Jerome Bel accomplished quite an astounding feat in creating his “Disabled Theater” piece with Theater Hora. He was able to take the idea of “disability”–one that we are sometimes afraid of or, more often, simply unwilling or unable to fully understand–and force us to give our undivided attention to it. There were no moments more singularly powerful and raw as those in the very beginning of the piece when the ten actors were asked to come out one by one and present themselves to the audience. No speaking, no sound–just their very presence, emanating out from the center of the flat stage and reaching every corner of the rather small, yet captivated, audience. The silence alone could speak volumes. This opening act was significant for the fact that it simultaneously underscored and juxtaposed itself with the idea that those with disabilities are passive, silent members of their often cold-hearted society. We are struck by the fact that all we have to observe on stage for a minute is an actor with a disability–a sight that we very often do not have the chance or the patience to see–standing there and doing absolutely nothing but stare back at us. There is irony and power in the fact that the rest of the performance proceeds to contrast directly with the silence we experienced in these initial moments.

What Jerome Bel does in “Disabled Theater” is give these disabled persons a voice, one that they are rarely given the true opportunity to share. Not simply a speaking voice, which they are given an abundance of opportunities to explore, but also a creative one. Bel gives these actors freedom and with this freedom comes emotional liberation. He tells them they are free to make up their own dance, complete with their own choreography and music choice. And with this simple request, a performance of the purest, most unadulterated joy I have ever witnessed across a stage was born. I have never smiled as much both during and after a performance as I did for Bel’s truly brilliant piece of work.

The actors, who have disabilities ranging from more mild forms of learning weakness to more severe cases of Down’s Syndrome, were encouraged to put their all into this performance and to speak their truth, but what really added a level to the entire performance was the fact that Bel simply encouraged them to be themselves. With “Disabled Theater”, Bel taps into the creative passion and genius that lies within each individual, no matter what their external or internal disability. Anyone can be an artist, and this is never more apparent than it is in this performance. I was astounded by the creativity and true passion these actors possessed regarding their artistic expression. In particular, I was shocked and delighted by how accurately and entertainingly one of the younger actresses was able to capture the essence of Michael Jackson in her dance to his song “They Don’t Care About Us.” The symbolism of this song choice was not at all lost on the audience either. Many of the dances performed similarly surprised me with their vitality and fiery inner spirit. Every movement had been chosen for a reason by these actors and I was breathlessly anticipating what new excitement each dance would bring because each was memorable in its uniqueness.

Everything about “Disabled Theater” is intimate and extremely personal. There is little distance between the stage and the audience, with some audience members even sitting on the edge of the floor of the stage itself. There is a strikingly strong sense of closeness between the audience and the actors on stage, which seems to have been a deliberate choice on Jerome Bel’s part when selecting New York Live Arts as a venue. This closeness was not merely a physical, material closeness but also one of propinquity, a proximal and psychological nearness that is a major factor in establishing relationships between people. I felt a kinship to these actors as they danced and performed and laughed alongside their company members and friends. There was something so whole-heartedly normal about the entire experience that I couldn’t help but feel happy at seeing these people just be themselves and relate to their love for the things they do. Although there were more somber, realistic moments scattered throughout the performance regarding the truths of mental disability, I really would say that the feeling of the night was happiness and joy.

For this reason, I don’t believe Jerome Bel has any obligation to these actors after the performance is over. Theater Hora is already a well-established and respected theater company in Sweden and I never got the impression that it was because of Jerome Bel that they were getting any sort of recognition outside their home country. “Disabled Theater” was a partnership between this choreographer and theater company, not at all Jerome Bel doing a favor for or exploiting the actors in the company for the sake of his own agenda. It seems to me that all Bel and the actors hoped to do by putting on this performance was to make the audience think, even if only for the 90 minutes of the piece, that disabled persons are no more or less different than any of us without a disability. There is such strength and resiliency in the characters of those living with a disability. There is such power and respectability in the fact that they try to live their lives without letting the disability become a hindrance. There is so much to admire about these individuals who have likely experienced more pain, suffering, and hardship than we ever will in all our years, and yet who can still manage to end the night with a smile dancing across their face and laughter escaping from between their lips. Jerome Bel is not taking advantage of these actors at all; rather he is broadening their horizons and asking them to open themselves up to an audience that simply wants to understand.

