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Art

Notícies

2018

març 2018
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AfNeNvpD__4
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZ1jE6zc4pM
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/03/12/beyond-american-gothic Grant Wood, AMerican Gothic, s’inspirà en Hans Memling.
https://www.abebooks.com/art/female-artists/ Georgia O’Keefe, Käthe Kollwitz
https://artprof.org/ Cursos d’art
http://www.vivianmaier.com/ vivian maier, fotografia
https://www.ara.cat/suplements/diumenge/Raoul-HausmannLespessor-del-temps_0_2005599423.html Raoul Hausmann, que va fer el cap que tant m’agrada,d eia que tot venia de la dansa
http://fortune.com/2014/08/05/what-architects-dont-get-about-steve-jobs-spaceship/ arquitectura, Steve Jobs i pixar i aple per afavorir la interacció.
https://mymodernmet.com/michael-pederson-clever-street-art/ Instal·lacions humorístiques poètiques, Michael Pederson, http://miguelmarquezoutside.com/
https://artreview.com/opinion/online_opinion_jj_charlesworth_art_market_blockchain_christies/ implementar blockchain per aportar transparència a les transaccions en el mercat de l’art.
https://vimeo.com/stock vídeos per comprar a vimeo
http://tillmans.co.uk/book-downloads Fotografia Wolfang Tillmans
Els Dialectograms de Mitch Miller http://www.dialectograms.com/  Take a dash of cartography, a pinch of architecture and a fair bit of ethnography and you have the dialectogram, graphic art that depicts place from the ground up.
https://archnet.org/sites/7094 Not Vidal, a Huse to watch the sunset
http://www.all-art.org/art_20th_century/dali-5.html   material de referència en art
Joan Miró adhered to his routine religiously, in part because he worried the severe depression he dealt with when he was younger (before he began painting, beginning around age 18) might return. Throughout the 1930s, while living in Barcelona with his wife and daughter, the Spanish painter rose daily at 6 a.m. He bathed and ate a light breakfast of coffee and bread, before settling down in front of his easel. He painted without stopping from 7 a.m. to noon, at which point he would leave his studio and exercise for an hour.
Miró was serious about working out, which he saw as another method to keep depression at bay. In Barcelona, he jumped rope and did Swedish gymnastics at a gym; in Paris, he boxed; and on vacation in Catalonia, he swam and jogged along the beach.
http://www.stgallplan.org/en/index_plan.html Codex sangallensis 1902, plànol d’un monestir
https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-going-art-museum-good-exercise els efectes benefactors per la salut de visitar un museu
COlor of the year L’empresa Pantone fa diners codificant els colors. Però també és un empresa intel·ligent i interessant i cada any tria un color. El 2019 serà el color corall:
2019
https://vimeo.com/stock vídeos vimeo royalty free
https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-complex-meanings-hand-gestures-buddhist-art mudras, l’expressió de  les mans en l’art budista, tocar la terra, meditar, saludar, ensenyar, allunyar les pors
https://getpocket.com/explore/item/welcome-to-airspace  airspace, maons i fustes reciclades.  It’s possible to travel all around the world and never leave AirSpace, and some people don’t.
https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-figurative-painting-good Què fa que una pintura figurativa sigui bona-
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/06/03/timelessness-in-works-by-thomas-cole-and-brice-marden  Thomas Cole, Brice Marden. Two small shows in the Hudson Valley hint at long spiritual rhythms that are not lost, though they may be occluded, in the staccato frenzies of our day. Two sublime small shows that will last the summer in towns along the Hudson River remind me of something that art is good for: consolation. I speak of “Thomas Cole’s Refrain: The Paintings of Catskill Creek,” at the Thomas Cole Historic Site, in Catskill, and “Brice Marden’s Cold Mountain Studies,” which will open to the public on June 9th at ‘T’ Space, in the wooded outskirts of Rhinebeck. Roughly a century and a half apart in history, the artists touched me with a sense of timelessness that, today, couldn’t be timelier. They happen to represent the first great American landscape painter, in Cole, and arguably the last great American abstract painter—the last, certainly, to have achieved an influential late style—in Marden.
