Lego Art

A logo of Legos, not to be confused with the Lego logo.

Yesterday, in writing on logo art, it occurred to me I might also do something on Lego art. Today, as I started researching this piece I was rather stunned to see how many artists had adopted the ubiquitous little plastic "thingies" as their, own and how far they had taken them as a medium of creative self-expression. Artists such as Nathan Sawaya, Bryan Korte, Mike Doyle, Sean Kenny, Andrew Lipson, and Douglas Bagnall, among many others, have made them their own. However, other than Ole and his son Godtfred Christianson, the Danish inventors of the Lego brick, the biggest name today in Lego art is that of Nathan Sawaya, a former lawyer turned artist from New York. His pieces range in size from a tiny tree (two bricks) to works with upwards to a half a million.

 

Sawaya's museum pieces beg to be touched.

Sawaya with his scale model
of the Iwo Jima monument.

Sawaya has a one-man show, "Art of the Brick" currently running at the Discovery Channel Museum in Times Square, New York. Of course, Sawaya is not alone in producing mega-art from Legos. Moreover, the people at Lego themselves compete with their best single customer (Sawaya has 2.5 million bricks in stock). The Lego design team in May of 2013 unveiled a Star Wars X-Wing fighter comprised of 5,335,200 Lego bricks. It's a staggering 44 feet wide, 43 feet in length, and stands some 11 feet off the ground. However, at 46,000 pounds, it's unlikely to ever get off the ground. Displayed first at an assembly location on Long Island, the piece is destined for the company's Legoland amusement park in Carlsbad, California. Unlike Sawaya's pieces, which have no other component except Lego bricks and his own secret glue, the Lego X-Wing is built over a steel infrastructure designed to withstand the stress of thousands of kids climbing all over it. It's a playground toy, not a museum piece.

 

Photo by Kaishu

London's Trafalgar Square from Legoland Windsor,

the company's British garden of plastic delights.

The Lego brick had it's birth in Denmark, roughly coinciding the advent of consumer plastics around 1947, though before that similar children's building bricks had been made of cellulose acetate. Today they're made of ABS polymer (you don't want to know what ABS stands for). The tiny toy was first patented in 1958. Since then the company has grown along with the imaginative explosion of various themed sets, everything from Star Wars to Disney movies and whole architectural landmarks such as the Taj Mahal and London's Trafalgar Square. Moreover the company was founded upon two critical basics, sturdy, kid-proof quality (tests show it would take a stack of 375,000 bricks nearly 12,000 feet tall to collapse the bottom brick) and the impulse to create, whether among children or adults. 



Lindsay Lego Lohan

Lego art, from all Internet appearances, is something of a blooming cottage industry with artists offering their services in creating Lego portraits, Lego sculptures, Lego painting reproductions, Lego furniture, as well as scale models of everything from pups to people to porpoises. Some artists even boast life-size replicas of classic cars, boats, zebras, dinosaurs, and lighthouses. Lego, however, has long since ceased to be a cottage industry, with seven different Legolands and factories in four different countries creating a total of some 400-billion plastic toy bricks to tolerances as tight as two micrometers. It's estimated that over the years, the company has produced enough bricks for everyone on earth to have a set of 82.

Andrew Lipson's Lego version of M.C. Escher's famous print, Relativity.

 

Logo Art

The Christian fish logo.

The Christian Chi Rho symbol dates
back to around the third century AD.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"A picture is worth a thousand words." It's a very old, trite and true, axiom dating back so far no one really knows how far it dates back. Nowhere is this ancient observation more meaningful than in the art of logo design. A logo is a symbol. Today, logo designs are used to represent everything from corporate identities, to consumer products and services, charitable institutions, government bureaus, and religious organizations. In fact, likely the oldest logo still in common usage is religious in nature. Even older than the iconic Christian cross is the Christian fish (above, left). The simple arching lines had their origin as an acronym, Iota, Chi, Theta, Ypsilon Sigma, meaning Jesus Christ God Son Savior--ICHTYS the Greek work for fish. The symbol seems first to have appeared during the first century AD and to have been used intermittently down through the ages, gaining renewed favor during the 1970s and since. Almost as old is the Greek Chi Rho symbol (above, right, the Greek abbreviation for Christ) superimposed one upon the other. The symbols for the zodiac may, in fact, be as much as a thousand years older than these, though they had no standardized image, a critical requirement for any logo.

Company logos grew from the advent of print advertising late in the 18th century.