–Norine Chan (Blog A)

Two Boys was quite an unforgettable experience for me, primarily because it broadened my perspectives on the nature of artistic vision. What could easily have turned into a messy, overly ambitious attempt at contemporary opera instead came together as a beautifully haunting work of art that transported me into the often-frightening, tragic, and exhilarating world that Nico Muhly had created.

I was left breathless by the natural flow of Muhly’s opera. There were no unintentional pauses or breaks from the dramatic plot line and the seamless transitions only served to heighten the opera’s already existent tension. Perhaps to the dismay of critics who believe that the use of media in performance detracts from the “liveness”–the presence–of the performers and their work, I found that the added media actually created a level of immediacy that would not otherwise be possible. The writer Walter Benjamin criticizes the “mechanical dilution of presence or liveness in a reproduction work of art” and the subsequent “depreciation of the presence of the artwork and a withering of its essential aura” (Dixon 116-17). Likewise, Peggy Phelan argues that “performance’s only life is in the present…To the degree that performance attempts to enter the economy of reproduction, it betrays and lessens the promise of its own ontology” (Dixon 123).

Benjamin and Phelan would likely be affronted by Two Boys’s elaborate and extensive use of movable projection screens to depict written reproductions of the sung online conversations between various characters and several beautifully rendered artistic images of the interconnectedness of the world wide web. Yet I found myself captivated by the brilliance in set design and by the screens’ ability to contribute to both the visual and emotional atmosphere of the opera.  Whereas Benjamin believes that the liveness and aura of the artwork are diminished by the presence of reproduction, I actually thought that having the verbally sung conversations displayed on the screens behind the actors contributed greatly to the dark and lonely atmosphere of the piece and also to the potentially violent and dangerous aspects of the Internet as portrayed in the opera. There is one particularly chilling section in which Brian is contacted online by the psychotic gardener, Peter, who begins to harass and abuse him with crass sexual comments. Although in itself disturbing, this scene’s unsettling nature is underscored by the fact that Brian and Peter’s conversation is being simultaneously written out on the projection screens, revealing Peter’s possibly intentional misspellings (the one that stood out most to me was “want some cumpny?”) Contrary to Phelan’s belief that the use of reproduction lessens the performance’s state of being, Two Boys used the projection screens skillfully to represent the idea that despite the Internet’s ability to literally connect the entire world, it really only results in a disconnect among individuals. The use of media in the opera actually affirmed and strengthened this idea throughout the performance, rather than detract from it.

I was also struck by how well Nico Muhly managed to combine a discourse on the damaging effects of the Internet with a decided appreciation of its beautiful intricacy and depth. When the projection screens displayed wispy, twisted images of spiraling webs and various artistic representations of all the connections between individuals made possible by the Internet, combined with the chorus members and dancers on stage, I was awed by the accuracy and clarity of the ideas being presented. I could feel the loudness of the Internet through these images–the messy, harsh, discordant sounds of too many voices clashing at once, but also the significance of the fact that all these voices could even be existing together at once. There can be no doubt that the creation of the Internet was–and continues to be–quite the unbelievable feat. It has become such an integral part of the way society functions that it nearly has the ability to dictate both our successes and our failures as individuals.