https://mymodernmet.com/free-3d-models-scan-the-world/ models 3d d’escultures per imprimir
https://oakesoakes.com/ superfícies esfèriques
https://www.artsy.net/series/artsy-vanguard-2019 artistes emergents i grans que es reconeixen
https://www.alexprager.com/ Fotògrafa alex prager
https://artreview.com/power_100/ els 100 influents de 2019
http://platonphoto.com/menu/ Platon fotògrafia
Geneviève Asse, “finestres al blau”
https://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-trending-50840434 nookbooks, diorames de fantasia enmig d’una llibreria
2020
mites i art
avibou.com/index.php/project/about-ornitographies/ fotografia ocells en moviment xavi bou
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2020/04/13/mortality-and-the-old-masters Schejdahl obre mortalitat a l’art antic.  Why does the art of what we term the Old Masters have so much more soulful heft than that of most moderns and nearly all of our contemporaries? (I place the cutoff between the murderous scourges of war that were witnessed by Francisco Goya and those that Édouard Manet, say, read about in newspapers.) I think the reason is a routine consciousness of mortality. Pandemic diseases and innumerable other causes of early death haunted day-to-day life, even for those creators who were committed to entertainment. Consider the heaps of bodies that accumulate in Shakespeare’s tragedies: catharses of universal fear. The persistence of religion in art that was increasingly given to secular motives—Bible stories alternate with spiritually charged themes of Greek and Roman mythology—bespeaks this preoccupation. Deaths of children were a perpetual bane. Paintings of the Madonna and Child, most grippingly those by Giovanni Bellini, secrete Mary’s foreknowledge of her son’s terrible fate. The idea that God assumed flesh, suffered, and died was a stubborn consolation—Mary’s to know and ours to take on faith or, if we’re atheists, at least to marvel at as mythic poetry. //  Never mind the explicitness of that time’s memento mori, all the skulls and guttering candles. I am talking about an awareness that’s invisible, but palpable, in Rembrandt’s nights—his fatalistic self-portrait in the Frick Collection comes to mind—and in Vermeer’s mornings, when a young wife might open a window and be immersed in delicate, practically animate sunlight. //  But right now we have all convened under a viral thundercloud, and everything seems different. There’s a change, for example, in my memory of Diego Velázquez’s “Las Meninas” (1656), which is the best painting by the best of all painters.  //
https://simonstalenhag.se/ escenes apocalíptiques
https://getpocket.com/explore/item/the-romanovs-art-of-survival les tendències artñistiques dels Romanov
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCD8J_xbbBuGobmw_N5ga3MA restauracions a alta resolució de vídeos antics
https://youtu.be/t-C9ZBVLOsc presentació de Pipi al Louisiana
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2020/09/14/how-can-we-pay-for-creativity-in-the-digital-age la dificultat dels artistes per generar ingressos a l’era digital
Say the phrase ‘Great American Novel’ and a crush of worthy titles come to mind – from Herman Melville’s Moby Dick to Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, from Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird to Toni Morrison’s Beloved. But what about ‘The Great American Painting’? Surely the ability to capture the complex spirit of a nation – the tension between its loftier aspirations and tawdrier flaws – is not limited to works composed of words. Any credible shortlist of canvases deserving of that armchair accolade would have to include Grant Wood’s brace of inscrutable stares, American Gothic (1930), and Edward Hopper’s menacing meditation on urban loneliness, Nighthawks (1942); Georgia O’Keeffe’s patriotic skull-scape Red, White and Blue (1930) – and Michael West’s explosive, epoch-defining study of creative fission, Blinding Light (1947-48).
