u/CMK-X

>"Art is the supreme task and the truly metaphysical activity of this life."

>Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy (1872).

> "There is no such thing as art, only the artist."

> E. M. Forster, Two Cheers for Democracy (1938).

Appreciation of art is often first felt in the gut, an unconscious response: I like this, it appeals to me.

That immediate, visceral sensation is more than enough to enjoy art: but for those who become curious about why they feel it, that instinctive response can become an invitation to look more closely.

For visually oriented people, art can become an important part of their wellbeing and exploring it more deeply can enhance that effect.

The Small Crucifixion is on permanent display at the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. and I was fortunate enough to see it, in person, a few years ago.  

A photographic reproduction of a painting is not the painting; the Small Crucifixion is 1.5 feet wide and 2 feet tall, executed (pun most certainly intended) with smooth, fluid brushwork and colours enriched with glazes that produce a luminous, almost otherworldly sheen.

Although the work reproduces beautifully, as you can see above, its full impact, as with most great paintings, requires seeing it in person.

Anyway, this magnificent work is one of my all-time favourite paintings and here’s why:

My first impression:

This is difficult to look at.

I have previously seen hundreds of idealised crucifixions, both in painting and sculpture, that portray a lightly muscled Christ: beatific and noble and triumphant in death.

However, this tortured body is twisted in agony, with limbs writhing to the tips of the fingers and toes, rotting emaciated flesh, head encased in an oversized crown of thorns (not decorative whimsy but pure punishment), emerging from the plush darkness of the night sky. This is a tableau of wretched suffering - even the vertical beam of the cross sags despairingly.

The technique:

Grünewald presents the scene with bold chiaroscuro, with stark contrasts heightening the drama. From the crepuscular gloom, Christ’s pallid body emerges as the inescapable focal point, presented almost as if caught in a bright, merciless spotlight.

Unlike many contemporaneous artists who favoured warm harmonious palettes, Grünewald uses cold, subdued colours accented by stark highlights. The painting is executed in oil on panel, allowing Grünewald to build up multiple transparent layers (glazes). This technique creates subtle transitions between light and shadow and gives the flesh an almost luminous quality despite its deathly appearance.

The context:

At the time The Small Crucifixion was painted Italian Renaissance was celebrating idealised beauty, proportion and balance but in Germany there was schism in the Catholic church (with the impending splinter of Protestantism) which could have informed this rejection of traditional ‘worship’ imagery.

 I feel:

A quality of verisimilitude - an unveiled truth - runs through the image: this is a document of execution’s brutality, not a sanitised, shallow emblem of triumph over suffering. I stand as a spectator before a fixed, unyielding moment of torment, its power emanating relentlessly from this macabre artwork.

Art is important to many people and can become even more so when critically analysed. But how is that done? Here’s a few pointers, among the key questions to ask of a work.

1.      What are my first impressions?

2.      What technique was used, and why?

3.      What might it mean in context?

4.      How does it make me feel?

For anyone interested in enhancing their appreciation of art, I recommend The Story of Art by E.H Gombrich – a critically acclaimed whistle stop tour of the important milestones of artistic endeavour, from cave paintings onwards this book highlights all of the notable advances and movements.

>"Art is the supreme task and the truly metaphysical activity of this life."

>^(Friedrich Nietzsche,) ^(The Birth of Tragedy, 1872.)

>"There is no such thing as art, only the artist."

> ^(E. M. Forster, Two Cheers for Democracy, 1938.)

Appreciation of art is often first felt in the gut, an unconscious response: I like this, it appeals to me.

That immediate, visceral sensation is more than enough to enjoy art; but for those who become curious about why they feel it, the reflexive response can become an invitation to look more closely.

For visually oriented people, art can become an important aspect of their wellness, and exploring the subject further can enhance that effect.

Europe After the Rain is on permanent display at the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art in Hartford, Connecticut, United States but I was fortunate enough to see it, in person, back in the 1990s when it was temporarily loaned to the Tate gallery in London.