Roland Barthes writes of how media in performance is “deeply concerned with mortality itself, with the nature, the neome of humanity” (Dixon 122). This idea could not have been made clearer than it was in Two Boys. The use of images on the projection screens and even of the video footage of Brian and Jake all contribute to demonstrate the increasing dependence of society on this media that is claimed to be unnecessary. There is a paradox in the idea that even as humanity grows tremendously, it is a growth that is often spurred on and made possible by the use of technology and media. Society has created the means for engendering its greatest triumphs and for paving the path to its greatest downfalls through the Internet. As Philip Auslander put it: “the live itself incorporates the mediatized, both technologically and epistemologically” (Dixon 124). This has come to apply not just to performance, but also to ourselves–to the fact that our liveness as a society can no longer exist without the incorporation of media. And as art so often reflects society, we see in Two Boys how the Internet takes over the lives of Brian and Jake and, by extension, that of Detective Strewson, even with her little experience and knowledge of computers. In the production of Two Boys itself the use of media is incorporated so brilliantly and so well that it becomes a natural organ in the functioning of the stage, complementing both the performers and the music with style.

Two Boys was not perfect in story and many plot aspects were not as hard-hitting or as dynamic as they could have been. But what really brought Two Boys to life was the way it tied itself together. Through its gorgeously dark and haunting music and its dynamic actors, Two Boys created a purposeful atmosphere right from the start and did an incredible job at not ever losing it. In the end, however, the piece that truly held the entire opera together for me was the set, the lighting, and the media. I can’t recall ever being more impressed or stunned by something I have seen on a stage. There really was such a liveness in Two Boys, one that I believe could only have been achieved, ironically, through its stunning use of media and reproduction.

–Norine Chan (Blog A)

Pascal Rambert’s A (micro) history of world economics, danced was a difficult piece to fully appreciate. I was impressed by many of its foundational aspects–the quiet power of using dozens of diverse performers, the didacticism of Éric Méchoulan’s lectures on economic philosophy, the supplementary background music and vocal performance. But at the same time, I struggled to understand how all these various qualities of the performance came together as a representation of world economics. Certain portions of the performance were straightforward: Méchoulan’s lectures were clearly referring to economic theories and ideas, the anonymous performers were intended to symbolize the varied population of New York City (or perhaps the world?), and the section in which all the performers presented one object that belonged to them was supposed to represent the materiality of ownership and property. Yet so many other parts of the performance seemed abstract and nearly irrelevant to the ideas being posited in the teachings. I was confused for much of the first half of the performance because I couldn’t reconcile the various skits being performed by the three lead actresses with the symbolic gestures/hand movements prevalent throughout the entire piece. I had trouble differentiating between the various characters the performers portrayed and I found some of the portrayals unnecessary, overstated, and even distracting (such as the demonstration of an item exchange between 3 islands or the extended sequence in which all the performers were jumping simultaneously).

The word “inconsistent” came to my mind often while I watched this perhaps over-extended 90 minute performance. The last 30 minutes of the performance were highly engaging and I was particularly delighted by the confession-like section in which some of the nameless performers came up to a microphone to talk about moments in their lives. I was taken by the intimacy and surprising personableness of the speakers and the stories they had to share (particularly the Asian man who loved Carrie Underwood!) This section struck me too because it contrasted so greatly with the rigidly structured and heavy-handed nature of the skits. I found a reprieve of sorts from these belabored and over-exaggerated characterizations in the normalcy of the feelings and moments that the performers discussed. I also felt this way about the object presentation section because so many of the objects reminded me of items in my own home that are significant to me for various personal reasons. I found myself able to relate more easily to the performers during these glimpses of simple honesty that lent a greater sense of accessibility to the performance as a whole.

I say that Rambert’s piece is inconsistent because it took over half of the performance time to even reach this more relatable portion of the performance. Although there were many humorous and entertaining parts, sprinkled with good acting and beautiful choral singing, these individual sparkling moments were overshadowed by the fact that the performance was esoteric and difficult to grasp at several instances. Méchoulan’s lectures, while interesting, were also sometimes very abstract and theoretical. As someone with little background in economics aside from introductory/basic concepts, I felt overwhelmed by all the terminology and theories, especially because there was so much else going on simultaneously on the performance floor. These more convoluted aspects of the performance made it harder to have an overall positive impression of the piece. Despite the fact that I felt the last half hour of the performance made up for many of its shortcomings, I couldn’t help but feel like the performance didn’t come together as one coherent piece in my mind. I was grappling with the connections from scene to scene and in the end felt like I was trying to force ideas together that didn’t really belong. I am impressed by Rambert’s ambition and vision in constructing a performance piece about economics, but it ultimately lacked the underlying uniformity and coherence that could have made it brilliant.