https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/underwater-illustrations Ransonnet-Villez, from colour pencil drawings made by the artist while submerged in his diving bell, from his 1867 Sketches of the Inhabitants, Animal Life and Vegetation in the Lowlands and High Mountains of Ceylon. Biodiversity Heritage Library/Public Domain. Pintures a l’oli submarines del natural
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1988/06/06/beatrix-potter beatrix Potter era sobretot una zoòloga interessada en la vida dels animals i va començar e escriure i dibuixar Peter Rabbit per a un nen que estava malalt.
https://thehustle.co/why-its-nearly-impossible-to-buy-an-original-bob-ross-painting/ un home que va pintar potser 30.000 paisatges the joy of painting
https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20210521-are-these-stunning-photos-of-imaginary-worlds-a-new-artform la fotografia virtual d’espais imaginaris desenvolupada a partir dels jocs per ordinador.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/05/24/francis-bacons-frightening-beauty FRANCIS BACON. / Some critics, sensing this, took the position that Bacon was both figurative and abstract, and that the power of his art derived from the tension between the two sources. Bacon sometimes gave a tentative nod to that position, but he was insistent that, however distorted his figures, he was not an abstractionist. // Bacon wanted his work to convey human emotions, but not unambiguously. He said, “I would like my pictures to look as if a human being had passed between them, like a snail, leaving a trail of the human presence and memory trace of past events as the snail leaves its slime.” This is oblique, but not a bad description. You are drawn in, then repelled, then drawn in, then repelled. // https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoFMH_D6xLk entrevista amb David Sylvester  // Remarks like Berger’s were probably a response to Bacon’s life as well as to his art. He was not a discreet man, bless him, and his daily routine was widely known. He woke up at dawn and was at the easel by about 6 A.M. If things went well, or fairly well, he painted until midday. Then he put on his makeup (he wore lipstick and pancake makeup and touched up his hair, including his carefully positioned spit curl, with shoe polish), and went out and had a big lunch at one of the Soho bars that served him not just as drinking establishments but also, with their louche clientele—drunks, slackers, hoodlums, gay people—as social clubs. Then he was back at the bar, where he drank pretty much till he dropped. (When he was young and short of funds, the proprietress of his favorite bar, the Colony Room, gave him ten pounds a week and free drinks to bring his friends in, which he did.) Sometimes, before resuming drinking, he had sex. For that, he liked the afternoon best.  // Triptych, May-June 1973     /   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_Studies_for_a_Crucifixion
Cezanne [ una crítica de la modernitat que diu que es va desintegrar cap al 1960 ] https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/06/28/my-struggle-with-cezanne
So what’s my problem? Partly it’s an impatience with Cézanne’s demands for strenuous looking. I tire of being made to feel smart rather than pleased. (Here I quite favor the optical nourishments of van Gogh, Gauguin, and Seurat.) But my discontent is inseparable from Cézanne’s significance as a revolutionary. How good an idea was modernism, all in all? It disintegrated, circa 1960, amid a plurality of new modes while remaining, yes, an art of the museum. It came to emblematize up-to-date sophisticated taste, spawning varieties of abstraction that circle back to Cézanne’s innovative interrelations of figure and ground. It also fuelled a yen in some to change the world for the more intelligent, if not always for the better. The world took only specialized notice. Modernism’s initially enfevered optimism could not survive the slaughterhouse of the First World War and the political apocalypse of the Russian Revolution, which ate away at myths of progress that had seemed to valorize aesthetic change. Dedicated newness in art devolved from a propelling cause into a rote effect. Lost, to my mind, is the strangeness—which I strive to reimagine—that had to have affected Cézanne’s first viewers, as he began to upend traditions that had been more or less continuous since the Renaissance. I have felt this retrospective discomfort in other contexts. It peaks for me in “Cézanne Drawing,” even as I join fellow-congregants in genuflecting before the artist’s genius
