Sergei Eisenstein

Battleship Potemkin, 1926, Sergei Eisenstein, director.

Sergei Eisenstein, 1925

If you're a serious film buff, you've no doubt heard the name, Sergei Eisenstein. If not, probably not. Eisenstein was a Soviet Russian film maker born in Latvia in 1898. His father was of German, Jewish, and Swedish blood. His mother was Russian. His father was an architect who moved around a lot so the boy grew up all over eastern Europe during the first two decades of the 20th century. Sergei, like his father, studied architecture before WW I and his enlistment in the Red Army (his father was a tsarist). He got his start in film making while working in an army propaganda unit after the war in support of the Bolshevik October Revolution. However Eisenstein's first creative efforts were with the Moscow theater, in the role of set designer. There he directed his first short films of theater productions while writing articles on film theory, especially montage editing. His first feature film, Strike, made in 1925, dealt with a strike at a pre-revolution factory in which metaphorical shots of cattle being slaughtered were intercut with scenes of violent strike suppression.

 

The Battleship Potemkin around 1905, before the mutiny.

The final shot from Eisenstein's
 Odessa steps massacre sequence.
Subtlety was not his forte.

Eisenstein's most memorable film, and probably his best effort, was the silent Battleship Potemkin from 1926. Eisenstein is often compared to the American film maker, D.W. Griffith, in which case Potemkin is his Birth of a Nation. Both films are propaganda pieces, Griffith's landmark effort somewhat more subtle in that regard than Eisenstein's, but no less influential from a cultural and technical perspective. Although Griffith's Birth of a Nation (1915) was made more than ten years before Battleship Potemkin, it's uncertain whether Eisenstein had ever seen Griffith's film.  In any case, both covered much the same ground. The two films also have much the same look and feel, though Eisenstein's focus is narrower, his interest and expertise more on the emotional impact of editing and in managing large crowd scenes than the melodramatic love stories and moralistic themes Griffith pursued. Moreover, Griffith was relatively subtle. Eisenstein was far from it (left).

 

Eisenstein's Massacre on the Odessa steps, Battleship Potemkin, 1926.

The Battleship Potemkin, after the Mutiny.

The Potemkin was a Russian battleship built for the Black Sea fleet about 1903. The story revolves around the mistreatment of its crew by their tsarist officers. One memorable scene early in the film involves the crew rebelling against being served meat infested with maggots. With the onslaught of the 1917 Russian Revolution, the crew mutinied. Sailing out of Odessa, the most famous scene comes late in the film when a group of townspeople are seen waving goodbye as the ship leaves port, whereupon they are attacked by tsarist troops at the top of a seemingly unending, broad flight of steps. They flee down the steps only to be met and massacred by Russian Cossacks at the bottom. Even in black and white, the blood splatters freely. The sequence (which can be seen in the video clip near the bottom) ends with an unattended baby carriage rolling suspensefully down the steps toward the slaughter and the water. Eisensteins' editing is masterful, though possibly a bit slow by modern standards. The only problem is, the whole scene never actually happened. Yes, there was a great deal of bloodshed in the Crimean area at the time, and the Potemkin did come under Bolshevik control, but, ever true to his propagandist calling, Eisenstein simply made the worst of a bad situation.

 

Eisenstein's dramatic confrontation on the Odessa steps, Battleship Potemkin, 1926.

Seconds later...

During the 1930s, as a result of the critical acclaim heaped upon Battleship Potemkin, and his 1928 silent film,  October (Ten Days that Shook the World), Eisenstein was something of a celebrity in Russia. He traveled and lectured on his film theories all over Europe. He eventually came to the United States and flirted with Paramount's Jesse Lasky, though the two never came to any agreement as to an American project. Eisenstein's free-spirited film making techniques did not fit well with the American factory-studio approach. Moving on to Mexico, he did actually shoot a few miles of film, though his financial backers pulled the plug before the film Que Viva Mexico (Long Live Mexico) could be completed. Moreover, Soviet dictator, Joseph Stalin smelled a deserter and called him back to mother Russia. There, he made such epics as Alexander Nevsky, Seeds of Freedom, Land of Freedom, Ivan the Terrible Parts I & II, as well as numerous short films and documentaries all of a predominantly socialist realism genre (read propaganda). Eisenstein's Communist idealism led him to envision a sort of film maker's utopia free of studio bosses and budgetary restraints which he saw as hampering his creative freedom. He died in 1948 at the age of fifty, disillusioned by the fact that bosses and budgets were as much a part of Communism as Capitalism.