–Norine Chan (Blog A)

André Kertész’s photograph Rue des Ursins immediately captured my attention because of its sense of desolation and mystery. It depicts a lonely street in what seems to be a town in France (rue means road in French) and it is curious to find that there is no real subject being photographed other than the emptiness of the street. Rue des Ursins is a narrow, winding road that seems crudely constructed, as do the buildings which line the street. There is a lone woman in the road with what appears to be a cat, a run-down, corner wine shop with some customers, and a bike wheel in the bottom right corner that seems to belong to a bicycle that is exiting the photograph. There is something innately sad and bland in this photograph that draws the viewer in. Its vulnerability and intimacy make the viewer feel like he/she is standing in the middle of this road and taking a glimpse into a brief, single moment on this street.

There is something particularly unique about the angle that this photograph was taken at. The photographer seems to be standing right at the bend in the road, giving the photo a more curvaceous structure and an implication of fluidity and motion. Kertész made a fantastic choice with positioning by making the vertical linearity of the street less rigid and harsh by placing it off-center. In a sense, nearly everything in the photograph is cut off in some way–from the store on the corner, to the bicycle, to the street itself, of which we do not get to see the entirety. But by not getting a sense of completeness from any one individual object or person, Kertész allows for a better understanding of the environment as a whole. We are given a more holistic view that is not focused on any one subject but rather on the effect of having several subjects together in one image. In fact, there is no focal point to this photograph at all. It is as if we are seeing this moment in passing, but it is this immediacy that envelops the viewer and gives the photograph its visual power.

Compositionally, this photograph makes use of many of the typical “rules” for photography, while simultaneously defying them for a higher purpose. Certain objects in the photo are placed according to the Rule of Thirds, such as the Rue des Ursins sign (which is notable because it is the title of the photograph), the woman and cat, and, as a bit of a stretch, the bicycle wheel in the corner. Yet, this placement in key areas of the photographic space does not actually give these objects any precedence in the piece over other objects. Kertész does an interesting job at creating a photograph that makes use of good compositional guidelines, but also subverts their significance at the same time. No single object in the photo–not even the ones located at the pivotal Rule of Thirds positions–seems to steal attention away from any other object, which is an impressive feat on the photographer’s part. Furthermore, the positioning of this image is beautifully rendered. There is an organic aspect to the natural curve of the road that is reminiscent of the Fibonacci Spiral relating to the Golden Mean in photography. Kertész also plays with the idea that a moving person/object must have room to move forward within the image by placing a moving bicycle almost already out of the image, which leaves us wondering what the bicycle was doing on that street in the first place. We still get a sense of motion, but Kertész keeps us questioning what the nature of this movement is. Kertész has a clear grasp on the compositional rules of photography, but it is in choosing to break these rules that he attains a greater depth and vitality in his photography.

I find that I am particularly inspired by Kertész’s compositional choices when framing his shots. His simultaneous acknowledgement and rejection of the Rule of Thirds, the Golden Mean, and positioning accomplishes the difficult feat of somehow breaking down the wall that separates a viewer from an image in a photograph and thrusting the viewer straight into the moment of the image. The audience is pulled into the image because it seems so natural, so real–as if it were something we could see in passing and not even notice in such intricate detail. I want to be able to do the same when I take my photograph for Snapshot Day. I don’t want to lose sight of the values that account for a compositionally-strong photographic image, but I also want my photo to be accessible. I want viewers to feel as if they could step right into the image and exist comfortably and normally in it. I want to avoid posturing and overstated positioning and placement. My hope is that whatever it is I take a photograph of on Snapshot Day will be so mundane that it becomes powerfully real. I too want to break down that divisional wall between art and viewer and allow the viewer to feel as if they could have been behind the lens of the camera too.

