Posts by Norine Chan
Berger and Barnet: Perspectives on Art
What Berger and Barnet have done in their writing is challenge us. They have challenged us to reevaluate our notions of what we value in an art form–of such ideas as genius, beauty, realism, idealism–and in doing so have asked us to reconsider how and why we view art as an audience and as individuals.
It would seem that self-reflection and introspection are the qualities Berger and Barnet hope to instill most in their readers. Their focus is on the idea of contexualization–of understanding the art that we see in a sense that is greater than the artist’s intention or the piece’s societal significance. It is striking that what they are asking of us is to view art through the narrow lens of our own experience and self-perceived thoughts when art is something so unequivocally universal. How can it be possible for each of us, with our small minds and small worlds, to understand something as immense and important as a work of art?
Yet just as it is art’s universality that gives it such awe-inspiring depth, it is this same universality that allows us to find a piece of ourselves within every work of art that we encounter. Berger discusses this idea when he says, “We never look at just one thing; we are always looking at the relation between things and ourselves” (Berger 9). This line resonates in the sense that art had always been rather abstract to me. It is a concept that I would often struggle to understand, not because I was unable to appreciate or connect with the aesthetic or emotional qualities of the art, but because I would grapple with how to reconcile what I saw and felt with what others claim to have experienced in response to the same work of art. Perhaps a better approach–and the one I will be taking when viewing the Modern Art exhibition at the MoMA in the coming week–would be to set aside any preconceived notions I may have heard about why this or that work of art is so important and consider instead the reasons why the art I see is significant as it relates to me. I should look more deeply into the relationship I share with the work of art rather than worry about how I fit into the relationship the work of art shares with the rest of society.
I wonder then if that is the “true” definition of art. Is it that art is too relevant, too personal, too connected to each of us as individuals that to try to describe it in words would be as invasive and as impossible as trying to describe how a person is feeling when all we can really be is on the outside looking in? What reading Berger and Barnet has taught me is that there is no wrong answer when it comes to looking at art. When I go to the MoMA to view Surrealist art, no one can tell me that it’s wrong if I look at a piece and start sobbing because it touched me so deeply. There should be no anxiety in the viewing and analyzation of art because the worst that can happen is that I will see too far deeply into my self and even then that is still a beautiful thing.
When I see the Modern Art exhibition, I will not be worrying about how my thoughts match up with the artists’ intentions, as Barnet advised against, nor will I be concerned with the art’s economic and societal ramifications, as Berger so adamantly opposed. Barnet quotes Christian Zervos in his writing: “A picture lives a life like a living creature, undergoing the changes imposed on us by our life from day to day” (Barnet 22). Just as we induce these changes in art, so too does art impose these changes on us. We grow because of the art we witness; we grow because art allows us to witness ourselves. I can only hope that in the end I will have grown immensely because I will have seen myself through the medium of art. But, of course, by then I may not even have the words to describe it. Perhaps seeing truly does come before words.
Comments by Norine Chan
"Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker truly intended to challenge her viewers in the creation of her piece "Cesena." The dance is relentless in its subtleties, giving nothing away clearly to the audience, while simultaneously asking--demanding--that the audience throw itself into a journey of complete belief in de Keersmaeker's artistic vision. It is a difficult piece to dissect to be sure, largely in part because de Keersmaeker introduces so many concepts into her piece, attempting to connect its specificities with such broad, universal truths as the contrast between and dualities of light and dark or life and death.
Like Keith, I was struck by this notion of contrast and the ways in which it was emphasized by de Keersmaeker in her piece. The most obvious duality was portrayed through her use of lighting and how it transitioned over the course of the piece. What little lighting we were given in the opening movements of the work was intended to represent dawn, the last fleeting moments of darkness prior to the rising of the morning sun. While the lighting could admittedly have been brighter and less straining on the eyes, de Keersmaeker was extremely deliberate with her choice to leave the stage almost entirely in the dark for the opening sections of the performance. Through our impaired view of our stage, our other senses were forced to come to life to appreciate what the performers were doing. We had to listen more intently and use our feelings and imagination to make up for the nuances and details that we could not fully see with our eyes. The result was a much more visceral and raw experience than we would otherwise have anticipated from a dance performance, one that asked us to not just witness the dance, but to think and feel deeply about it as well.