jasper jons  You can perceive his effects on later magnificent painters of occult subjectivity, including the German Gerhard Richter, the Belgian Luc Tuymans, and the Latvian American Vija Celmins. But none can rival his utter originality and inexhaustible range. You keep coming home to him if you care at all about art’s relevance to lived experience. The present show obliterates contexts. It is Jasper Johns from top to bottom of what art can do for us, and from wall to wall of needs that we wouldn’t have suspected without the startling satisfactions that he provides.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2021/11/15/choose-your-own-kandinsky-adventure-at-the-guggenheim   The show’s curator, Megan Fontanella, recommends starting at the bottom, with the overwrought works of the artist’s final phase, and proceeding upward, back to the simpler Expressionist landscapes and horsemen of his early career. This course is canny in terms of your enjoyment, which increases as you go. The teeming complexities of the enigmatic glyphs and contradictory techniques that mark Kandinsky’s late phase defeat my comprehension: they are numbingly hermetic. A middle range, from about 1910 to the early twenties, seethes with the artist’s excitement as he abandons figuration to let freely brushed, spontaneously symphonic forms, intended as visual equivalents of music, enthrall on their own. He became a devoted fan and friend of the atonal composer Arnold Schoenberg.
Kandinsky was right on time when he published the eloquent book “On the Spiritual in Art,” in 1911. It called for artists to reject materialism—a soul-crushing evil—in favor of, ideally, a worldwide spiritual awakening. He graphed artistic intention as a triangle with gross materiality at the bottom and perfect transcendence, true to inward experience, at the peak
Kandinsky was born in Moscow in 1866. The son of a prosperous tea merchant, he moved to Odessa as a child, and then returned to Moscow to study law and economics. Smitten with a haystack painting by Monet and an intuition, from Richard Wagner’s opera “Lohengrin,” of synesthesia—sounds seen, colors heard—he began to paint, with a bang, at the age of thirty, on folkloric themes that were infused with the quasi-religious tenets of Theosophy. As he would write in the 1911 book, “Color is the keyboard. The eye is the hammer, while the soul is a piano of many strings. The artist is the hand through which the medium of different keys causes the human soul to vibrate.” His initial variations on nature gave way to spontaneous gestures and energized shards of geometric form. Some intoxicating breakthrough paintings include “Black Lines” and “Light Picture” (both from December, 1913), which stage dances of liberated line atop passages of effulgent color.
Kandinsky hit on a symbiosis of mysticism and geometry that had affected religious traditions (the European Gothic, the Indian tantra) since well before its ancient Greek codification, notably by Pythagoras: a force field in which the least rational of entities, the soul, meshes with the utter rationality of mathematical design—the latter subliminal but still present in Kandinsky’s brushy manner. The conjunction had never before been consistently addressed in fine art. And Kandinsky wasn’t alone in seizing on it in the early years of the twentieth century, as a wildly and justly popular show in 2018, also at the Guggenheim, of the all but unknown (partly because she was secretive, surely because she was female) Swedish painter Hilma af Klint (1862-1944) proved. Af Klint, for those keeping score, seems to have beaten Kandinsky to the punch of modern abstraction by five years. She did so most dramatically with a suite of huge, stunning floral and geometric paintings, begun in 1906, whose genesis she attributed to dictation from named supernatural beings.
Kandinsky held back from the ghostlier variants of Spiritualism but was in key with the anti-worldly tendencies of a period that has long embarrassed art historians. Many still skate past the mystic roots of the formally reductive painters Piet Mondrian and Kazimir Malevich. That scanted tradition is up for rediscovery. I sense stirrings of a renewed interest in spiritual motives today, primarily among young artists who are fed up with postmodernist irony. If I’m right, I sort of empathize with the urge as a matter of speculative faith, albeit one short of conviction. You can’t gainsay results, however peculiar their premises.
