of ice, making them much more easily edible...though preferably in haste. I'm not old enough to remember their ever costing only five cents, though, as the ad above proclaims. I think they were a dime during the 1950s. In any case, once we'd collected five sticks we were able to make a Popsicle grenade (above, right), sticks woven together in such a way so that when thrown and striking the victim (or anything else) they would "explode," presumably inflicting major bodily harm.
Tongue depressors seem to be the weapon of choice with this little stunt.
Along the same line, utilizing the tensile strength of the birch wood, juvenile Popsicle demolition experts are today involved in much more sophisticated endeavors--spectacular, large-scale, chain reactions (left) that make tipping over dominoes seem like child's play. But seriously, folks, as any art teacher will tell you, the humble little sticks have within them the potential for becoming amazingly varied works of art. When combined with hot glue (I always used Elmer's with the kids), or paint, cloth, and other decorative craft items, the results can be quite impressive such as seen in Nathalie Chikhi's Pixelsticks (top). Though usually referred to as "craft" sticks, in the hands of such artists, perhaps "art sticks" might be more appropriate. Henry Toro (below) creates a similar effect using dyed (stained) tongue depressors to render his abstract images.
I could find no title for this piece by Henry Toro. Perhaps Stalactites would be appropriate.
A double helix marble racing sculpture...I think.
Of course, the various incarnations of craft sticks have long been more of a sculptural medium than a base for paintings and other types of wall hangings. My students tended to prefer building towers, sometimes in competition with one another seeing who could build the tallest piece of "abstract" art. Over the years, I gained some insight as to how God must have felt regarding the Tower of Babel. Fortunately, none of my students' works reached the heights of the spiraling "thing" at right. I think there may have been some marbles involved, judging from the spiraling ramps (lost ones, perhaps). However, such high-rise towers need not be so enormously complex as seen in the simple spiraling twist formula of the sculpture below. Used in such a manner, carefully (and patiently) constructed, the sky, or at least the ceiling, is the limit.
Side view (left), top looking down (right). The sky's the limit.
Authenticity combined with precision.
Craft sticks are great for building models such as what I've termed the "Pop Cycle" (below). On today's market, the cost of craft sticks varies (mostly depending upon quantities purchased) from less than five cents to as high as thirteen cents each. Judging from the quantities Chip Addington must have needed in creating his wooden motorcycle, it might have been cheaper (not to mention far less work) to have bought the real thing. Insofar as models are concerned, various places of abode appear much more frequently. Some builders strive for architectural authenticity as with the modest little Tudor dwelling at left. Other model builders prefer a more free-form creation as with the example of medieval pretentions (bottom). A man's home, (even when built from Popsicle sticks), is his castle.
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