Eisenstein's most powerful editing:

Eisenstein's suspenseful baby stroller scenario was copied by Brian De Palma in his 1978 film, The Untouchables, during the climactic massacre scene filmed in New York's Grand Central Station.

 

Henri-Edmond Cross

San Giorgio Maggiore Venice, 1904, Henri-Edmond Cross.
Having visited Venice this summer, I've come to love Venetian scenes.

Henri-Edmond Cross
Self-portrait, 1880

Those who write about art have a tendency to slight the period near the end of the 19th century which we've come to call Post-impressionism. I guess, truth be told, I'm as guilty of this as anyone. Part of the reason is that this period saw a fragmentation of painting styles as Impressionist started moving on, and in so doing, headed off in several different directions. We have Fauvism, Expressionism, Pointillism, Neo-impressionism, Primitivism, and two or three more lesser "isms" all of which we tend to cover individually rather than as a group. The fact that each of these styles were quite different further adds to this fragmentation of what may, in fact, be a poor designation in the first place. The term was coined as late as 1910 by the English art critic, Roger Fry, designating the years 1886-1892 (a rather narrow time slot). It was a catchall intended more as chronological designation than one of style.

 

Rio San Trovaso, 1904, Henri-Edmond Cross. Pointillism is an ideal
style for capturing the watery, shimmering essence of Venice.

One of the most important "isms," of this era, and the one most closely related to impressionism, was that of Pointillism. Here the names Seurat and Signac come to mind, but equally important as to this style was that of Henri-Edmond Cross. Cross was born Henri-Edmond-Joseph Delacroix in northern France in 1856. When he moved to Paris around 1881 to begin studying and working as an artist, he changed his name to Henri Cross to avoid confusion with Eugene Delacroix (no relation). He began as a Realist painter but in meeting Paul Signac while touring the Mediterranean he became fascinated with Signac's dots, though in many of Cross' paintings the dots tended to be more like tiny squares.

Maximillien Luce, 1898, Henri Edmond Cross

Madame Hector France, 1893, Henri-Edmond Cross

Cross's painting style didn't suddenly change with his exposure to Impressionism, Pointillism, or Paul Signac. It evolved. Strangely, it's first noticeable appearance came not in a landscape, but in a portrait of his future wife, Madame Hector France (right), whom he met in 1888, painted in 1891, and married in 1893. When we think of Pointillism, we don't usually think of portraits, but Cross's painting of his future wife, and especially that of his friend and fellow artist Maximillien Luce (above), far surpasses the portraiture of either Seurat or Signac. Cross' traditional Academic training is plainly evident. Yet there is a great deal of both Seurat and Signac in Cross' later work after 1900, though he tended towards the nude figures favored by his Impressionist friends as seen in his In the Shade (below) from 1902. By this time he had once more found the need to change his name to differentiate himself from another French artist, Henri Cros. That's when he became Henri-Edmond Cross. Despite severe arthritis, Cross continued to be productive until shortly before his death from cancer in 1909. He was 53 and, as his portrait would suggest, a heavy smoker.

In the Shade, 1902, Henri-Edmond Cross. His penchant for painting en Plein air is clearly evident. Given the time consuming nature of Pointillism, he must have loved the outdoors.





 

 

Michael Graves

The Portland Building, Portland, Oregon, 1982, Michael Graves.

Although most of us have seen examples of Postmodern architecture, few people think of it in that light. It simply looks "modern" with perhaps a few weirdly eclectic twists. I suppose that's not all  that bad a definition, but lacks something in terms of being definitive of the style. In essence, Modernism tended to reject the past and embrace the phrases "less is more," and "form follows function." As broadening as those traits might appear, they have turned out to be rather limiting. The plethora of urban glass boxes in all our major cities, for example. Tired of glass, architects turned to marble or granite panels polished to seem like glass. Still, the rectangle dominated, whether soaring to great heights or clinging closely to California cliffs. Modern became booooorrrring.