Staked to wealth by the inheritance from an uncle of a building in Moscow, in 1901, Kandinsky lit out for a bohemian existence in Germany, abandoning a wife for a partnership with the dashing German painter Gabriele Münter. They travelled widely, including to Tunisia. Kandinsky, determined to counter French aestheticism with modes that were both earthier and less tied to observation, quickly attracted allies and followers. Owing to his classification in Germany as an enemy alien, he returned to Russia at the onset of the First World War and was trapped there by the Revolution, which expropriated his property, and which he toiled to serve as an educator and an administrator until, with difficulty, he managed to leave, in 1921. He did so with a new wife, Nina Andreevskaya, who may still have been a teen-ager when she married the fifty-year-old Kandinsky, in 1917. He taught at the Bauhaus, where he pursued his commitment to abstraction alongside valued friends and rivals, mainly Paul Klee, who maintained tenuous links to real or imagined reality.
But the impenetrable puzzle of a painting like “Around the Circle” (1940), a riot of heterogeneous whatsit shapes—whimsies, really, adrift in zero gravity—acquired a fashionable sort of prestige, as emblematic of far-out modernity. Didn’t get it? That was the point. You weren’t supposed to.
The mining heir and mogul Solomon R. Guggenheim met Kandinsky in 1930 and began collecting him in bulk. The two men were connected by a mediocre German painter, Rudolf Bauer, who further ingratiated himself as the boyfriend of Guggenheim’s principal adviser, the enthusiastic German baroness Hilla Rebay.
Sophie  Taeuber, dada abstracció i tapissos
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/02/14/the-uncanny-impact-of-charles-rays-sculptures   https://www.charlesraysculpture.com/
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/02/28/review-holbein-capturing-character-morgan-library-museum
Holbein is an awkward fit in art history—overqualified, in a way, for the sixteenth century’s march of eclectic Mannerist styles toward the aesthetic revolution of the Baroque.
You can’t deduce much about the period’s upheavals, except obliquely, from Holbein’s career as a hired-gun celebrant of whoever employed him, most decisively Henry. Holbein can appear ideological only by glancing association with Christian humanists in the circle of Erasmus of Rotterdam, the illegitimate son of a priest and a towering intellectual who strove to refine rather than to upend Catholic doctrine and bitterly contested the more radical Luther. Testifying to flexible convictions, the Morgan show includes a rondel painting by Holbein, circa 1532, of Erasmus’s thin-faced, pointy-nosed mien, and also a small portrayal, circa 1535, of Luther’s most efficacious disciple, Philipp Melanchthon.
You can’t deduce much about the period’s upheavals, except obliquely, from Holbein’s career as a hired-gun celebrant of whoever employed him, most decisively Henry. Holbein can appear ideological only by glancing association with Christian humanists in the circle of Erasmus of Rotterdam, the illegitimate son of a priest and a towering intellectual who strove to refine rather than to upend Catholic doctrine and bitterly contested the more radical Luther. Testifying to flexible convictions, the Morgan show includes a rondel painting by Holbein, circa 1532, of Erasmus’s thin-faced, pointy-nosed mien, and also a small portrayal, circa 1535, of Luther’s most efficacious disciple, Philipp Melanchthon.
Holbein left Basel for London in 1532, likely impelled by a terror of rampaging iconoclasm—the wholesale destruction of religious imagery and artifacts by overenthusiastic Protestants in the Swiss city. Might Holbein have continued to evolve as, temperamentally, a visual bard of mortality had he stayed? Perhaps. But Basel’s formerly open mind had snapped shut. A sepulchral penchant resurfaced, briefly, in “The Ambassadors” (1533), a double full-length portrait of French agents with a horizontal smear across it in white and gray which, when viewed at angles from the sides of the work, resolves into the apparition of a skull. (That marvel hasn’t travelled to the Morgan from its home, in Britain’s National Gallery.)
