Art Appreciation
The Eyes of the Beholder
For years, I have been disillusioned by the feeling that I do not understand art. I am not - I hope! - entirely a philistine. I can appreciate the skill needed to paint a scene of the sun setting on a venerable warship, or, for that matter, to paint a bowl of fruit. I can stand in solemn silence, taking in the artist’s work and admiring their use of colour and perspective. I can marvel at their capacity to create, to conjure something beautiful onto a blank canvas. But I seem to lack the sensibility to identify the subtler nuances - the ability to discern what is good, or even, great art.
When I visited the Louvre with my friends nearly a decade ago, we predictably joined the stream of visitors heading towards the star attraction in the museum - the Mona Lisa. The currents carried us into the designated gallery, leaving us adrift near the stanchions diligently guarding Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece. Encased within a glass box, it was surprisingly small and, dare I say it, underwhelming. In fact, it was the painting displayed on the opposite side of the gallery which left me in awe. It covered the entire wall - its imposing size a striking counterpoint to the petite Mona Lisa - and the sheer scale of the work was breath-taking. As the other tourists took selfies with the lady with the enigmatic smile, I remember staring at the Wedding Feast at Cana (Nozze di Cana), overwhelmed by its beauty, vibrancy, and ambition. It moved me in ways the Mona Lisa - the epitome of high art - could not. What did that say, I wondered, about my aesthetic taste?
A few years later, I would miss another opportunity to elevate my understanding of the arts. In 2017, my wife and I spent a few days in Florence and one morning we made our way to the Uffizi Gallery. The Uffizi is one of the most stunning museums I have visited in my life. The astonishing array of displays bring to life the evolution of European art forms (particularly during the Renaissance period) and one can scarcely tear one’s eyes off one painting before they are transfixed by another. With a snug headphone whispering art history into my ears, I spent more than half a day studiously observing all the Uffizi had to offer.
And yet, of all the magnificent artwork I had seen, the only one I now remember vividly is the 16th-century portrait of Keanu Reeves1. I had drunk from the fountain of fine culture and a Hollywood meme is all that had stayed with me.
As anyone who has seen me sketch can attest, my ineptitude is not limited to the perception of art alone; it extends to its creation as well.
When I was a young child, my mother had enrolled me in drawing classes. Painting is one of the many skills she possesses (she has not painted for many years now but I am loathe to use the past tense) and she had hoped - not unreasonably - that her genes would hold true. The tutor held her in high esteem and was far more patient with me than I deserved. He would valiantly squint at my scribbles, hoping to salvage some sense out of the madness. His eyes would visibly widen as he observed my handiwork, as if astounded by how far the apple could fall from the tree. He would shake his head in bewilderment and urge me to try again, but the quality of my output never wavered. My art was nothing if not consistent.
After a few months, he gave up and my career as an artist was brought to a premature end. But my desire to continue engaging with art, notwithstanding my frequent difficulties in grasping its meaning, remained undimmed. I may not have inherited her artistic flair but I had certainly inherited my mother’s doggedness.
Last weekend, this doggedness (and a few enthusiastic friends) led me to the Kochi - Muziris Biennale2. In all fairness, I had made the trip expecting to be confounded by the exhibits; I had prepared myself to deal with the frustrating impotence of staring at a piece of contemporary art but being blind to what the artist wished to express; I had steeled myself in anticipation of failing at art, once again.
And indeed, while some of the work on display was evocative - the haunting, visceral woodcut work by Treibor Mawlong, in particular - there were many other pieces which left me perplexed. As my friends and I chatted about how a broken piece of furniture could be art, I had an epiphany. In trying to understand what qualifies as art, I had always sought to bore into the mind of the artist - as if unlocking the mysteries of their consciousness would reveal the elusive meaning of what they had created. I had tethered my understanding of art to what was popular or critically acclaimed, and if those feted artworks left me cold or confused, I laid the blame on my own ignorant self. I had outsourced art appreciation; no wonder then, that I had struggled with it for so long.
It was a broken piece of furniture which made me realise that art has to be - inherently, compulsively - an intrinsic experience. It is futile to try to understand art, to try to intellectualize the artist’s meaning and motivations. Art must be felt. If the broken piece of furniture stirred my soul, it was art. If Keanu Reeves’ portrait is my finest memory of the Uffizi, so be it. If gawping at a staggeringly large painting of a wedding feast is my Louvre moment, I embrace it (after all, admiring the Mona Lisa is such a cliché). These are the pieces of art that have stayed with me and I am richer for it. As long as their memory continues to warm me, I have no need to try to understand them.
P. S.: Some programming notes. More Letters, Less News will be on a break for the rest of this month because I will be travelling. Expect lots of stories from the United Kingdom when I’m back! And you can follow me on Instagram (IG: @rohan_42) for live updates during my trip and pictures of Scottish sheep.
P.P.S.: For the many well-wishers who had enquired about the dance performance following the last newsletter issue, I am happy to report that I survived the ordeal. There is a video of the thing but I believe the editing team has snipped my role in public interest. If you haven’t already, you can read the last issue below.
To be fair, I do remember the captaviting, ethereal beauty of The Birth of Venus. But Keanu comes first.
I felt the same way about the Mona Lisa. I think the fame is the story and not the painting. I have always thought art appreciation was internal.
I draw and paint (am fairly decent at it), and my eye, I'd say, is not wholly untrained, but I am no art critic or even what you might refer to as an experienced eye in the sense they use the term, so a combination of eye and gut feeling is my lens. Which is why I couldn't agree more that art must be felt, first and foremost. By the way, my sister and I are with you about the Wedding Feast at Cana. We were similarly awed by it during our visit; much more than with the Mona Lisa! Safe travels to the island - I look forward to following along on Instagram :)