 

Team Disney Headquarters, Burbank California, 1986, Michael Graves.
Postmodern gargoyles, or are they caryatids?

Postmodern architecture came riding in like the cavalry to the rescue around 1970. Robert Venturi in designing a new home for his mother in 1962 may have started it all but he was quickly followed by Phillip Johnson (a convert from Modernism) with his AT&T Building in New York (now Sony) in 1984, as well as Frank Gehry, John Burgee, Cesar Pelli, and Micheal Graves, to name just a few. Michael Graves was at the forefront of this charge to prove architecture had life after Modernism. It's important to note that none of these architects rejected Modernism as their predecessors had rejected the swarm of architectural "isms" which had preceded it. None of them reverted to Corinthian columns or gargoyles (though Graves came close with his Seven Dwarfs holding up the roof in his Team Disney Building, above). Instead, they simply looked back and admitted to themselves that Art Deco, and Art Nouveau, the Gothic style, even Palladio and Morris Hunt all had certain elements which, used in moderation, could lighten up, add spice, and even humor to the staid rectilinear cubes to which Modernism had devolved.

 

Hyatt Hotel, San Diego, California, 1990, Michael Graves.

Humana Building, Louisville, Kentucky,
1982, Michael Graves

The architecture of Michael Graves does not "WOW" the viewer. Even his famous 1982 Portland Building (top), though certainly a striking departure from Modernism, does not propel anyone into the 21st century. His Hyatt Hotel in San Diego (above) displays much the same restraint. It seems friendly, warm, and familiar. Graves seems to be the favorite architect for both Disney and Hyatt, having designed multiple structures for both. Graves has thrown off Modernism's addiction to glass and polished stone, embracing curves, color, symmetry, even optical illusions in their place. At first glance, the main body of the Hyatt San Diego appears to be three jutting "faces" when it fact, they are but one. The mass is monumental without being intimidating. His windows look like what they are, not massive, mirrored facades. In fact, Graves has sometimes been criticized for "obstructing the view" from inside his buildings. Graves' most visually complex building, the Humana Headquarters (above, left) may also be his most Postmodern. At first glance it looks like a giant throne with a curved, cantilevered "headrest." However, from that point the viewer abruptly exhausts his "looks like" vocabulary. It looks like nothing ever seen before (or since) in architecture from any era. One might even call it an architectural "sampler."

Alexander House, Princeton, New Jersey, 1971, Michael Graves.
The round windows framing a square central pane have become a Graves trademark.

The famous Graves Tea Kettle  (1964) was
 but the first in a long line of domestic
products from the architect's drawing board.

Graves domestic works, his houses designed mostly during the early years of his career (as is the case with most architects) bear the familiar Graves traits. They tend to be symmetrical, understated, yet grand without being pretentious. Graves also designs (or approves) the interiors of his houses. His architectural firm, Michael Graves and Associates offers a full line of design services, even down to the teapot on the table (left, available exclusively at JC Penney's).

The Michael Graves Patient Chair in various ergonomic configurations.

The story of Michael Graves, the architect, or Graves, the designer, closes with what might be considered by some as a tragic note. In 2003, the architect contracted what's thought to be bacterial meningitis. It left him paralyzed from the waist down. Now confined to a wheel chair (which he redesigned and franchises), he makes it clear he is not paralyzed from the waist up. Born in 1934, Graves is now 79 years old. Though no longer designing buildings with round windows or high-end teapots, he still plays an active role in managing his architectural firm. He's also taken up painting, having recently directed his first one-man show.

Michael Graves surrounded by his art.