Holbein proved very, very good at modernizing the kicked-up realism of Northern Renaissance styles, routinely executed in oils on wood panels, that dated from Jan van Eyck, a century earlier. Consider, and be wowed by, Holbein’s renderings of skin, reminiscent of Hans Memling: aglow with light that can appear, ambiguously, either to fall upon or to radiate from within a subject, if not somehow both at once. His virtuosity with fabrics and heraldic ornament stuns, preternaturally. Holbein abridged Netherlandish portraiture’s typically fancy compositions by centering his sitters, either more or less head on or in closeup profile. The Morgan show’s proposition that Holbein “captured character” seems a bit of a stretch. The subjects register more in terms of assigned or attained public distinction than of interior lives. They project secular prestige. But their singular physiognomies go bang at a glance.
We can only wonder about the artist’s own fortunes had he survived the three or so years between his demise and Henry’s, in 1547. There had been about their situation a strange symbiosis, I feel, of royal tyranny and artistic discipline. A formulaic fealty, enforced by reasonable jitters, seems to me part of what isolates Holbein in comparison with rangier, more historically mainstream peers such as Pontormo and Bronzino, in Medici Florence. Could Holbein have been a greater artist if he’d been granted imaginative license? Maybe and maybe not. He would be different, and we would both know a lot more about him as a man and miss the monumentality of his definitive achievement.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/03/07/making-way-for-faith-ringgold-new-museum
artista de Harlem, il·lustracions de jazz
the all-time most glamorous and consequential American instance, thriving in New York between 1915 and 1920, centered on Europeans in temporary flight from the miseries of the First World War. Their hosts were Walter Arensberg, a Pittsburgh steel heir, and his wife, Louise Stevens, an even wealthier Massachusetts textile-industry legatee.
How would the modernizing New York art world have evolved had the Arensbergs not existed—or if Duchamp hadn’t made his way to their door? Differently, for sure, and with considerably less social synergy. One participant, the rich and flamboyant mondaine Louise Norton (who was soon to be a sometime lover of Duchamp’s), proposed a collective credo as “Beauty for the eye, satire for the mind, depravity for the senses!” Attendance was nonexclusive; friends of friends were welcomed.
The Arensbergs nourished local modernist talents (not least with free food and drink) like Charles Demuth, Joseph Stella, Charles Sheeler, John Covert, and, fatefully, Man Ray, who became a boon friend and lifelong ally of Duchamp’s on both sides of the Atlantic. Other frequenters included the writer, photographer, and promoter of the Harlem Renaissance Carl Van Vechten; the poets William Carlos Williams and Wallace Stevens; and a remarkable roster of such formidable women as the dance artist Isadora Duncan; the ardent promoter of modern art Katherine S. Dreier; the multitalented British-born radical Mina Loy; the wealthy faux-naïf painter and intentional spinster Florine Stettheimer, along with her two likewise chaste and endearing sisters; the all-around outrageous German proto-performance artist Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven; and the rebellious daughter of straitlaced New York socialites named Beatrice Wood.
Wood, while by any canonical measure a lesser figure on the scene, is effectively the protagonist and certainly the most appealing subject of “Spellbound by Marcel: Duchamp, Love, and Art,” a gossipy account of the period by the cultural historian and novelist Ruth Brandon.
In New York, Duchamp emerged as the Olympian antihero of modernism whom we salute today. Still, he haunts rather than advances Brandon’s narrative, as an unfailingly charming, fun-loving presence, but not as a man so much as a shadowy affect. He grew up in a richly cultured family. Two older brothers became prominent artists: the painter Jacques Villon and the extraordinary sculptor, who died too young, Raymond Duchamp-Villon. A younger sister whom he adored, Suzanne Duchamp-Crotti, also took up art, as a Dadaist in several mediums. Ever cerebral—his strongest subject at school was math, and he delighted in games, puzzles, and ribald humor—Duchamp was educated in art but, after tentative stabs at painting, took no interest in rivalling his brothers. “Nude Descending,” instantly an icon of modernist chic, was one of his last canvases. Renouncing painting as a tired medium that was trivially “retinal,” he embarked on startling mind games, notably by presenting common objects as art—“readymades,” he dubbed them.
