Archive for the ‘My talks’ Category
Mickey, dressed and undressedYes, I have heard of Mickey. Too often, and especially at this time of year, what I hear involves censorship. What’s all the fuss? There are the usual stories of the book being removed from libraries, and of copies being bought en masse from bookshops, in an attempt to take them out of circulation. (Some people, let it be noted, really need that ECON 101 class.) Mostly, there are tales of a subtler and more insidious form of censorship—an expurgation of the offending detail. For, as a character, Mickey comes fully endowed, endowed (certainly) with fun derring-do, with inventiveness, and also showing moments of testiness, doubt, and swagger. But I’ll be blunt: like almost all boys (and naked boys especially) Mickey has a penis. To be sure, it’s a modestly-sized and apparently well-behaved penis, but it’s a penis nonetheless. And though it only appears in about five of the book’s panels, to the censorious mind it may as well be everywhere. In the Night Kitchen has been reduced to a cock-and-balls story. And though Mickey also has a backside, this apparently only bothers a subsection of the offended. Our subtler censors acknowledge the merits of Sendak’s book in unexpected ways. As we are about to see, they have devoted time and labour to the job of rectifying Sendak’s “lapses” precisely so that the book might stay on the shelves, albeit in an altered and diminished form. So let the wild fashion rumpus begin! Mickey number 1 is wearing the very latest in cobalt-blue swimming trunks—useful for the child who insists on swimming in milk. While this little Mickey’s fetching briefs nicely complement his unruly shock of black hair. Our third Mickey is trying to “make it work” with a white-out diaper, complete with fastener. And our final Mickey has donned a sloppily constructed and semi-transparent paper slip, which—truth be told—seems only to encourage us to look further. As Sendak himself has noted, sometimes such “quaint quickie briefs are downright kinky.” Case in point! (An aside: even google managed to fudge Mickey's nudity in a otherwise charming animated doodle they made in honour of Sendak. We see Mickey jumping from the plane and into the bottle, where he disappears into the opaque milk, never to emerge again. Given the long history of discomfort with Mickey's nudity, this appears to be a case of bottling out.) I’m going to go out on a limb and state that however fine these unknown artists are, not one of them improves upon Sendak’s art.I rather wish that they had invested in a copy of the “Coloring Book” version of In the Night Kitchen, where they could have embellished Sendak’s art ad infinitum. Instead, these additions stick out and are not all-of-a-piece with the rest of Sendak’s exquisitely colored world. This repeats the self-defeating logic of censorship, which tends to draw our attention to the censored object, rather than away from it. Mark Twain comments on this phenomenon in A Tramp Abroad, while considering the statues of Rome and Florence. “These works,” he notes “…. stood in innocent nakedness for ages [but] are all fig-leaved now…. Nobody noticed their nakedness before, perhaps; nobody can help noticing it now, the fig-leaf makes it so conspicuous.” Stephen Colbert put his finger on these matters (aesthetic integration, censorship, attention) during an interview with Sendak. Playing the role of outraged moralist, Colbert produced a copy of In The Night Kitchen that had had all the offending parts cut out in neat circle…. only to be collected in a zip-lock bag. As the Encyclopedia of Censorship summarizes the matter, the chief charges leveled against In the Night Kitchen are that the book desensitizes “children to nudity.” “… If nudity is acceptable in a kindergarten children’s story,” worries a concerned source, “how can I teach my children that Playboy is unacceptable?” One thing leads quickly to another and, before you can say “slippery slope,” we find claims like this: “children are taught their private parts are private. This book is contrary to this teaching.” It is inconvenient for these critics that the structure of the narrative underlines the fact that Mickey is usually dressed and, indeed, that this is the normal state of affairs. His nudity accompanies his free-floating journey into the dream world of the night kitchen, where the usual rules are suspended. Concealing Mickey’s nudity both dilutes dream logic, where nudity often plays an important role, and interferes with an important and delightful sequence in the story: Mickey’s progression from blue pajamas, to nudity, to a sticky romper suit of partly cooked batter, to this suit’s milky disintegration and a return to nudity, to the security of a blanket, before finally ending up back in those same blue pajamas.
