Art Appreciation

I’ve always favored high Renaissance art over most other periods.

I think there are two reasons for my fascination and awe with that specific period. The first reason is not specific to the artists of that time, but it was strongly exercised. Most of the elements in the paintings of that time either present a story or have objects which represent icons of some idea or belief.

I’m quite sure I’ve mentioned previously how I like that this sort of art rewards its viewer for having done his homework. If you know that a pair of shoes symbolizes marriage the painting containing them takes on a new level of meaning for you. I like that almost every item has a purpose. It somehow implies that the artist’s job was harder since he had to adhere to certain symbols and tell a specific story and the artists relaying the same story found profoundly differing ways to envision the same scenario.

The other reason I love Renaissance art is the preciseness of the strokes. The realness of the imagery. The incredible resemblance of the picture to an actual scene. It is the lack of that very essence that gave me a dissatisfied feeling when I looked at an impressionist painting. The blurry look made me feel like the painting was unfinished. Like the artist cheated and gave us the feeling of being there without having to work hard to create the details. They lacked the meticulousness I enjoyed.

For me, it was as if the fact that you could replicate real world with its minute detail made you a qualified artist. Cause anyone can splash paint onto an empty canvas, but not everyone can draw the curves of a woman’s body or the branches of a tree realistically.

Last week, I went to the Metropolitan Museum and spent a long time looking at the works of some of the most famous impressionist painters. I had never previously seen these works anywhere besides a book. I’d never seen them in their full three-dimensional glory. As I stared at the canvases, I was awed by the dichotomy of the lack of meaning when viewed close-up and the scenery that emerged as I moved back, away from the painting. It seemed that with each stroke, the painter must have always kept the big image in his head and had total control over what the stroke meant for the painting as a whole.

Today I watched one of Jake’s friends paint a scene here in Martha’s Vineyard with watercolors. I marveled at how quickly a picture emerged with each movement of her brush. I was fascinated at how she wasn’t really concerned with each angle being correct and each color matching the world precisely. I loved the idea of letting go of the need to be so tightly coupled with the subject of the painting.

I realized that even my favorite painting style represented something about my personality. That I had enjoyed the methodical, mathematical world of exact replication and symbols over the loose and relaxed. The more I thought about it, the more it felt good to let go. Suddenly, making your own paintings, listening to something from within and combining that with the beauty of nature seemed so much more powerful and rewarding.

Maybe this is how letting go starts: one painting at a time.

Previously? Tradition.