“I paint the light that emanates from all bodies. Erotic works of art are also sacred.”
Self-Portrait, Egon Schiele
Even allowing for the rich legacy of nearly 100 self-portraits left to us by Rembrandt van Rijn over the 40 years he painted, Austrian artist Egon Schiele’s hundreds of self-portraits in only 12 years, from 1906 to his death in 1918, are staggering. Unlike Rembrandt’s almost dogged record of his slowly aging body, Schiele’s watercolors and charcoal drawings exhibit little aging, but revel in ever more revelatory flaying of his psyche. On one hand, Schiele’s narcissism seems to prophetically define the late 20th century’s obsession with self and celebrity; on the other, he offers himself as a sacrificial victim on the altar of art’s sexual freedom.
Continue reading ‘Schiele, Ego(n): The Sacred Body’
Most of them are gone: Chabrol, Malle, Rohmer, Resnais, Rouch, Rossif, Reichenbach and, of course, their godfathers: Melville, Bresson and Franju. Varda and Rivette (both now 87) have made films in the last decade, and Godard, at 84, with 118 credits according to IMDb, is unstoppable. (Some pray he’s immortal, while others would prefer to wrest his 3-D iPhone rigs from his 84-year-old mitts.) François Truffaut, Godard’s ally-turned-nemesis, died way too early at 52. Two great New Wave cinematographers, Henri Decaë and Néstor Almendros, are gone, but two more are still with us: Raoul Coutard, 90, and Willy Kurant, 81. Agnès Guillemot, an editor mainly for Godard, but also with some Truffaut credits, died a decade ago; Suzanne Baron, 88, lives.
But no survivor of the “Nouvelle Vague” has the longevity of its best known “photographe de plateau” (set still photographer) Raymond Cauchetier. In fragile health for many years, still living with his Japanese wife, Kaoru, in the fifth-floor walk-up where he was born, Cauchetier is ever born anew.
Continue reading ‘Raymond Cauchetier: Still New (Wave) at 95′
Is Kim Kardashian this decade’s Andy Warhol?
Whoa! Don’t get me wrong. Before you disabuse this equivalence of two media-obsessed narcissists, don’t picture the Andy Warhol we know today, whose paintings sell for tens of millions of dollars at Sotheby’s and Christie’s. Imagine, instead, the schlumpy kid from Pittsburgh, a slight, wan man who became so obsessed with the idea of celebrity that he “manufactured” his own cult at “The Factory,” rendering his now sought-after paintings and graphics almost a sidebar during his lifetime. It’s hard to deny that Kardashian, today’s queen of media self-promotion, is anything less than Warhol’s wet dream of “fame” come to climax.
Warhol was a shy and introverted nerd who rose out of Manhattan’s underground culture, his star-fucking Interview magazine presaging the 1983 revival of Vanity Fair, whose annual Oscar afterparty is the locus primus of today’s celebrity cool.
The marginalized, grungy wannabes Warhol transformed into “superstars” anticipated the reality-TV stars that now clog our television screens in an unending cavalcade of banality. It is tempting to fantasize how Warhol could have played Pygmalion in molding Galatea/Kardashian (though you could easily argue for a role reversal). Imagine his Jackie O and Marilyn silkscreens usurped by ones of the Armenian-American diva.
Continue reading ‘Kardashian Selfies, Warhol Superstars and “Famehood”’
Mary Ellen Mark (Credit: Ralph Gibson)
In his book Why People Photograph, Robert Adams, a master photographer of contemporary Western landscapes, writes, “At our best and most fortunate, we make pictures because of what stands in front of the camera, to honor what is greater and more interesting than we are.” It is not a reach to understand his reflection when your subject is the grandeur of Nature (even in its present lamentable state), but it is a reach when your subjects are searing portraits of “losers,” the marginalized and the outcasts of society who were the hallmark subjects of Mary Ellen Mark’s career. Her 17 books, with the exception of her portrait essay of filmmakers, Seen Behind the Scene (2008), are deeply moving documents of the disadvantaged, infirm, addicted and exploited — “losers” in the relentless drive for economic success that defines life today.