A photographic reproduction of a painting is not the painting - Europe After the Rain is 5’ wide by 2’ tall and is crafted with a three-dimensional texture of ridges, bubble cratering, gouges and scrapes. There are almost imperceptible fine details e.g. tiny figures and faces surreptitiously scattered and camouflaged within the latticework of the composition.

Although the work does reproduce as a wonderful image (as one may observe, above) nevertheless, as with most great paintings, the full truth of it requires first-hand experience.  

Anyway, this magnificent work is one of my all-time favourite paintings and here’s why:

My first impression is:

I am witness to a post-apocalyptic landscape in which Europe is a maimed continent, a cartographical wound, a deformed civilisation, a cultural mutation, a bouquet of charnel lilies tied with a ribbon of violence. An environment of liquified buildings and solidified pyroclastic flow.

The context:

As one may reasonably assume the ‘rain’ is a reference to the aerial bombardment, the rain of munitions, that was ongoing during WWII, when the piece was created.  

The technique:

Although commercial oil paints had been available since the early 19th century (Winsor & Newton began production in 1832) Ernst still mixed his own blends. For illustrations like this, where one of the techniques used is decalcomania (wet paint is pressed and then peeled away to form the intricate, dreamlike textures), Ernst required wetter, more unpredictable mixtures of paint - and he fully embraced that instability.

I feel:

That this piece was grown from a culture, spawned from a petri dish, rather than illustrated by a human hand. I absorb the optimistic discomfort generated by the contrast between the tranquil summer sky and malformed landscape.  

Art is important to many people and can become even more so when critically analysed. But how is that done? Here's a few pointers, among the key questions to consider asking of a work.

1.      What are my first impressions?

2.      What technique was used, and why?

3.      What might it mean in context?

4.      How does it make me feel?

For anyone interested in further enhancing their appreciation of art, I thoroughly recommend The Story of Art by E. H. Gombrich – a whistle stop tour of the most important milestones of artistic endeavour, from cave paintings onwards, this critically acclaimed book highlights all of the notable advances and movements.

Human consciousness generates narrative structure, a robust frame upon which we drape our frail existence, allowing us to examine and reconcile our experiences.

Myths, legends, fables, and fairy tales proliferate across all cultures and throughout recorded history. Stories are how we reflect upon our lives, and how we rehearse for them.

From the stories whispered in caves to the four‑colour funny book, archetypes proliferate: the best and worst of our natures distilled into their purest essences — heroes and villains, desire and violence, defeat and victory. Some ideas prove so potent, so perfectly attuned to human psychology, that they replicate across generations.

The noun ‘meme’ was first introduced by Richard Dawkins in his book The Blind Watchmaker (published 1986) to describe non-biological “patterns of information that can thrive only in brains, or the artificially manufactured products of brains – books, computers and so on”. Dawkins went on to speculate upon memic evolution, the notion that some ideas could be so powerful that they flourish above all others. And few modern creations have proved to be more powerful than the Marvel superheroes of the 1960s - which brings us to Spiderman, Captain America, Iron Man, Thor et al.

A quarter of the way into the 21st century, the Marvel Cinematic Universe stands as the most financially successful franchise in film history. Yet in the 1960s (when most of its iconic characters were created) Marvel was just a plucky upstart fighting for a foothold in an already oversaturated superhero market.  

Marvel comics had long specialised in identifying trends and then jumping on the bandwagon.  Even the spearhead comic book of what would later become the MCU, The Fantastic Four, was designed to echo the popular contemporary DC comics property Challengers of the Unknown.  

Yet through Stan Lee’s restless inventiveness and Jack Kirby’s explosive visual imagination, Marvel created something novel and engrossing. They added a hitherto unseen level of humanity and believability to the characters; fallibility and doubt was mingled with the selfless acts of heroism. It was an idea that captured the imagination of young and older readers alike - something that had never been seen before in the comic-book genre: characters who actually possessed a character.