The most famous of those is “Fountain,” an inverted store-bought urinal, crudely signed “R. Mutt 1917,” that Duchamp submitted to a show at the Society of Independent Artists. Recent scholarship indicates that he may have got the idea from von Freytag-Loringhoven, who had emigrated from Germany in 1910 and acquired her title from her third marriage. (Later a collaborator and lover of Djuna Barnes, the Baroness had many outré, mostly exhibitionist impulses, such as being filmed by Duchamp and Man Ray shaving her pubic hair.) The “Fountain” that you see at the Museum of Modern Art is not the original, if that designation for an infinitely repeatable jape even counts for anything. Duchamp took no pains to preserve the first iteration. He enjoyed and encouraged the furor that resulted, but said that he expected it to be fleeting, destined for oblivion. He may have been as slow as others were to realize that he had lit a long fuse for concatenating detonations in future artistic and intellectual culture.
The rejection of “Fountain” confirmed Duchamp’s already temperamental disdain for artists’ groups. He parodied them, in league with his bosom crony the Cuban French painter Francis Picabia (given to “fast cars, opium, and drink,” Brandon writes), by initiating a facetious movement—New York Dada, alluding to the artistic insurrection that had erupted in Zurich in 1916. Never conspicuously serious, Duchamp cultivated a novel tone for art: call it seriously unserious. He had been inspired by the methodical nonsense of the French literary renegade Raymond Roussel, who built lengthy novels and plays around arbitrary puns. Duchamp’s modus operandi was to be recognized without being understood—impenetrably deadpan. He required an audience, positing that art works, hazarded by artists, are completed in the perception of viewers. Americans supplied him with something like a focus group for that premise.
am not a Marcel Duchamp enthusiast, though I’m forever in awe of his cast of mind and, oh my, his cleverness. His sparse production can’t contain him. Ad-hoc ideas that for him were amusing, sneakily hostile, and attended by a stubborn indifference to their meaning, if any, aren’t fungible. They evoke a hobby more than a vocation. The practically scientific detachment that was his second nature became a posture for subsequent artists who kept—and still keep—taking cues from him, the most profoundly comprehending of whom has been the protean painter, sculptor, and printmaker Jasper Johns. Others, termed conceptualists, have drawn on his authority for varieties of art that are more or less used up in thinking about them, whatever their material trappings.
I am partial to the retinal. Duchamp’s disdain for painting came to be weaponized by university-trained artists and theorists who took being as blind as bats to be a good thing. But give me anything by Matisse—or by Johns, who never subordinates the visual beauty of things to the ideas that inform them—in favor of any readymade, even the most beguiling, such as a dangling snow shovel entitled “In Advance of the Broken Arm” (1915), which Duchamp created during his first winter in New York. Pairing banal objects with poetic captions, he activated polar extremes of objectivity and subjectivity with nothing in the middle. The trope became a standing test case of what is required to qualify anything as “art,” which turns out to be no more or less than its acceptance as such by one or another institutional agency—a designated burr under the saddle of traditional connoisseurship.
In between, declaring himself “antimarriage but not antiwomen,” he radiated an air of gallant reserve in romance as in art. For a spell, in New York, he came to prefer the company of the Stettheimer sisters and other undemanding older women. His favorite, Ettie Stettheimer, detected loneliness beneath his aplomb: “poor little floating atom,” she characterized him, tenderly.