In the modern era, many companies have laid claim to having the oldest logo in continuous use, perhaps the most valid being that of the British firm Twinings (above), who have been marketing tea for over three hundred years and whose simple, arched, upper-case, Helvetica type face has represented the company since 1787. Even more impressive, the firm was founded in 1706 and still has its headquarters at the same London address where it began. On the American side of the Atlantic, the John Deere company logo appears to be the oldest, dating from 1876, though, like most, it has evolved, having been modified and updated many times since. For the record, runners up include a few logos from the 1880s such as Johnson & Johnson, Union Pacific, and Coca-Cola. Many others, though now quite old, had their advent in the early 20th century with the coming of nationally circulate magazines.

The evolution of a logo. The little log in the logo disappeared in the 1950s.

Despite the Twinings example, virtually every longstanding corporate logo has evolved, some quite a number of times; in some cases recently, almost on an annual basis. Google seems to change its logo almost daily. By the same token, some logos have changed little in the past hundred years. The General Electric script "GE" inside a circle dates from 1900. The only change has been the addition of color. In general, though, companies have urged their logo designers toward modern "less is more" updates, usually over the course of several years; though today, the changes are sometimes quite radical, even involving changes in the corporate name itself. "Esso," the one time moniker for the Standard Oil Company, became Exxon in 1973 accompanied by an all new logo.

An example of what time can do to a logo

One of the corporate "granddaddies" of
them all has quite a lengthy legacy of
logos.

However, not all logo changes are successful. Often this accounts for multiple changes over a short period of time. For example, Pepsi seems to be undergoing this type of identity crisis at the moment. Some companies have even gone so far as to return to a previous symbolic incarnation. On the other hand, some new logos simply take some "getting used to."


The "new" Colonel was
somewhat startling at first.



 

 

Artists' Studios

The Painter's Studio, 1855, Gustave Courbet, probably the most famous painting
ever depicting an artist working in his studio. One has the feeling Courbet
was in need of a visitor's gallery and ticket taker.

Someone once said, "You can tell a lot about an artist by his studio." I'm not sure who it was, maybe even me. I've been known to inadvertently quote myself before. In any case there's a great deal of truth in both the statement and in the broader truth artists reveal about themselves through their contrived, portrait-like, working environments. I suppose that's true of other professionals as well. My wife is a professional tax preparer, and while her "front" office is neat as the proverbial pin, backstage, it's a disordered heap flowing off onto the floor and halfway out the door. My own studio appears to be a cross between a lawyer's office and a relatively neat graphic design studio. It reflects the nature of my mind and personality--one thing at a time, one day at a time--not necessarily clean but relatively neat and uncluttered (for a painter, at least).

Jackson Pollok, 1950--as much paint on the floor as on canvas.

Besides the artists personality and state of mind, his or her studio reflects that artist's medium, style, and type of subject matter. You could expect Jackson Pollock's studio (above) to be huge and sloppy as a pig sty--and it was. You would picture Norman Rockwell's studio as the epitome of New England Yankee rectitude and order (below). Perhaps...at least it is now having been turned into a museum piece of conservative artistic veneration. Old black and white photos from the early part of the last century tell a slightly different story. Which reminds us that an artist's studio also reflects the era in which the artist lived. Before electricity, there was the proverbial north light windows, often quite large by the standards of their day. In contrast, Renaissance artist often painted in surroundings which would appear to us today as more like barns than art studios.

Norman Rockwell's tidied-up shrine.

Picasso entertains the seductive film star, Bridget Bardot in his art-strewn studio, 1956.

Even in modern times, they didn't call Andy Warhol's studio "the factory" for nothing. It had been one and became one, something of an art factory. Picasso had his California, his villa in the south of France during his final years (above). His output was so prodigious his art had literally crowded him out of two earlier home studios. He simply locked them up and moved on to bigger digs. In general, the larger an artist paints the larger his or her studio. Monet's studio at Giverny on the Seine (below) had more the appearance of an art gallery than working space, his massive water lilies seemingly flowing from the wall, flooding the studio in all their impressionist glory. The more successful the artist, the larger his or her studio.

Claude Monet's studio seems to have been one of quiet, comfortable, contemplation.

Francis Bacon's less-than-pristine premises. Is there such a word as "cringeworthy"?

Marc Chagall, 1955, poses in his modest,
and modestly neat, studio. One wonders
if it was always so orderly.