Many hold the belief (and I count myself among them) that 1960s Marvel comic books represent the zenith of the medium, the unrestrained exuberance of exploring, and of conquering, new territories. But make no mistake, these creators were not necessarily filled with lofty intentions to elevate the genre, they were mostly simply trying to earn a living. Whatever was selling best (be it cowboys, crime, bug-eyed monsters, romance or superheroes) they printed numerous titles featuring the popular themes.

As it turned out, what actually sold best were comic-books with quality scripts and snappy dialogue but above all illustrated with the kinetic and dynamic style of artwork provided by such luminaries as Kirby and Ditko (who between them created almost all of the MCU’s iconic characters).

The 1960s Marvel comic‑books were designed to look their best when printed on cheap wood‑pulp newsprint, run through the high‑speed halftone presses that dominated the industry, machines built for volume, not precision.

This being so, reprints and collected editions are not only qualitatively different in appearance; they are a quantitatively different experience to the original magazines.

To truly appreciate the full beauty of these comic‑books as they were originally intended to be viewed, one needs to seek out the source material - the original news‑stand copies, rather than the reprints presented on slick glossy paper.

Towards the end of the set of pics (which accompany this article) I have presented two comparative examples – the reprinted page to the left and the original issue to the right. You will readily be able to perceive the difference in quality: colour saturation, contrasts, and line weight vary considerably between originals and reprints.    

Further, only the original comic-books possess the sensation of bibliosmia – the pungent, musty, odour of a sixty-year-old comic-book is a heavenly perfume, a time machine, the sense of smell unleashing a cascade of memories.

Original 1960s Marvel comic-books can be expensive, of course, but the truly exorbitant prices are reserved for the highest‑grade copies. With no disrespect to collectors who prize rarity and invest in valuable comics sealed in plastic, to me the entire (and only) purpose of a comic-book is its entertainment value. The message is the medium.

This being so, I don’t fret about how tatty a copy is, as long as I have a copy that I am unafraid to read. No matter how rare a vintage comic-book is, if I own it then it will be handled, repeatedly. And, occasionally, carelessly.

Growing up, I relentlessly scoured yard sales and thrift stores for these tatty old magazines – it’s been a lot easier since eBay arrived. If one is patient, then ‘reading’ copies (generally considered Grade 2 and under) can be obtained for a more modest outlay. I use eBay to place minimum bids on dozens of comic-books and, although mostly I am outbid, occasionally I strike lucky. No one else bids and a bargain is had.

The fourth image that accompanies this article is Fantastic Four #72. This is my all-time favourite comic-book cover and near-mint copies fetch a hefty price tag but I lucked out and obtained mine for less than the cost of an eighth of flower.

If you enjoy Silver Age Marvel characters but haven’t examined the original 1960s issues (the very pages where these characters first took shape) I would encourage you to consider obtaining a copy; they can be more affordable and accessible than most people assume.

When I smoke an ‘enlightenment’ cigarette, the flimsy veneer of adulthood dissipates, and I read these magazines freshly captivated by the same naïve awe they inspired in me as a youngster.

Silver Age Marvel comic-books have been heavily supporting my well-being ever since I first learned how to read – and I suspect that they always will.  

ESTABLISHING SHOT:

A barren, featureless moorland. A strip of dawn’s light like a burning ribbon, a choker around the throat of the horizon. In the mid distance a hunkered cottage, single storey and sagging, weakly defended by a low dry-stone wall border, as if bracing itself for something it cannot withstand.  

AERIAL TRACKING SHOT:

The camera drops from height, too silently to be benign. It glides toward the cottage with a slow, predatory certainty, the dwelling expanding to fill the 16:9 frame until…

SLOW FADE:

The cottage interior.

