A Visit with Vincent and Mrs. Whistler
There were just enough puffy white clouds
to break up the intensity of a bright blue sky when we arrived at the Berkshire
County town framed by mountains on all sides. I had forgotten how beautiful
Williamstown can be, all clean and shining, ready for visitors. The varied, eye catching buildings on Main
Street are set uncomfortably far apart from each other, maybe so the electric
train can come clicking, clacking and whistling through at any moment to
complete the perfect New England scene.
There were people, lots of people, student types, each with a sheet of paper in hand walking in lines along the street and then crossing the street. There were a noticeable mix of nationalities. Many older adults were out in pairs or in small groups neatly dressed some with cute sun hats over white hair. Others had pony tails probably adorned with flowers and beads in the 1960s.
His best works were the large oil paintings of cypress trees and wheat fields. They were studies in color and brushstroke revealing a bright playfulness and fascination with the natural world. His artistic skills finally gelled as he captured the joy of the moment in nature with a childlike simplicity and wonder.
The large aerial photo of the sanitarium where the artist lived as a patient was fascinating. It gave an expanded context for the works he did at the end of his life. Saint Paul Asylum was a medieval church with extensive east and west wings set against a backdrop of strange ragged mountains that all seemed familiar. As the show wound toward the exit I found myself lingering longer and longer with each painting. The exhibit had finally reached a bright happy note and I wanted to stay there. I already knew how this story ended and it was not a happy one. Strange and tragic that Mr. Van Gogh’s doctor thought he was improving, yet Vincent himself felt his end approaching. I studied Rain Auvers. Eerie and sad to know Vincent painted this before he took his own life.
After viewing this last work, it was emotionally and physically jarring to step from the quiet, dimly lit exhibit to the glaring spot lights of the gift shop and its counters piled high with merchandise. Flood lights, displays of cypress trees and wheat fields repeated on notecards, books, postcards, puzzles, t-shirts, colored pencil cases, umbrellas and tote bags were all stacked up on each other in a classic, pop art, Andy Warhol type overload of confusion. I felt I had just visited a high school friend for the last time, attended his funeral and, then his things were taken to merchandise his trauma. But, such is the way for a tragic artistic icon and reveals the celebrity status of Vincent Van Gogh. I do love souvenir postcards, though they are increasingly anachronistic thanks, to smartphones with text messaging and cameras. I would happily wear one of those t shirts too. The change I would make to the exhibit would be adding a quiet hallway, maybe with flowers, to walk through to ease the transition from bereavement to commercialism. Some complementary Kleenex tissues would be a nice touch, but please, none imprinted with Starry Night.
A snack break was suggested about then by my watchful husband. It was good to take a break, rest and refuel. Having a rich imagination along with an empathetic heart can be rather draining. I had not expected the café chairs to be upholstered in burlap but that is what we found. The retro style furniture gave me flashbacks of the 1970s. We were only missing sideburns, shag carpeting and macramé plant hangers.
We walked back past the entrance of the Van Gogh exhibit with the huge floor to ceiling reproduction of Green Wheat Fields, Auvers. I saw Vincent again at his best and smiled. In front of the supersized artwork was a lovely mother and her three children. The youngest one was enjoying the painting the most: a little girl, four years old with curly black hair, wearing a white sundress trimmed with a purple ruffle and matching purple plastic clogs. She was intently staring up at the funny wall made of bright colors, sunshine and swirls in curious childlike wonder.
The appraiser for fine art prints on the American Antiques Roadshow always liked Whistler’s works and now I understand why. Natural talent, technical skill and strong compositions are all obvious in these expertly honed little gems. It reminded me of the importance of good drawing skills.
Using only black and white gives the perfect opportunity to work out the design and composition before adding color. This can serve as a value sketch for paintings, and is often a first step for artists. “Resolve in black and white, then add color,” I was taught.
There was relevant information on the life and travels of Whistler’s Mother, as well as, examples of parodies produced in the popular media, part of the price you pay for fame when you are the American Mona Lisa.
The large gallery where the great lady resides for her Williamstown stay is well situated. The grey walls tastefully set off the work. Biographic information and photographs of the famous mother and son provide historical background. Whistler’s etching, which is featured in Whistler’s Mother, on the back wall behind his mother, was on display also. Was it an homage to a famous artist or an almost subtle shameless self-promotion from the ever witty James Abbott McNeill McGillycuddy Whistler?
The painting itself had three sections of frames plus protective glass over the canvas. The color of the wood was a perfect match to Mrs. Whistlers face, the only warm tones in the painting. It seemed like a giant etching with only spot color for the face and hands.
It is perfectly composed and balanced even down to the black art frame cropped out of the top right hand side.