–Norine Chan (Blog A)

Attending a rehearsal of John Jasperse’s From once between merits a different kind of dance analysis than would seeing just any other dance performance on stage. In seeing Jasperse’s dancers rehearse, we were invited into a realm of dance the layperson is not normally exposed to–the realm of mistakes, of revision, and of change. What we were shown on Thursday was not a perfect, completed product; in fact, based on the nature of the practice and on Jasperse’s analysis of his own work, it would appear that the piece is not even close to being finished. In many ways, having the chance to view a work of dance pre-finalization was an even more insightful and in-depth experience than I thought it would be.

Jasperse’s choreography is simultaneously delicate and powerful. The first segment his dancers, Simon and Stuart, rehearsed was at first quiet and almost ballet-like in technique and style. The music they initially practiced to was a steady pulse of gentle piano chords, which I actually found to be much more fitting and complementary to the movement than was the whisper/chanting track that the dance was later paired with. Although the latter is what this section of the performance will eventually be danced to, it is interesting to note that in the process of rehearsal, the dance is not always done to the final piece of musical accompaniment. Either for the sake of timing or rhythm, Jasperse found it more suitable at that particular moment in the rehearsal to use a different backing track, which spoke to his flexibility and versatility as a choreographer and a teacher. There was such a contrast between the two background tracks, however, that I couldn’t help but wish that the dance could actually be done to the first metronomic piece, simply because I found the atmosphere to be more powerful.

The next segment Simon and Stuart rehearsed was much more dynamic and active then the first. Their movements exploded more rapidly across the dance floor and they made use of their space very well. The choreography was extremely engaging and the dancers were able to transfer the vibrancy of their movements from the floor to the tips of their limbs with surprising ease. I was particularly impressed by Simon’s technique and precision, which provide him with a weightlessness and effortlessness in movement that is quite beautiful to watch. He seemed to float from the ground into the air and back down again all in one constant, fluid motion. In this section, we also witnessed the influence of background music on the overall effect of the choreography. At first, the dance was practiced without any music so that Simon and Stuart could get their synchronization and timing correct. Then Jasperse turned on an upbeat, throwback track that sounded like it came from the 60s or 70s. The movement suddenly took on a different meaning and I saw it relative to the happier mood of the music, though I wasn’t sure if that was Jasperse’s intention. I found myself preferring the dance when it had been done without music, perhaps because I was able to just focus on the intricacies and nuances of the movement when there was no music to alter my perception.

John Jasperse’s rehearsal was so intriguing to witness because there was almost nothing concretely defined. He said himself that he was unsure of whether he was achieving his purpose of dissociating himself from his work to create a greater emergence. He wondered whether that was a failure on his part or a failure of the dance in its premise. Perhaps it is impossible for an artist to ever truly distance himself from his work, his style, his ideas. Even with Jasperse’s “chance dance” method of deciding choreography, it seemed that he still largely shaped the movements himself to create a desired effect, such as the “spiral” he was striving for in the first segment. When it came to music choices, it seemed as if Jasperse purposely picked tracks that would be jarringly different next to his choreography as a means to further separate his work from his stylistic identity. This mainly just lent a sense of confusion and uncertainty to the rehearsal, however, that was at times troubling, but also revealing of Jasperse’s unique identity as a choreographer and as a intelligent thinker.

At the same time, there is something very self-aware in Jasperse’s choreography and in his creative process. It seems that he knows that what he is attempting to do is a challenge and his choices in movement and music reflect this knowledge. His dancers too dance with an awareness and understanding of Jasperse’s artistic vision and I got the sense that all three of them were thinking and acting on quite the same wavelength. I really admired the amount of ongoing collaboration between Jasperse and his dancers and the respect that Stuart and Simon gave to Jasperse as their superior even while joking around and laughing with him as a friend. The rehearsal really was a rare opportunity to see dancers as more than just emotionless figures dancing across a stage. We got to witness their rise and fall and all the hard work that goes into creating just a few minutes of completed choreography. We witnessed their mistakes and failed attempts, but also their moments of glory and beauty in dance. Seeing Jasperse’s rehearsal reminded me that these dancers are human and that dance is a powerfully human endeavor. Just like people, dance is subject to change and it is shaped as much by its mistakes as it is by its successes.

