For
a long time, longer than I really care to admit, I was a cretin when it came to
modern and contemporary art. I had this tongue-in-cheek attitude that summed up
my thinking on the subject in general: if I could do it, it wasn’t art.
Gradually,
that attitude began to break down. I read more. I looked more carefully. I
stopped rejecting exhibits or installations out of hand (although, I have to
say that the installation of several television monitors talking to each other
at the St. Louis Art Museum may still fit my tongue-in-cheek attitude).
But
there was a moment, some years ago, when something happened that changed my attitude
about contemporary and modern art. It was a series of three paintings at the
St. Louis Art Museum by Gerhard Richter, titled individually November, December and January.
(That’s December at the top of the
page).
I
still can’t explain why, but the day came when I looked at those three
paintings closely, and realized they represented something far more, far
larger, than various shades of gray paint on canvas. I looked at those three
paintings, and I felt physically cold, as if I was in the very real presence of
a representation of weather.
Richter
was the doorway through which I walked into contemporary and modern art. The
St. Louis museum has other Richter works, like Gray Mirror (1991), four mounted panels of gray glass, and Betty, a portrait of the back of Richter’s
daughter at about age 12. And then I began to read about his work. And moved on
from there. Twenty years ago, if someone had asked me who my favorite artist was,
I would have likely Cezanne, pr perhaps Andrew Wyeth. Today, I would answer the
question by saying Makoto Fujimura.
And
I surprise myself even more by finding significant contemporary and modern
elements in a painter like El Greco.
The
art itself didn’t change; I changed. I understood what I didn’t understand
before. The biggest change came in my understanding of creativity.
In
Life
After Art, Matt Appling says that “human survival never demanded that a
poem be written or a song be sung or a play be performed or a story be told or
any number of other beautiful, emotional, moving things be created. Beauty is never essential to survival.
Yet humanity has spent millions of hours on unnecessary,
nonessential creation.
“God’s
life is not just about existing. It is about beauty.”
And
I found beauty in what I previously didn’t understand, expressions of the
creative self that we carry with us because we are made in God’s image.
Over
at The High Calling, we’re reading
Appling’s Life After Art. To see the discussion
today on “Life without beauty,” pleasevisit the site.
Related:
My
review of Life After Art.
Broken
Hallelujahs, a poem inspired by Gerhard Richter’s December.
Painting: December,
oil on canvas by Gerhard Richter (1989).