While I felt that the large chalk circle drawn on the floor did possess symbolic meaning, I saw it less as a representation of life, as Keith did, and more specifically as a representation of the repetition of struggle. The dancing being performed in this piece involved a lot of physical contact, both with other performers and with the ground. There was constant repetition of movement, particularly in motions that involved the dancers attempting to get up from the ground but immediately being pushed back down by some greater power. Many of the movements were violent and aggressive, as if the dancers were fighting against some unseen force. Others were constantly running or jumping away, as if to avoid or escape the same force. It seemed to me that through her choreography, de Keersmaeker was making a statement about the consuming struggle that we must often face in life--the ways that we may allow the struggling to overcome us with its perpetuation, but ultimately also the ways that we can choose instead to overcome it with strength and conviction.
In retrospect, many of de Keersmaeker's choices that I found more questionable--lighting, music, costumes--were made to effect an overall experience. Lighting is one of the easiest and most effective methods for setting the atmosphere of a piece, and like I said earlier, de Keersmaeker knew what she was doing when she made the choice of keeping the lights dim and allowing them to transition into brightness over time. The same can be said of her choice in music. At times haunting and at others beautifully spiritual, the music didn't always seem to fit the tone of the piece and I sometimes even found it to be distracting. But de Keersmaeker chose such ethereal and otherworldly music to complement her piece because of the overall effect it would create when combined with the movement of the dancers. In the same vein, the costumes and frequent costume changes on stage sometimes distracted attention from what the performers were doing, and I wondered why de Keersmaeker chose to have her dancers wear brightly colored sneakers, which contrasted so greatly with the dark, solid hues of their shirts, pants, and skirts. From an outside perspective, I can only attribute such potentially controversial choices to de Keersmaeker's devotion to her art. Although I was often troubled or confused by her vision, I could not help but appreciate and respect her dedication, ambition, and conviction towards creating this piece. Like many other forms of art we have been exposed to over the course of this semester, "Cesena" did not always satisfy or please, but it was, without a doubt, an engaging and impressive work of art nonetheless."
--( posted on Oct 21, 2013, commenting on the post
Cesena by Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker )
"At the heart of Analytic Post-Modern dance is, as Malavika mentioned in her blog post, functionality. There is a heightened sense of objectivity in movement, underscored by a separation between the dancer's actions and his/her personal expression. Analytic Post-Modern dance does away with traditional uses of music, mood lighting, costumes, and props, all of which are thought to obscure the basic simplicity of movement, in favor of structural devices that reveal the purity of the dance and call close "attention to the workings of the body in an almost scientific way" (Banes xxi). Therefore each step or gesture becomes more significant than the overall effect of a phrase; each step or gesture becomes a study in motion, introducing "the possibility...that the underlying form will be bared" (16).
This reduction of dance to its basest elements is among the most powerful of goals in the Analytic Post-Modern movement. Steve Paxton's contact improvisation, as discussed by Malavika above, demonstrates these core ideas of deriving pleasure and understanding of form from seeing the nakedness of movement. So too does the work of choreographer Trisha Brown. In "Glacial Decoy", she invites the spectator to appreciate the work through "examining the seams" (16). There is no fluff in her piece, no fanciful lighting or overbearing musical accompaniment. There is only the most basic of lighting/set (gray and white hues and images) and of costumes (translucent, white gowns that seem to accentuate the dancers' bodies rather than attempt to mask them.) And there is almost complete silence. The audience hears only the whisper-quiet sound of bodily motion, of a foot hitting the ground, of a flutter in dress fabric, of a breath and a sigh as the dancers dance across the stage.
In this bareness, this abstention from traditional notions of aestheticism and performance, Trisha Brown shows us the seams of her piece in all their untampered glory. We observe transitional moments, the sometimes abrupt juxtaposition of organic, flowing movement with the harsher, mechanical rigidness of movement which Brown calls the "stabilizing factor" of the dance. The dancers are vulnerable to awkwardness and to the fact that any and all mistakes will be visible by everyone in the audience. The spectator has nothing else to look at or be distracted by but these dancers and their movements.
Yet this is the beauty of Analytic Post-Modern dance. There is no showiness or musical bravura to cover up what is being witnessed on stage. These movements across the stage are about as true to human nature as walking or running. There is value and merit in Paxton, Brown, and other post-modern choreographers' ability to bring the dancers down from a performer's pedestal. The dancers appear less as deliberately-crafted, dissociated figures moving across a decorated stage and more as humans exercising motions that the spectator can relate to because they are simple and pure. Perhaps it is ironic then when Banes writes that Analytic Post-Modern dance is created "for the pleasure of the dancer, whether or not the spectator finds it pleasing, or even accessible" (16). The accessibility of this type of dance should be far-reaching, if only for the fact that it allows each spectator to view a piece of him/herself atop that sparse and revealing stage."
--( posted on Sep 30, 2013, commenting on the post
Steve Paxton’s relation to the Post-Modern movement )