Like most of his paintings, British art icon Francis Bacon's studio (above) was a horrendous nightmare of clutter and art paraphernalia seeming to leaving little room for the artist himself. Marc Chagall, whose studio was surprisingly neat and orderly, would have ran screaming from Bacon's lair in bloody horror. John Singer Sargent's studio in Paris (he also had studios in London and New York) reflected the plush, Victorian lifestyle of the socialite artist and the era in which he lived. It even featured a bed for quick afternoon naps after a long day of dashing about his easel. Also, a painter's studio will reflect that artist's strengths and, by necessity, likewise his weaknesses as seen in Joe Fig's poignant painting, Chuck Close: Summer 2004 (below).

 

Chuck Close: Summer, 2004, Joe Fig

 

Manet Returns to Venice

A city with a painting around every corner.

I don't usually write regarding traveling art exhibits. I like my art blurbs to have a shelf life of more than a few weeks. However, inasmuch as I communed personally with Manet through the show, "Manet Returns to Paris," now at the Ducal Palace in Venice through August 18, 2013, I'll make an exception. Alright, it's probably not worth a special trip to Venice just to see it, but if you happen to be there this summer, as my wife and I were, place the show at the top of your "must-see" list, even if you're not much of an art connoisseur or particularly fond of the late 19th century artist icon. By the time you've spent the hour or so required to see the show, it's likely you will be. Eighty paintings, drawings, and prints from the hand of this groundbreaking master is well worth the 16 euros ticket price (half that if you're a student between the ages of 6 and 14 or over 65.

Manet's Olympia (left) and Titian's Venus of Urbino (right), together for the first time.

The beauty of this show for me personally was that it allowed me to study closely works by Manet that otherwise would have required a trip to Paris, the Musée d'Orsay, and the Louvre. Several works by other artists related to Manet and his relationship with the city of Venice have been imported from museums around the world as far flung as the Met in New York, the National Gallery in Washington, Florence's Uffizi, as well as art repositories in Boston, Budapest, Chicago, Frankfurt, and elsewhere. Manet's famous Olympia (1863), is seen for the first time juxtaposed next to Titian's Venus of Urbino, which inspired it. Manet's most famous work, Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe (1863, Luncheon on the Grass) is there as well a his Le fifre (The Fifer, 1866), and his Le Balcon (The Balcony, below, left, 1868-69) alongside Carpaccio's Two Venetian Ladies (below, right, 1490), which inspired it.

The Balcony, 1868, Edouard Manet

Two Venetian Ladies, 1490,
Vittore Carpaccio

Though less visually compelling than his paintings, the show's exhibits featuring Manet's drawings and prints, which provides evidence of the artist doing his homework during his two trips to Venice in 1853 and again with his wife in 1874. The paintings occupy the private apartments of the doge on an upper level of the palace (no elevator). Beyond studying the influence Venetian art and artists had upon Manet, it's just as fascinating to study the impression the city itself made upon the artist. Moreover, in actually being there, experiencing some of what Manet experienced, it's amazing to observe all that has not changed in the nearly 150 intervening years between then and now. Manet painted the same landmarks I saw, all of which are virtually unchanged. He painted the canals, the bridges, the gondolas, St. Mark's Square, even some of the grand palaces which, even then, were starting to be converted to hotels.

The Grand Canal of Venice (Blue Venice), 1874, Edouard Manet

Only the details have changed. The pigeons are still there, though now joined by souvenir vendors and tour guides. Manet probably missed enjoying the incredibly flavorful gelato but undoubtedly not the wines, nor the musty smell of the canals or the colorful shop windows full of glass works and lace. He may even have dined on the Venetian version of pizza at a sidewalk café. As an artist myself, I felt the same local influences. I doubt any artist could visit Venice and not come away with a lifetime of painting inspiration. This current Venetian retrospective of his work certainly underscores this to have been the case for Monsieur Edouard Manet.

Photo by Jim Lane

What Manet would see today in St. Mark's Square.

 

James Cameron's Titanic

The fictional Rose DeWitt Bukater (Kate Winslet) posed nude for a drawing by
Jack Dawson (Leonardo DiCaprio). Seldom has a work of art played such
an important role in another work of art.

James Cameron, Oscar night, 1998

A little over a year ago, I posted my list of top ten American movies ever made (06-17-12). There I listed James Cameron's 1997 epic blockbuster, Titanic, as number six. As anyone in the movie industry will tell you, $200-million in the hands of even as talented a filmmaker as Cameron, does not guarantee a great work of cinematic art (or even a profit at the box office). Cameron was as cognizant of this axiom as any of his nervous financial backers at 20th Century Fox or Paramount Pictures. (It took two major film studios plus a substantial hunk of Cameron's own cash to finance the massive, over-budget undertaking.) It would not be exaggerating in the least to say this awareness was crucial in Cameron's meticulous approach to the work of art he wrote, co-produced, co-edited, and directed himself. The film was technically, historically, dramatically, and aesthetically right "on the money." It was right on the "money" insofar as the box office was concerned as well, the first film in history to gross more than $2-billion worldwide since its release.