Whistler seems to be playing with the picture plane. His mother’s face is so thinly painted she is almost transparent. The gray underpainting works both as the background and as the shadows in her face. The thickest paint is the pattern on the curtain in the bottom left, which adds details and counter balances the face, the main focal point.
Only the perspective in her feet seems awkward and the top line of her lap seems unfinished or maybe a change of mind. The small of Mrs. Whistler’s back against the background doesn’t match the rest of the background. Although the subject is old, she projects strength in her good posture and beauty in her washed face honesty.
Even at this advanced age, Mrs. Whistler can command a crowd. People filed by to meet her and pay their respects. I wish more men wore hats, so they could take them off, hold them over their heart and politely nod as was the custom in her day.
There were people, lots of people, student types, each with a sheet of paper in hand walking in lines along the street and then crossing the street. There were a noticeable mix of nationalities. Many older adults were out in pairs or in small groups neatly dressed some with cute sun hats over white hair. Others had pony tails probably adorned with flowers and beads in the 1960s.
The Clark Art Institute itself was
huge. Like a good batch of dough, it
seems to have doubled in size since I last visited. A series of young parking attendants directed
us where to park. There were so many
people milling about the grounds in shade hats, summer whites and sandals that we
were beginning to wonder… was this a free
admission day and the museum would be mobbed… was there some other special event
scheduled and the art show we traveled to see closed? The young man at the
admission desk was harried, though friendly enough. “Is it always this busy?’” I asked. “Yes,” he
said, not smiling, “and right now it is even a little bit slow.” “Wow, that’s great!” I enthused. He did not agree. My husband and I stood off to the side
studying the Visitor Guide not quite sure what to do next.
A cheerful lady with bright blue eyes
and halo of blonde curls appeared. She told
us of the remodeling, the expansion and where to find each exhibit, the permanent
collection and the art research center. Her calm, unassuming friendliness set
us at ease. She was skillful at imparting
information and befriending strangers; just the right talents to be everyone’s
favorite teacher. “The Van Gogh show gets a little less crowded this time of
day. You should start there,” she
confidently recommended. That was just
what we needed to hear. We thanked our Beatrice and headed down the stairs to Van Gogh and Nature.
The exhibit was thoughtfully arranged,
detailed and satisfying. It flowed in an
easy to follow, logical time line. Influential books, a golden vase, photos,
timeline descriptions and artwork details gave context for the paintings. Quotes and captions added to the narrative in
relevant ways and did not distract with extra details or opinions. I really enjoy the controlled, other worldliness
of the art museum with the dimmed lights and people speaking in hushed tones as
in a library. It was interesting to observe the oblivious people taking the
audio tour of the exhibit with earbuds in and IPAD tablets hanging around their
necks by a thick black strap. Also
sporting earbuds were the museum security staff, the art bouncers, watching
everyone without making eye contact and doing a consistent job of frowning. It
must be exhausting to keep a frown around such joyous art work and all the
amusing members of the public you could see on a daily basis. I could not do it. I enjoyed taking my time examining at each
work up close, sideways and from a distance: studying each in quietness to see
all that I could see and be taught.
What did I learn?
Mr. Van Gogh really struggled to find
his voice.
He imitated many artists and color palettes
before he found his own unmistakable style.
He definitely had his duds. As an artist myself, this was comforting. Weak compositions, jarring color schemes and
pieces where he never mastered the media are all evidence of the journey. I have a similar pile of pieces in my studio,
tucked safely away from viewing, all necessary to the process and not masterpieces.His best works were the large oil paintings of cypress trees and wheat fields. They were studies in color and brushstroke revealing a bright playfulness and fascination with the natural world. His artistic skills finally gelled as he captured the joy of the moment in nature with a childlike simplicity and wonder.
The large aerial photo of the sanitarium where the artist lived as a patient was fascinating. It gave an expanded context for the works he did at the end of his life. Saint Paul Asylum was a medieval church with extensive east and west wings set against a backdrop of strange ragged mountains that all seemed familiar. As the show wound toward the exit I found myself lingering longer and longer with each painting. The exhibit had finally reached a bright happy note and I wanted to stay there. I already knew how this story ended and it was not a happy one. Strange and tragic that Mr. Van Gogh’s doctor thought he was improving, yet Vincent himself felt his end approaching. I studied Rain Auvers. Eerie and sad to know Vincent painted this before he took his own life.
