All posts tagged “art

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Birdman: Or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance), Alejandro González Iñárritu (2014)

a_900x0At this stage of my life as a person who tries to make art — the stage where it’s become abundantly clear that . . .

No, I’d better not go down that road! Begin again. Ahem.

Art about artists who want to make art can be somewhat trying, and so too are some of the more mawkish moments here, but all in all this is a lovely movie, and one which — this is rare to see in the multiplex — actually matches its form to its content, makes its sound inherent to its sense. One might well watch it without ever realizing that it is (to all appearances but of course not in reality) one continuous shot. This is of course insane. The filmmakers and actors must have had to rehearse every instant of the film to get the timing perfect. Yet the result, paradoxically, is a kind of uncanny seamlessness, and there’s yer metaphor, bub: all them pretty pictures and catchy tunes which seem to the customers as natural as blades of grass or butterflies are in fact the steaming byproducts of madness-inducing effort and technique. Our MacGuffin here is a Raymond Carver book, and that makes some nice sense too; what other writer in recent memory has tried so hard to make it seem he wasn’t trying at all?

Art is trying and art is trying.

Good work by all the actors, just like I’d been led to expect by reviews, but I was surprised to find the camera is the true star here, the true birdman that can fly anywhere, above it all.

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The Woodmans, C. Scott Willis (2010)

710tNVz1QVL._SL1077_I suppose this might seem quite exciting and exotic if you didn’t go to Sarah Lawrence. If you did, you will likely be reminded, as I was, of everything you loved and hated about dear old Sadie Lou, and beyond that everything you still love and hate about art and artists.

The Woodmans are white and privileged and care passionately, in the Romanticist manner, about making art. They are all of them — father, mother, son, daughter — ambitious, insecure, massively narcissistic, and mildly talented. The daughter, Francesca, the sine qua non of this movie and the family’s small, self-gnawed niche in art history, is not necessarily any more talented than any of the others, but she is, we are led to believe, the most ambitious, the most insecure, the most massively narcissistic, and — the documentary seems to want us to make a causal connection — the most successful.

Though not in her lifetime. The poor young woman killed herself at 22. She was upset a boyfriend, upset her work wasn’t being seen, upset about not getting a grant from the NEA. So she killed herself, at 22, and then became successful.

We’re reminded of Sylvia Plath and think forward to Sarah Kane, but may I say out loud what I hope I’m not the first to think? We’d be reading Plath and watching Kane even if they hadn’t killed themselves. Do we know that about Woodman? If she hadn’t self-mythologized and been effectively marketed by her craven and jealous parents, and had instead lived to a ripe old age making emo self-portraits in beautifully empty studios in Tuscany, would anyone remember these photos except the RISD professors and students who thought she was so cool and intense and enviable at 21?

I’ve seen a lot of contrasty nude self portraits made by incandescent from-money up-all-night white girls with dirt in their hair. The broken furniture casting Caligari shadows under hot lights, the Man Ray motifs, the double exposures symbolizing this, the long-exposure blurs symbolizing that. In college in the 80’s those photos seemed revolutionary and way better than Titian. But then I grew up, and some of those girls did too, and we learned that making art isn’t about passion, and it sure as hell isn’t about whether or not you get an NEA.

I am not blaming or belittling Francesca Woodman. She was a talented and vibrant young woman and her death was a tragedy, and she may have become a good artist had she lived. I am a little bit blaming her parents, who obviously instilled in their daughter early on and in dangerously concentrated form the shibboleths of Romanticism. I am additionally blaming the 20th century for conceiving of the idea that a young woman making nude self-portraits is always to be read as self-empowering and never as self-objectifying. I am mostly blaming Western culture in general. It’s amazing any of us get out of it alive! Oh wait.