OPENING SEQUENCE:

Dimly lit and gloomy, the corners of the room cannot be seen, fading into lightless obscurity. Do the corners even exist? Or is it the room itself that dwindles at the perimeters, the warp and weft of reality worn thin and threadbare.

A rustic farmhouse kitchen, solid wooden dining table, utensils hanging, cast iron stove, but no one cooks here. No one eats here.

There is no plumbing, no well, no spring. No one drinks here.

There is no electricity, no heating, no fire. No one feels the cold here. 

Piles upon piles of objects, mundane and fanciful, bloom teetering from every surface – matchboxes full of buttons, thimbles and bookmarks, milk teeth and pennies, pudding spoons and cotton buds, everything that you ever lost and will never find, all of it is here. 

The walls are rendered with ten thousand semi-sentient clocks, exchanging cryptic Morse code messages that only the Deathwatch beetles can hear.

Somewhere in the cottage, something echoes, though nothing has moved and nothing has ever made a sound here.

The air is fusty and shriven within the stalled passage of this splinter of daybreak, an oscillating and infinite loop that describes the boundaries here.  

I have always lived in this place. There is no before. There is no after. There is just this crystal interval, twinkling and spinning ad infinitum. The comfort of repetition and the security that nothing much of any real consequence ever changes here.

Wherever ‘here’ is.

And yet, somehow, suddenly, I am now outside.  Or perhaps, not quite outside, more at the threshold. But nearer to the outside than I have ever been before. The Three Angels are departing. They have always existed here, with me. There was no before but now there seems to be the possibility of an after here.

The Three Angels cannot be witnessed directly, they must be glimpsed from the corner of the eye, at that periphery where they are merely vague and flimsy shapes with strobe light grace. But you know exactly how they appear without needing to look, don’t you? They keep the clocks honest here. 

I have transgressed (my virtue recast as vice) but I do not know, nor am I permitted to know, and so I shall never know, what my offence was. The not knowing lingers along the Möbius strip of my imagination.

The Three Angels turn in unison, their thin smiles unreadable, before stepping, feet skimming above the dewy grass, through the gnarled gate…..

And in this moment, this stuttering, this replay, this summit becomes chasm.

“An empty midnight village dry winter street, flickers intermittently superimposed upon my vision, blue upon blue, burning bright cold, the pink-noise hiss of the wind in the bare tree branches, clattering and accusatory. Churchyard shrubs clinging to the consecrated and desiccated soil.

 ……..lamplight brittle, this potential is devoured by the same purgatorial frost gnawing through my implanted past.”

I was obediently contented in that moment, and now I exist in this disobedient moment, this new moment, this unmapped territory, the instant before it all evaporates. Caught in the glow of Heaven but knowing that it has been permanently denied. A vertiginous lurch of overdue consequence, dazed and clambering from the blunt force trauma of fortunes in collision, the wreckage of regrets.

Do I plead? To whom? For what? Either way, the decisions have already been made.

The Three Angels are paused, merciless, and I ask, aloud, above the clamour of the clocks:

 "What happens next?" 

Environmental beauty, both natural and manufactured, is integral to the maintenance of my well-being. 

This astounding stained glass East Window was partially designed by William Morris, who also oversaw the production and assembly of the piece.

This work is considered to be a particularly marvellous example of the Victorian Arts and Crafts movement - a movement that existed, in large part, to celebrate the intrinsic value of design and craftsmanship. 

The church is St. Mary's, Tadcaster, North Yorkshire, England.

Pic 1. The East Window.

Pic 2. The Nave.

Pic 3. North side and oak roof.

Pic 4. The graveyard. 

This is not AI and it is not my video.

There is an endless fascination, for me, in the splendour of the natural world.

My wellbeing is significantly improved by exposure to the intricacies of our biosphere.

Amongst those intricacies, the various meteorological events can be the most dramatic and spectacular.

I wasn't previously aware that this phenomenon even existed, they are so infrequent.

But now that do I know of them - I really want to see one with my own eyes!