Continue reading ‘Mary Ellen Mark: Human-Wise’
Star Bette Midler and director of photography Vilmos Zsigmond on set for The Rose. (Credit: The Criterion Collection)
It was the end of American cinema’s freewheeling 1970s when Vilmos Zsigmond photographed The Rose, the Mark Rydell-directed, Bette Midler-starring, Bo Goldman-scripted movie about a rock ’n’ roll queen, Mary “Rose” Foster — four major artists at the peak of their creative careers in an all too brief era of American auteurism.
“Honestly, we don’t even know sometimes what we are doing.”
Zsigmond’s quip during a recent conversation with me about The Rose was not a confession by someone lost inside the maze of his own work, but an understanding of the crucial improvisatory spirit and energy that was so much a part of that decade’s most adventurous movies. It was a heady time, fueled by a new cinematic imagination even more than by the illegal substances that stalked so many filmmakers’ lives. The American New Wave “cineastes” believed they were re-inventing American movies; they were, and they had proven their box-office clout.
Continue reading ‘Vilmos Zsigmond and The Rose‘
Early in her career, before the shock of 9/11 galvanized a generation of emerging photojournalists to throw themselves into the cauldron of international conflicts, Lynsey Addario was living with her boyfriend, Miguel, in a $500-a-month apartment in Buenos Aires. On Thursdays, she photographed the protestors of the Desaparecidos, mothers of victims of Argentina’s “Dirty War,” in the Plaza de Mayo. Addario could little know that years later, much of her greatest work would be documenting the trials and struggles of other women in many of the world’s hotspots, women who were collateral damage of their sons’, husbands’ and fathers’ warring madness.
Continue reading ‘It’s What I Do: Lynsey Addario on the Front Lines’
Orson Welles directing Too Much Johnson. (Credit: Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences)
Since Orson Welles’ death almost 30 years ago on Oct. 10, 1985, his life and work continue to fascinate historians and filmmakers like no other figure in the cinema canon. It’s as if the enigmatic figures that haunt his work as an actor, along with the labyrinthine myth of his directing career, are illusions created by a shape-shifting magician, the same one that in later years appeared as a TV talk-show guest and pitchman for indifferent wine. An ever-expanding shelf of scholarly, historical and biographical texts, along with websites like Wellesnet, keep even the most avid fan supplied with fresh material. And the public release of a thought-to-be-lost early film, an adaptation of William Gillette’s 1894 play Too Much Johnson, has stoked anew the flames of Welles scholarship.
Continue reading ‘Too Much Johnson: Never Enough Welles’
The 16th century mask gorget pictured here, made by a South Dakota Native American of the Hopewell culture, measures only 5½” tall. Its barely incised nose, with piercings for the eyes, are all that reveal it as manmade — a work of art. One wonders at the mind that could see a human face in this inert marine shell. Such a simple object doesn’t readily suggest the artistic subtlety that most contemporary viewers anticipate when they look at Plains Indian art.
Continue reading ‘The Plains Indians: Artists of Earth and Sky at the Met’
Self Portrait, Thomas Hart Benton
Two years after returning from studies in Paris at the Académie Julian, the young painter Thomas Hart Benton, now living in lower Manhattan, was hired by a former roommate, Rex Hitchcock, to work as a scenic researcher and set designer for the movies. Benton’s salary was $7 a week. Hitchcock soon changed his name to Rex Ingram, and by this name he became one of the most celebrated film directors of the silent era, with credits such as Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Prisoner of Zenda and Mare Nostrum.
Continue reading ‘Thomas Hart Benton Part 2: Before and After America Today‘
Man Released from the Mechanistic to the Creative Life by José Clemente Orozco.
On the wall, just above double doors, in a narrow hallway connecting the Dartmouth College Baker Memorial Library lower-level reserve reading room with Carpenter Hall, is a seldom seen masterpiece. It bears the unwieldy title Man Released from the Mechanistic to the Creative Life. It is a test panel for what became the most ambitious work in the United States by the great Mexican fresco muralist José Clemente Orozco, the least lauded of the three Mexican artists who visited and worked in the United States in the 1920s and ’30s. Known as “Los Tres Grandes,” Diego Rivera, David Siqueiros and Orozco came north both by invitation and in search of commissions as work in Mexico became scarce. Orozco said of the mural:
“It represents man emerging from a heap of destructive machinery symbolizing slavery, automatism and the converting of a human being into a robot, without brain, heart or free will, under the control of another machine. Man is now shown in command of his own hands, and he is at last free to shape his own destiny.”
Continue reading ‘José Clemente Orozco in New England’