Big Mickey and the breechesTo an art historian, all these unwarranted and ham-fisted interventions bring to mind a story about the biggest Mickey of them all: Michelangelo. Famously, soon after the artist’s death, his Last Judgment was subject to an aggressive cover-up campaign; draperies were painted over the genitals and backsides of many figures.Daniele da Volterra, the artist responsible for many of these additions promptly acquired the nickname "Il Braghettone" ("the breeches-maker"). But the potential problem had been recognized three decades earlier, when Michelangelo was still painting the work. Giorgio Vasari tells the story:
When Michelangelo had completed about three quarters of the work, Pope Paul went to see it, and Messer Biagio da Cesena, the master of the ceremonies, was with him, and when he was asked what he thought of it, he answered that he thought it not right to have so many naked figures in the Pope's chapel. This displeased Michelangelo, and to revenge himself…. he painted him [Cesena] in the character of Minos with a great serpent twisted round his legs.
Oh Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind!Published in 1970, two years before I was born, I somehow missed In the Night Kitchen as a child. Mickey caught up with me much later, when I was spending an inordinate amount of time reading to my own kids. This, I discovered, is one of the pleasures of parenting: you suddenly have permission to revisit your favorite childhood books, as well as hunting down newer books or new-to-you books. Children will insist on having the same books read to them again and again. So, from the adult reader’s point of view, there’s a simple test of quality: a good children’s book is one that hasn’t driven you mad after, say, three dozen readings. Sendak’s book passes this test with flying colours, and I want to mention just a few of the reasons why I love this book, and indicate some of the ways it has stimulated me aesthetically and intellectually. To do so is, in part, a way of resisting the impulse to censor, which insists on a partial reading of the book at the expense of all other responses. For starters, take Sendak’s language, which is simply fun to read, especially out loud. With its alliteration, rhymes, and rhythms, there’s a musicality to his words, as though they are aspiring to song or to jazz. Reveling in its own riffs, the book’s plot seems to emerge out of verbal playfulness: Mick and Milk, Mickey and milky, Mickey’s way and the milky way, Mickey the milkman, and even—perhaps—the idea of slipping a Mickey (to add something that really shouldn’t be there). The story is also an elegant homage to Winsor McCay, one of the founding figures of modern comics, and particularly to MacCay’s greatest creation, Little Nemo. Both Nemo and Mickey are boys whose dream adventures begin and end in bed. Sendak uses the visual language McCay helped to invent and adapts it to the picture book format. Consider, for example, the brilliance with which Sendak handles the motif of rising and falling objects. As Mickey emerges out of bed, he tumbles from one double page to the next. At the same time we immediately understand that, as we are turning the first few pages, we are also falling between three floors—a descent only completed when our battered hero is dispatched into the “Mickey Oven.” The rest of the book spins an intricate web of further ups and downs.Mickey jumps down into bread dough while the moon ascends, and his yeasty plane rises up as the moon descends. Then—playing the cockerel—he heralds the rising sun and slides down the milk bottle. But where does he land up as he escapes through the floor of the Night Kitchen? Back at the top of his bedroom—a space that by all accounts should be some three stories above him.The ending of the book continues the motion established in the first few pages, and if we combine the opening and closing sequences, as though turning them into a single page from a comic book, we get a clear sense of the beautifully paradoxical world that Sendak has created. The night kitchen is below Mickey and above him; he is in the night kitchen and the night kitchen is in him. As an object set into motion, Mickey finally comes to rest. Sendak, as they say in gymnastics, helps him stick his landing.Through his beautiful handling of word and image—where each has its own appeal, and one adds to the other—Sendak creates something wonderful and catalytic. To paraphrase William Blake:
There is an art of words And an art of picturing And there is an art of arts In which these two arts sing.In the Night Kitchen is both a book about a dream and the stuff that dreams are made of.