 

 

Dirck Pietesrz Crabeth

Jonah and the Whale, 1565, Dirck and Wouter Crabeth




The Last Supper, 1557,
Dirck and Wouter Crabeth

In traveling about and visiting various architectural structures having to do with worship, we very often encounter grand and glorious windows, which not only admit light into the sanctuary but also tell some biblical story. We refer to them as stained glass windows, yet quite often these magnficent works of the glazier's art are not, in fact, stained glass but painted glass. The difference is obvious in the terms themselves, but just for the record, stained glass has the coloring agents (usually some mineral additive) inherent in the glass itself. Painted glass has the coloration, in fact, usually an image, added by an artist once the glass is fabricated. Paints may be oil, water, vinegar, or silver nitrate based. The glass is then fired in a kiln to fuse the paint to the surface. This is a tricky process in that the pigments tend to change color during firing. Very often, previously stained glass is painted, allowing a combination of the two media, thus keeping our habitual descriptions at least somewhat accurate.

 



Dirck Pietersrz Crabeth,
possibly a self-portrait.

The primary difference between stained glass and a painting is light. Paintings utilize reflected light while  stained glass uses refracted light passing through the work of art itself. In Holland, in the 16th century. when all forms of painting "flowered," along side the tulips, none did so more beautifully than that of painted glass. And no artist contributed more to this art than did Dirck Pietesrz Crabeth and his brother, Wouter Crabeth I of Gouda (yes, the same city as the cheese). It may be oversimplifying somewhat to say Dirck handled the paint while Wouter handled the glass, though archival evidence would tend to support such an observation. Dirck was born in 1501, his brother in 1510. Their family had been in the glass business since the glass business began in that country.

 

Judith and her Maid with the Head
of Holofernes (detail), 1571,
Dirck and Wouter Crabeth

Dirck Crabeth seems to have been influenced by the Dutch painter, Jan van Scorel, though most of his talents seem to have come naturally or through a father-son apprenticeship. His preliminary drawings and cartoons (full-size patterns on paper) indicate the was a more than adequate draftsman capable of readily handling figures, faces, and interiors as the scenes demanded (below). The scenes were, of course, entirely of a religious nature, his work being exclusively that of church windows. His first major work came in the years between 1552 and 1571. He was commissioned to replace windows destroyed by fire in the local Janskerk. Inasmuch as the church was dedicated to St. John the Baptist, the first panes depicted the patron saint. Later images were those of Jesus and the Money Changers, The Last Supper (above, left), Jonah and the Whale (top), and strangely, Judith with the Head of Holofernes (left). Naturally, down in one corner, there is a praying image of the guy who paid for it all, George van Egman (below, left).

 

Preliminary design drawing, Annunciation, Dirck Crabeth

George van Egman (donor),
1555, Dirk Craabeth

The story of the Crabeth brothers' Janskerk windows after they were installed is as interesting as the windows themselves. It remains a mystery as to why these windows survived the iconoclastic Beeldenstorm (image storm) around 1566 when Calvinist mobs destroyed the inteior decoration of many Dutch Catholic churches (as well as those in other European countries). The Protestant Reformation seems to have had little effect upon the work of the Crabeth brothers as they apparently labored straight through this period in installing their windows. Even with the Janskerk convent was torn down in 1580, the windows were moved to the church itself. Apparently, the Protestants admired their efforts as much as had the Catholics.

A monument to the Crabeth brothers, by Jo Uiterwaal, located behind the church.

 

Stolen art

View of Auvers sur Oise, 1879-82, Paul Cezanne,
stolen from the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, England,
during the millennium fireworks celebration, New Year's Eve, 1999.



copyright, Jim Lane

Nautical Stuff, 1996, Jim Lane,
stolen in dealing with an art gallery.

Virtually ever artist of any consequence has had their work stolen.  I'm not sure how consequential I am or will become, but I've lost a least a half-dozen pieces, in one case three at a time, stolen off the wall of a theater lobby as the midnight show let out. The projectionist was the only staffer in the building at the time. They were never recovered. Strangely, in another instance, as I was sitting in a dentist chair, the hygienist commented she had a painting of mine. Naturally, I asked her which one. She described a painting she'd purchased at a local restaurant for which I was never reimbursed. I'd counted the work as having been lost when the restaurant owner sold out and left town. Apparently he "sold out" my painting to my dental hygienist.