–Norine Chan (Blog A)

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/20/arts/dance/megan-v-spenglers-flutter-opens-at-the-chocolate-factory.html?ref=dance

Wendy Oliver places heavy emphasis upon the four cornerstones of the Feldman model of dance criticism–description, analysis, interpretation, and evaluation. Although the merits of such a model are clear, particularly for students who have little-to-no experience critiquing dance, the model does tend to introduce a rigidity to a critique that may be better off without it. Just as with dance, or any other art form, it is not always beneficial to approach the work with a specific form or system in mind. Sometimes it is best to just let the ideas flow and exist as they are.

This was the conclusion I came to as I read Brian Seibert’s review of Megan V. Sprenger’s ‘Flutter’. It seemed to be very loosely written and not once did I get the sense that Seibert had been following any set guidelines as he wrote. The flow of ideas was very organic and natural, largely focusing on the individual performers and the nature of their interactions. What struck me upon finishing his critique–and also what led me to make the observations I did about the potential harmfulness of structure–was that it left me wanting more–but in an effective way. Oliver writes in her introduction to the ‘Dance Critiques’ chapter that professional critics for newspapers “often write about current performances in order to describe and evaluate them for potential ticket buyers” (67). It was thus that I found Seibert’s review to be very successful for the simple fact that it made me want to find out more about this performance–perhaps even by way of going out and buying a ticket to see it for myself.

Seibert incorporates just the right amount and type of description that Oliver stresses in her discussion of dance critiquing. Oliver suggests the use of strong and varied action verbs, colorful adjectives and adverbs, and the active voice (79). Seibert does a great job in describing the appearances and personalities of the four performers on stage, bringing each of them to life through his words and vivid language. There is a sense of constant motion that is communicated through the writing. A portion of the review that I particularly liked used active voice to create powerful imagery: “Two people build some pattern in common until one of them breaks off. Two people almost touch but keep a tiny distance, or they do touch and the touching turns violent. Someone comes away smug, someone comes away hurt.” Seibert even goes so far as to include a description of the Chocolate Factory theatre in which ‘Flutter’ was performed, noting how its starkness was softened by the presence of a white panel and wide bands of white gauze.

Yet despite all this wonderful, strong imagery, there is a sense of disparity that is taken away from reading the review. I couldn’t quite put together all these descriptive elements in my mind to form one cohesive image. I had no clear sense of what the performance was intended to portray, nor did Seibert give much by way of interpretation in his review. At first, I thought this was a fault on his part because based on Feldman’s model, interpretation is a key component to any successful dance critique. But with more thought I realized that perhaps this was intentional. For one thing, judging from the way Seibert entitled his review, I could imagine that maybe the piece itself didn’t really have a story or message per se, but was more about creating a specific atmosphere through the titular charged interactions. Then I considered the possibility that Seibert did not wish his readers to watch this performance with any preconceived notions in mind.

Oliver warns against having too many thoughts about a piece while in the middle of watching it, as these thoughts may distract from fully engaging and absorbing the piece as it is happening. What Seibert has done is give us enough detail and imagery to have a rough sense of what we will encounter, but does not interpret the piece or try to ascribe any certain meaning to it aside from what he sees. He includes just enough evaluation at the end so that we can say his piece is a critique, but not to the point where it seems that he is discouraging his readers from seeing the performance. I really enjoyed reading Seibert’s review because even without following the guidelines of Feldman’s model, he still managed to produce a well-written and insightful piece of writing about dance. Although I agree with the majority of points that Oliver makes in her writing, I was pleased to find that Seibert’s review was still effective despite not following “the rules”.