PostscriptWhen I agreed to give this talk, I decided to check up on the Mickey in our own library—just to see how he was faring. There’s good news and bad news. The good is that no Mickey has been tampered with; the bad is that there is no copy of the book in the MSU library system, excepting a copy in the Meridian campus. So since, like morning cake, we need more of Mickey not less of him, I would like to finish today by donating a copy of In the Night Kitchen to the library. But if anyone meddles with this Mickey…. well I won’t hesitate to summon Michelangelo and beg him to go and mess with their dreams. [Send comments, questions, and cake to firstname.lastname@example.org]
I chose to do an artwork based on Gustave Caillebotte's painting The Floor Scrapers. In this painting there are three shirtless workers refinishing a floor in an apartment. When planning for this sculpture, I knew that I wanted to focus on the workers' bodies. Because of the years of work, the muscles in their bodies are particular to their work.
I decided to focus on one part of their body. I felt like the hands were the most important. I wanted to sculpt one hand from each worker. I paid specific attention to the placement of the hand, how it held the tool, and what angle the wrist and top plane of the hand created. I could have been more specific using a hand model of my own and recreating the positions in real life, but I wanted my hands to reflect Caillebotte's research.
I chose to use clay with this project. I began with the right hand of the worker on the far left. I cut basic triangle, rectangle, and square forms out of the clay. This allowed me to get the basic gesture of the hand. After I let the clay sit and harden, I was then able to carve knuckle, tendon, and fingernail details. When placing the elements together for the finished piece, I originally planned to display the hands upright as though they were completing the task only without the tools.
As I worked on the hands and completed them one by one, I began setting them aside, resting some parts on another so that I would not mess up the fingers. I liked how the hands were then working together to complete my piece. I chose a clay base on a short back pedestal. I cut the clay slabs into strips and placed them beside one another. I was hoping that this, as well as a few clay shavings, would hint back to The Floor Scrapers painting.2. Writing
And here's my second piece of Caillebotte news: later this year, I'll be giving a paper on the artist at SECAC 2012, which is being held in Durham, North Carolina. The paper will deal with issues of legibility and illegibility in the artist's paintings, and especially in his depictions of shop and business signs. I'll be talking mostly about three paintings: Interior (1880, top detail, above), The Shop Painters (1877, bottom detail), and Paris. Rainy Day (1877).Years ago, when I was visiting the Art Institute of Chicago for the first time, I spent a long time staring at Paris. Rainy Day. I eventually noticed something that wasn't at all obvious from reproductions of the painting. While one of the shop signs in the work is just legible, and identifies the shop as a "PHARMACIE," another sign in the work cannot be read (see the centre two details, above). We can tell that the marks represent the gold lettering of a sign, but can decipher neither what this lettering spells out, nor what kind of business it is identifying. For some reason, this intrigued me. Further thoughts followed from this rather modest observation, and now the ideas have accumulated into a paper, and the paper will lead me to Durham. Or rather, since I used to live in the city, back to Durham.
We are currently celebrating two notable anniversaries in the history of British art: the centenary of the first Post-Impressionist Show (1910-11) and the 125th year of the founding of the New English Art Club (NEAC) in 1886. This talk looks at the connection between the show and the club, exploring Roger Fryâ€™s groundbreaking show, Manet and the Post-Impressionists, in relationship to the history of the NEAC. A former member of the club, Fryâ€™s increasing disillusionment with the NEAC found an outlet in his activities as a curator. The exhibition, then, was not simply about introducing a new group of artists to a bemused London audience, as it is generally remembered. It was about which French artists might provide the most useful models for contemporary British artists. Manet, in particular, was strongly associated with the NEACâ€™s aesthetic agenda, and Fryâ€™s curating both acknowledged this primacy and worked to supplant it. He was offering a choice of Manet (and the NEAC) or The Post-Impressionists.William Orpen's Homage to Manet includes several members of the club and was first shown at the club's 1909 exhibition. It's going to be a crucial image in my talk.