When Duchamp died, in 1968, while visiting a second home in France, he left behind as a parting shot a final magnum opus, on which he had worked in secret for twenty years: “Given: 1. The Waterfall, 2. The Illuminating Gas.” This piece is also in Philadelphia now. You peer through a set of peepholes in a decrepit brick-framed door at a realistically sculpted, legs-spread naked woman without pubic hair, her face not visible, holding a lighted gas lamp aloft as a motorized artificial waterfall pours forth in the background. The work eludes pornography with characteristic sang-froid, evoking sex in a vein that is more forensic than lubricious.
https://www.bbc.com/news/in-pictures-61222913 fotos de menjar, central Park amb bròquils, pizza.
Tendències art actual
l’art actual presenta dues tendències: a les biennals hi ha una majoria d’obres amb missatge que donen veu als que fins ara havien estat oprimits, dones i minories. A les galeries es venen obres agradables a la vista. lso, and relatedly, living white male artists complaining, three beers in and off the record, that they’ll never get another show.
https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20221017-the-painter-who-revealed-how-our-eyes-really-see-the-world CEzanne hauria sabut deformar la perspectiva per reproduir tal com l’ull mira una escena, que la recorre enfocant-se a diferents centres
Don’t misunderstand: in the many years of his writing for The New Yorker, Peter was perfectly willing to give a bad show a bad review, and there were some artists he was just never going to love—Turner and Bacon among them—but he was openhearted, he knew how to praise critically, and, to the end, he was receptive to new things, new artists. His list of favorites was vast: Velázquez, Goya, Rembrandt, Cindy Sherman, David Hammons, Martin Puryear, Rachel Harrison, Laura Owens. He took his work seriously—despite the cascades of self-deprecation, there were times when I think he knew how good he was—but he was never self-serious. He once won a grant to write a memoir. He used the money to buy a tractor.
el dissenyador Loewy, el més avançat possible dins l’acceptable. MAYA
Loewy called his grand theory “Most Advanced Yet Acceptable”—maya. He said to sell something surprising, make it familiar; and to sell something familiar, make it surprising.
In a popular online video called “4 Chords,” which has more than 30 million views, the musical-comedy group the Axis of Awesome cycles through dozens of songs built on the same chord progression: I–V–vi–IV.
https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/international-art-and-found-day-2023  art que es deixa a un lloc per que la gent el trobi
https://www.gq.com/story/jackson-pollock-sullivan-institute?utm_source=pocket_mylist Jackson Pollock
https://stephenwilkes.com/fine-art/day-to-night/ fotografia d’escenes dia i nit alhora
La barra d’un artista danès a qui van encarregar una obra amb diners enganxats, i només va entregar el marc, quedant-se els diners https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-66847139
https://monoskop.org/Bauhaus descarregables Bauhaus
https://thehustle.co/who-chooses-the-worlds-color-of-the-year/?utm_source=pocket_mylist
https://www.esquire.com/news-politics/a45847294/minatures-trend/?utm_source=pocket_mylist
Il·lustracions de cargols enfrontant-se Cavallers a els llibres de l’edat mitjana (BBC)

2024

Camille Pissarro NY20240101, honest, jueu, compromès amb el cas Dreyfus, Degas i Renoir reaccionaris, mentor de Cezanne que algú de casa bona que volia passar per rural. Around this time, too, life within the Pontoise house and garden became his other favorite subject. His portraits of his daughter Minette, from 1872, are perhaps the best portraits of a child since those of the early German Romantic Philipp Otto Runge. The wise child is one of the central modernist inventions of the eigh- teen-sixties and seventies-it is, after all, the period of Alice and her looking glass- and Minette looks out at us as a French Alice: in higher fashion, but also in equal parts intelligent and sensitive, a small girl in that odd moment of young girls who, while dressed in ways that seem over- mature, grace it by a second, inner ma- turity of their own. The wise children of John Singer Sargent and Cecilia Beaux begin here.

Art i matemàtica dels espirals, angle de la raó daurada de 137.5 http://www.johnedmark.com/spirals/

Leyendecker, il·Lustrador que va influir Norman Rockwell, imatge masculina. Collector’s Weekly