–Norine Chan (Blog A)

Last week, Kyle had the daunting–and rather impressive–responsibility of being the first to present his self-portrait to the class. He was at odds with the fact that he was unable to explain his piece prior to performing it, which became understandable once he explained that the music he had used in the portrait had been his own composition. His piece consisted of him attempting to write in his notebook while simultaneously being interrupted by the constant playing of music from his laptop. Kyle interestingly uses his left hand to cross over his right to play/pause the music, demonstrating how he feels he must suppress this desire to embrace his musical side while also revealing the moments when he is able to express this desire, however brief they may be. Halfway through the piece, Kyle leaves the desk and begins exercising, doing basic training drills such as push-ups, jogging in place, and jumping jacks, paralleling the crescendo of the music from the laptop and its heavier bass beat and rhythm. At the end, he returns to the desk and picks up his notebook, no longer reaching over to turn off the music. It seems that Kyle has accepted the music’s presence and his final action is to turn his notebook around and reveal what he has been writing all along: the Chinese phrase for “Arts in New York City”.

One aspect that I felt I was really able to relate to through Kyle’s self-portrait was the presence of an internal duality of self. In the taste-themed portion of my portrait, I placed both American candies (Twix) and Chinese ones (fruit jellies) inside of Chinese takeout containers on which I wrote “Made in America”. This was my attempt to portray the duality of culture I feel in having been born and raised in America and having to struggle to reconcile this fact with my Chinese heritage and upbringing. Although Kyle’s duality pertains to his love of music and creative expression versus the more rigid structure of studying and training/fitness, I felt that both of our portraits were making a point about how frustrating it can be to have this internal back-and-forth of ideals, but also how liberating it can be to fully embrace every aspect of the self.

I also noticed that Kyle and I both made heavy use of music in our portraits, allowing it to become a central point in our pieces and even adopt a meaning of its own through its pervasive presence. When I first approached this project, I knew for sure that music would be one of the first things I would incorporate. I found that the musical aspect gave my piece a kind of cohesiveness and also something for me to find comfort in just in case I ever felt lost in the midst of my presentation. I felt a connection to Kyle’s portrait because it seemed that he interpreted his use of music in a similar way. Music offered us both a way to speak without the need for words.

Despite the many similarities I saw between my portrait and Kyle’s, I did feel like we differed in execution. My intent was to be slightly more abstract with my portrait and I wanted the audience to be able to make connections both between the various items/ideas I was presenting and between the ideas and myself. Kyle’s portrait seemed to present a more concrete story that had a beginning, middle, and end. He was telling one cohesive piece to us about one major aspect of his personality whereas I presented more fragmented and varied aspects of myself that all were connected through the commonality of the five senses. Although Kyle’s method was not how I chose to represent my particular portrait, I really appreciated the skill and thought that went into being able to present the piece with such clarity. His choices throughout the performance were deliberate and exact and I was very impressed overall by his portrait. He certainly set the bar high for the rest of the class!

–Norine Chan (Blog A)

In my pre-MoMA post regarding the Berger and Barnet readings I discussed how the authors were challenging us as individuals to find ourselves within each piece of art we observe. I was obviously not expecting my artistic life–or lack thereof–to be overturned by this seeming “call to arms” presented by Berger and Barnet, but I was disappointed that my actual experience did not quite match up to my expectations. I have always personally felt that I have the ability to develop and cultivate a genuine interest in almost anything regardless of its discipline–art, history, mathematics, science, or otherwise. Yet this ability is in some ways a double-edged sword. To become so wholeheartedly enthusiastic about something previously unknown often requires adopting the view of others with greater experience and knowledge of the subject. Although my hope is that I will in turn use these views as a springboard for developing my own, it is sometimes the case that I never get the chance. These other views become my own before I even have the opportunity to distinguish between my own thoughts and those that have been influenced by others. But, to return to the discussion at hand, the main issue with this lies in the dissonance that can result when established ideas clash with gut feeling.