Cameron directing as the Titanic sinks. Titanic didn't sink in theaters.

Cameron was not the first filmmaker to assume such a "starring" roll in his own production. D. W. Griffith did it first in Birth of a Nation. For all practical purposes, David O Selznick did everything but play Scarlett in GWTW. Kubrick took similar control of Dr. Strangelove, as did Orson Wells in Citizen Kane. Besides writing, producing, directing and editing, Wells actually did take on the starring roll in his picture. All four made my top-ten list. The quirky Woody Allen has been a similar "one man band" as well. You might even say this could well be a the surest approach in the search for cinematic perfection. One has only to argue with oneself.

Despite Cameron's best directorial efforts (or perhaps because of them)
the ship itself became the Academy Award winning star of the movie.

Despite what Titanic's opening credits might suggest, the movie was not a one-man show. DiCaprio, Winslet, Billy Zane, and Kathy Bates, to name just a few, played important "supporting" roles in Cameron's masterpiece, though none were deemed as Oscar worthy (Cameron's screenplay and DiCaprio were not even nominated). As the eleven Oscars garnered by the movie suggests, the art of filmmaking continues to be "art by committee" (Cameron carried home only three gold statues). Only two other films have ever done as well, and only Cameron's own Avatar (2009) has since exceeded Titanic at the box office. Such "winners" at movie awards ceremonies have often been known to thank the "little people" who have made their success possible.

Cameron's full-scale movie set, built along the Baja coast, was as titanic as
the ship itself. His "ocean" held 17-million gallons of water. Only two decks
along the ship's starboard side were functional.

Gloria Stuart as the 101-year-old Rose

Cameron rose above such trite, deprecating gratitude, but he would have extended the length of his three acceptance speeches by several hours had he not done so. The initial underwater photography at the wreck site was groundbreaking, as were the full-size and scaled models crafted by his art directors, Peter Lamont and Michael D. Ford. Post-production special effects were nothing less than breathtaking. The soundtrack and hit song (My Heart Will Go On), from the movie won similar accolades. It's a notable tribute to Cameron's managerial strengths that of all the many awards heaped upon Titanic, virtually every one went to those on his team behind the camera. Only 87-year-old Gloria Stuart (best supporting actress, Screen Actor's Guild), who played the aging, present-day Rose, won an acting award.


 

The Pantheon Revisited

Photo by Jim Lane

As I pointed out originally, the Pantheon is notoriously difficult to photograph at street level. Add to that vehicular and pedestrian traffic and the task grows even harder. This is a composite of four photos stitched together as best as my meager photo editing skills will allow.

As the name of this blog suggests, it is as much about art now as about art "then." Back in March I did a lengthy discourse on the Pantheon "then" (03-24-13). This sequel is about the Pantheon now.

 



Photo by Jim Lane

Though in remarkably
good condition for its age,
the Pantheon's towering
Corinthian columns tend
to show its age.

June 18, 2013, was a hot day in Rome with temperatures approaching 90 degrees Fahrenheit (roughly 32 Celsius). Rome is a great place to visit on a hot day. The streets are narrow, providing shade, the fountains are plentiful if you're daring enough to indulge, and you need not apologize to yourself or anyone else for excessive consumption of gelato (wonderfully flavorful Italian ice cream). However, such a hot day is not ideal for a 67-year-old man to take a three-and-a-half-mile trek across the city behind a fleet-footed (though wondrously patient) guide less than half my age. But, if you want to "experience" Rome as opposed to merely "seeing" it, walking is the best way (perhaps the only way). Laden down with a video camera, a "still" camera, souvenirs, sunglasses, hat, and the obligatory water bottle, I felt like I was heading into combat rather than on a tourist jaunt.

Photo by Jim Lane

One of four huge, arched niches.

The Pantheon was the second stop, after the Trevi Fountain (more on that sometime in the future). In a city full of old buildings where nothing ever gets torn down, the Pantheon is not just old, it's ancient. Massive and ancient, those are the two first impressions upon approaching and entering the one time Roman temple, now called Santa Maria della Rotonda. The modest (for Rome, at least) plaza fronting the temple/church is known as Plaza della Rotonda. Like virtually every other self-respecting plaza in Rome, it sports it's own obelisk. I can't remember if this one is authentically Egyptian or just a two-thousand-year-old Roman copy. In any case the Italians ought to double the plaza's size, given the enormous mass and importance of this ancient Roman landmark.