After viewing this last work, it was emotionally and physically jarring to step from the quiet, dimly lit exhibit to the glaring spot lights of the gift shop and its counters piled high with merchandise. Flood lights, displays of cypress trees and wheat fields repeated on notecards, books, postcards, puzzles, t-shirts, colored pencil cases, umbrellas and tote bags were all stacked up on each other in a classic, pop art, Andy Warhol type overload of confusion. I felt I had just visited a high school friend for the last time, attended his funeral and, then his things were taken to merchandise his trauma. But, such is the way for a tragic artistic icon and reveals the celebrity status of Vincent Van Gogh. I do love souvenir postcards, though they are increasingly anachronistic thanks, to smartphones with text messaging and cameras. I would happily wear one of those t shirts too. The change I would make to the exhibit would be adding a quiet hallway, maybe with flowers, to walk through to ease the transition from bereavement to commercialism. Some complementary Kleenex tissues would be a nice touch, but please, none imprinted with Starry Night.
A snack break was suggested about then by my watchful husband. It was good to take a break, rest and refuel. Having a rich imagination along with an empathetic heart can be rather draining. I had not expected the café chairs to be upholstered in burlap but that is what we found. The retro style furniture gave me flashbacks of the 1970s. We were only missing sideburns, shag carpeting and macramé plant hangers.
We walked back past the entrance of the Van Gogh exhibit with the huge floor to ceiling reproduction of Green Wheat Fields, Auvers. I saw Vincent again at his best and smiled. In front of the supersized artwork was a lovely mother and her three children. The youngest one was enjoying the painting the most: a little girl, four years old with curly black hair, wearing a white sundress trimmed with a purple ruffle and matching purple plastic clogs. She was intently staring up at the funny wall made of bright colors, sunshine and swirls in curious childlike wonder.
Next we walked and waited to catch a
ride to the second exhibit. The shuttle
was easy to spot because it was Van Gogh’s Green
Wheat Fields, Auvers in the shape of a mini school bus. The diesel engine idled as we climbed into
the painting and zipped up the hill to see Whistler’s
Mother: Grey, Black and White, another artistic icon with celebrity
status.
What I learned:
Mr. Whistler was extremely well
skilled in his craft. There were no
floundering pieces on view. From this
sampling you could see the artist was fully fluent and knew what he was about. The appraiser for fine art prints on the American Antiques Roadshow always liked Whistler’s works and now I understand why. Natural talent, technical skill and strong compositions are all obvious in these expertly honed little gems. It reminded me of the importance of good drawing skills.
Using only black and white gives the perfect opportunity to work out the design and composition before adding color. This can serve as a value sketch for paintings, and is often a first step for artists. “Resolve in black and white, then add color,” I was taught.
There was relevant information on the life and travels of Whistler’s Mother, as well as, examples of parodies produced in the popular media, part of the price you pay for fame when you are the American Mona Lisa.
The large gallery where the great lady resides for her Williamstown stay is well situated. The grey walls tastefully set off the work. Biographic information and photographs of the famous mother and son provide historical background. Whistler’s etching, which is featured in Whistler’s Mother, on the back wall behind his mother, was on display also. Was it an homage to a famous artist or an almost subtle shameless self-promotion from the ever witty James Abbott McNeill McGillycuddy Whistler?
The painting itself had three sections of frames plus protective glass over the canvas. The color of the wood was a perfect match to Mrs. Whistlers face, the only warm tones in the painting. It seemed like a giant etching with only spot color for the face and hands.
It is perfectly composed and balanced even down to the black art frame cropped out of the top right hand side.
Whistler seems to be playing with the picture plane. His mother’s face is so thinly painted she is almost transparent. The gray underpainting works both as the background and as the shadows in her face. The thickest paint is the pattern on the curtain in the bottom left, which adds details and counter balances the face, the main focal point.
Only the perspective in her feet seems awkward and the top line of her lap seems unfinished or maybe a change of mind. The small of Mrs. Whistler’s back against the background doesn’t match the rest of the background. Although the subject is old, she projects strength in her good posture and beauty in her washed face honesty.
Even at this advanced age, Mrs. Whistler can command a crowd. People filed by to meet her and pay their respects. I wish more men wore hats, so they could take them off, hold them over their heart and politely nod as was the custom in her day.
An air of hushed silence continued
even outside the exhibit as we waited for the Van Gogh bus so we could zip back
down the hill. The humorous and savvy Mr. Whistler had given us all an experience
to remember. We could now tell others we have seen Arrangement in Grey and Black No. 1, or rather, as it is popularly
known, Whistler’s Mother. If Mr.
Whistler were here today, I can imagine the twinkle in his eye as he himself
would stand apart and direct the crowds with a flourish to the gift shop with
tables piled high with notecards, t shirts, umbrellas, playing cards, pillows,
calendars, account books and tote bags, all with his famous mother pictured on
the front of them.
L.C. Kemmerling
August 2015
Comments
Post a Comment