I wrote in my previous post of how my primary concern when it comes to viewing art is that it is sometimes difficult to reconcile my ideas on a piece with the responses the piece elicits from others. Despite Berger and Barnet’s warnings against this type of thinking and despite the fact that I really did try my best to go to the museum with their words in mind, I couldn’t help but feel that dissonance in my thoughts regarding expectations versus reality. Because I had done previous research on Surrealism (my assigned art movement), my thoughts had been shaped to expect artwork that was blatantly shocking and a clear subversion of convention and tradition. Perhaps it is because Surrealism is in itself such a complex, convoluted art movement that I found myself struggling with so many pieces in the exhibition. Particularly in the sculpture and “object art” sections of the Surrealism gallery, I could see absolutely no semblance of the subconscious release or dream-like psychosexual forces that Surrealists are so well-known for. It seemed to me almost presumptuous that these artists could make pieces like this and expect us as an audience to accept them without second thought.

This train of thought led me back to the Berger and Barnet readings and our discussions in class about what constitutes a work of art. Going to the MoMA and viewing these pieces made me realize that many of these works were rendered either as a social commentary, as a statement against social convention, or just to make the audience think and/or ask questions. Perhaps a work of art can be anything that raises eyebrows and questions, but that is still accepted for its value–whether it is artistic, social, monetary.

All this being said, however, I was pleased to find that Berger and Barnet still had some influence on my viewing of art on a humanistic level. The readings had made me aware that each work of art should be viewed as more than just the physical object taking up space in a museum, but also as a representation of a particular moment in an artist’s life. Each work of art, no matter how large or small, mattered to someone at some point in time when it was being made. This understanding allowed me to approach the artwork from a more anthropological standpoint, viewing each piece as a testament to the power of human dedication and conviction. I noticed brushstrokes and textures, layers of material, the painstaking attention each artist had placed on a detail that most would probably just ignore on a passing glance. I noticed these aspects and I gained an immense respect for the artists who devote their time and their lives to this medium of expression.

The two works I chose to analyze are The Empire of Light, II (1950) by René Magritte and Water Lilies (1914-25) by Claude Monet. Magritte is a Surrealist painter and Monet an Impressionist, but what led me to choose these two pieces is that their initial differences give way to certain striking similarities. The Magritte painting stood out to me among the various Surrealist pieces because of its simplicity. The Surrealism gallery was full of strange, wild, extravagant shapes and colors, but the Magritte made an impression because of its more subtle coloration and the fact that, on the surface, it looked quite normal hanging on a wall next to works by Breton and Miro. It is a fascinating painting, one that takes a moment to fully grasp the significance of. Empire of Light works as a Surrealist painting because it doesn’t make any sense. It pictures a cloud-filled, beautiful blue sky above, but below is a quiet, empty street cloaked in shadows save for a lone streetlamp glowing faintly in the darkness. It almost seems as if Magritte took two halves of completely different paintings and juxtaposed them to make one image. And it is this quality, this impression that the painting makes on the viewer, that made me pick the Monet piece for comparison. As the name of his art movement implies, Monet created Water Lilies for the purpose of making an impression on his audience. I have always been a huge fan of Monet’s work so it was an easy choice for me to pick his piece, but when comparing it to Magritte’s I realized that, in some ways, Monet’s painting also works because it shouldn’t make sense. He overlaid splashes of color, blurred textures and images, and created a gigantic piece that, in all honesty, should look like nothing but a mess. But, like all Impressionists, the piece works because it evokes an overall emotion and imprints an image in our minds–that of a beautiful lily-filled pond. Impressionists and Surrealists were both considered radicals of their times, demonstrating a clear break from artistic tradition, and although Magritte and Monet differ in their methodology and execution, their pieces are both impressionistic and shocking in their own ways. It is for this reason that I chose to compare these two pieces because it is also the reason why I think we discuss art in the first place. Art evokes an emotion in us and thus we respond.

–Norine Chan