Photo by Jim Lane

The glare of the sun through the oculus in the darkened chamber makes for bad photography, but underscores the visual power of this predictable lighting device.

Inside, the one-time temple has been thinly disguised as a church. Because of this, the interior is more pristine than the rough-hewn exterior, having withstood the ravages of the centuries. Inside, the impression is merely "old"--one of classical beauty (if not restraint). I was surprised to find the Pantheon to be the final resting place of the painter, Raphael Sanszio. A couple Italian kings and a queen are also buried there. Despite the polyglot press of fellow tourists, ones eyes cannot help but drift upward to the famous concrete coffered dome with its equally famous oculus. On a bright, sunny day, as when I visited, this 33-foot "hole in the roof" casts an impressive natural spotlight within the otherwise relatively dark interior, moving about the circular chamber with the rotation of the earth. Visiting the Pantheon is somewhat the same as visiting the Sistine Chapel. Your mind struggles to absorb it all while your feet and legs cry out in agony. Then your guide steps in to mediate this conflict, leading her motley crew on to a date with Castel San Angelo clear over on the other side of the Tiber. Whew... Hey! Wait for me!

Photo by Jim Lane

The tempting, civilized way to see Rome, silhouetted against the jumbled,
touristy plaza crowding in on the ancient Roman landmark.

 Click here for the video version of this day.

A Tale of Two Churches

San Marco Cathedral, Venice

Whoever said "getting there is half the fun" has never flown transatlantic in economy class. I'd rather take a leisurely week or two cruising over in a nice, civilized, luxury liner for roughly the same price as we did last year. I don't fly well. My arms get tired (you know...from lugging LUGgage). Moreover, my wife and I are both too old to travel light. During the past two weeks in visiting Venice, Italy, many details stand out--churches, canals, bridges, piazzas, overpriced sidewalk cafes, bell towers, gondolas, and...did I mention churches? Venice is literally speckled with them, conservatively counting, about 150, ranging from discretely modest to world-class architectural achievements. The largest is the Basilica of San Marco (04-21-13) and the smallest involves in a 52-way tie for that distinction. Two, however, stand forth in my memory as being special. First of all, I'm talking, of course of the ancient San Marco Cathedral. However, sitting just across the channel from the cathedral and Saint Mark's Square is San Giorgio Maggiore.

 

Photo by Jim Lane

San Giorgio Maggiore, Venice

The contrasts between the two historic religious edifices couldn't be greater. About all they share in common is their watery venue. San Giorgio is practically new, by Venetian standards, a Benedictine neighborhood church dating from the 16th century. Virtually all churches in Venice were built as neighborhood churches, one per island, at a time when bridges were far from common. San Marco also began as a neighborhood church, the private chapel of the city's civic ruler, known as the doge. Its history is roughly a thousand years older than that of the lovely white church on the tiny island of Maggiore in Venice's famous lagoon. If size means anything, San Marco is somewhat larger too. And, being older, its history is much more impressive, not to mention convoluted, reflecting quite accurately the history of Venice itself. And, like the history of Venice, it's not pretty. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, inside and out, it's probably the least attractive church in all Christendom. (It was hard not to reference the word "ugly" in writing that line).

 

San Giorgio Maggiore (interior),
1560-1611, Andrea Palladio

It takes no restraint in saying that San Giorgio is beautiful, even elegant, especially on the outside, thanks to its illustrious architect, Andrea Palladio (05-20-13), Vincenzo Scamozzi, and Simone Sorella (the latter two supervised the completion of Palladio's exquisitely beautiful classical façade some years after his death). Inside, where San Marco is dull, dark, and eclectic (to put it mildly), the interior of Palladio's San Giorgio is light, airy, richly ornamented, and classical, yet never fussy or ancient looking. In visiting San Marco, one has the feeling the cathedral may have had a degree of mosaic, Byzantine beauty at some point in its long, turbulent history. Sadly, about the only remaining element of that beauty would be the generous offering of gold leaf gleaming from its lofty, five-domed heights. Where San Marco is pretentious, San Giorgio is restrained. San Marco squats like an aging dowager presiding over its massive, bustling, touristy square. San Giorgio quietly surveys its own modest, waterfront piazza like a lovely lady-in-waiting. Anyone going to the trouble to travel to the island of Maggiore, goes there to enjoy great architecture. Those visiting San Marco (myself included) simply want to claim, "been there, done that."