The Concert, 1664, Jan Vermeer, tied
 with Rembrandt's Storm on the Sea of
Galilee as the most valuable paintings
ever stolen,each worth $5-million..

Of course, my victimization is minuscule compared to that of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum art heist on March 18, 1990. The Boston museum lost thirteen major works valued collectively at $300-million, including major pierces by Vermeer (right), Rembrandt (below, left), Degas, Manet, and a painting by Govaert Flinck, which the thieves apparently thought was a Rembrandt. They left behind two Raphaels and a Botticelli. It was the greatest art heist in history. None of the works have ever been recovered despite a $5-million reward for a couple of the most valuable ones. The thieves were admitted to the museum  posing as police officers.

Christ in the Storm on the Sea of
Galilee, Rembrandt, part of the Gardner
Museum haul, 1990.

Vincent van Gogh can "claim" at least three paintings as having been stolen when the van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam suffered the loss of several works valued at $300-million in a theft  similar to that at the Gardner Museum (no known connection). None of those works have ever been recovered. Often, when such art is stolen they are chalked up as lost forever. Works by Caravaggio, Picasso, van Eyck, Matisse, Monet, and Gauguin, among many others, fall into this category. The Picasso, his Le pigeon aux petits pois (below, left) was so little regarded by the thieves they stuffed it into a dumpster as they fled police. Alas, the garbage container was emptied before the work was known to be missing and long before a search could begin.



Le_pigeon Aux Petits Pois, 1911,
Pablo Picasso, trashed by art ignorant
thieves, May, 2010

Vase_mit_Pechnelken (Poppy
Flowers), 1886, Vincent van Gogh.
The painting is barely larger than
 a postage stamp and has the
distinction of having been stolen
twice.

Check out a similar item from last year dealing with  Art stolen by WW II Nazis.





 

Pierre Auguste Cot

The Storm, 1880, Pierre Auguste Cot

Although I've written quite a lot about Impressionism recently, it's difficult to grasp the quantum leap this style of painting was over that of the prevailing, bourgeois tastes of Paris in the 1870s without taking a closer look at such work. First, there were the big names in Academic painting, Ingres, Delacroix, Cabanal, Bouguereau, Gerome and a few others. But also, tagging along not far behind, was a fairly lengthy list of "little" names as well, including Thomas Couture, Paul Delaroche, Jules Lefebvre, Pierre Auguste Cot, and many, many others. Although there are subtle differences in the work of all these artists, in general, the Paris art scene in the 1870s and 80s was so inbred as a result of each generation of Ecole des Beaux Arts students so desperately following the "what works" formula of their masters as to send a viewer's eyes immediately to the corner of their work in search of a signature to ascertain the artist. And the driving force behind this Academic sameness was the ubiquitous Paris Salon, where acceptance or rejection could literally make or break an artist's career. That is what the Impressionists were up against.

 

Springtime, 1873, Pierre Auguste Cot. It would appear to me Cot
used the same models for this and The Storm, though the male figure
was provided a more revealing costume for the 1880 work (top).

Pierre Auguste Cot Self-portrait,1870

Typical of the second tier of Academic artists, and one of the most inbred, working at a time when the Academic style was at its height, was Pierre Auguste Cot. Although you may not recognize the name, there's a good chance you may recognize his work, such as The Storm (top), painted in 1880. It's often used as the epitome of all that was congenitally wrong with Academic art at this time. In this case, Cot even went so far as to suggest the Academic family tree, indicating ancestry in the Rococo and Romantic styles of previous generations. Though stopping just short of depicting his figures in the nude (as Cabanal and others might have done) there is an innate eroticism lingering just beneath the surface in this and Cot's other most famous work, a companion piece painted earlier (1873) ,which he called Springtime (above). This sanitized sexuality was one of the hallmarks of the Academic style.

Portrait of a Girl, 1869, Pierre Auguste Cot.

Though probably his "best" paintigs, and that which got him represented in the Salon shows, The Storm and Springtime were show pieces. They were not typical of his work. Cot was primarily a portrait painter (no artist at the time, even Cabanal or Bouguereau, could earn a living painting nothing but nubile naked nymphs). Cot's portraits are good, though not exceptional. There were dozens, maybe hundreds, of equally adept portrait artists in Paris at the time. The Academic style was in its finest form when it came to portraits, at least until portrait photography stole its thunder. Yet, even in Cot's portraits, there is an undercurrent of eroticism flowing just beneath the surface. Cot's Portrait of a Girl (right) from 1869, is what we might call today "sexy."

Dionysia, 1870, Pierre Auguste Cot.





 

And if Cot wasn't painting sexy he was painting sweet (another Academic trademark). His Dionysia (left) from 1870, is more mature, more demure, and literally quite "flowery." Just looking at it drives my blood sugar level up 100 points. In the same clogged vein, the works of Cot and his cadre of Academic cohorts were like a syrupy caffe mocha while Impressionism might be compared to sparkling Perrier.

Steel Sculpture

photo by Matt Faber

I'm Alive, 2005, Tony Cragg

Even though I love sculpture and have even tried my hand at it a few times (mostly in college) I must confess to being derelict in writing about it. That's ironic in that I've started including low-relief sculptural elements into my paintings. Yet, as a painter, I've watched in dismay as, just in my own lifetime, the painted image has declined in importance. In its place, as a choice mode of creative expression, sculpture, not to mention video and digital media, are having an ever more impressive impact on the arts. Insofar as sculpture is concerned, much of this rise to prominence has to do with the growing utilization by artists of an almost unbelievably wide range of viable and acceptable sculptural media. I've written about several such "new" media the past few months (too many to list here).

 

The Lady, 1967, Pablo Picasso, Chicago Civic Center Daley Plaza

One of Picasso's first steel
sculptures from 1928

For centuries sculpture had to be carved (or so it was thought), usually from wood or stone. Sculpture demanded a material that was ageless. Eventually, a growing knowledge of metalergy allowed bronze to be cast from molds utilizing wax and plaster. Then, in the first decade of the 20th century, little more than a hundred years ago, Pablo Picasso changed all that. He began to fabricate sculpture. The basic methods utilized went from subtracting materials from a whole to adding composite parts to create a whole. Sculpture has never been the same since. Picasso's fifty-foot-tall welded steel sculpture, The Lady (above) in Chicago's Civic Center Plaza is an enduring monument to this fundamental change. His first efforts in steel from around 1928 would seem to indicate he started small (left).

 

Tortois and Hare,
Michael Browne and Stewart Smith,
Van Cortlandt Park, Bronx, NY

In recent years there has been a veering away from the idea that sculpture must, by necessity, be enduring. Sculptors have embraced everything from snow to straw, including various foodstuffs, flowers, shrubbery, fabric, hair, even fire and water, none of which are likely to last more than a few months. However, on the other side of the coin, where "everlasting life" is deemed by the sculptor to be paramount, like Picasso, they tend to prefer steel. Steel is versatile. It's relatively inexpensive, attractive, it can be molded or welded, comes in a variety of colors and textures, not to mention the fact that it can be painted virtually any color. And, whether rusted or mirrored stainless, steel, with minimal upkeep, it is about as archival as any material known to man (even better than marble).

copyright, Jim Lane

A monument to the Finnish composer, Sibelius, Helsinki, Finland. More than a hundred steel cylinders make soft sounds in the wind. Nearby stands a steel sculpture of the composer's disembodied head.

Sliced Image and Steel Nut,
Park Chan-girl

Steel lends itself to abstraction or expressionism, or abstract expressionism (above), as well as it does to realism, environmental pieces, even fountains and massive monuments (or all of the above in a single piece). Some sculptors take pride in crafting their steel sculpture themselves while others, such as Picasso, simply build scale models then, adopting a post-modern mindset, let the experts do the dirty work. I might also add that, as with virtually all art one encounters with steel sculpture, what has become my favorite critical phrase, the "good, the bad, and the ugly." Fortunately, most of it is good. Some, in fact, is very good. Those are the ones I've included here...a steel sculpture sampler, so to speak.

Check out this wonder of modern sculptural science in Charlotte, North Carolina by Czech Republic artist David Cerny: