Oh no, another random post! Random in that it fits neither the outward personality nor the seemingly incredulous nature of this author. And judging from that visceral opener, my apologies as I attempt to take on a subject I am not a master of, being neither schooled in nor partial to an iota of talent for it.
It all began with my very random decision to visit the National Art Gallery on Jalan Tun Razak and the Islamic Arts Museum (IAAM) near the National Mosque. Yes, imagine me at an art gallery or art-related museum!? A frightening thought I dare say so myself. Despite your thinking that I've taken leave of my senses, the trek was actually for a good reason - I was gift hunting (which proved an excellent course of action as it gave me a plethora of gift ideas as I sought to diverge from the convention of gifting kitchen items or even vouchers), whilst at the same time endowing oneself with the preconception of being "schooled" in art..
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| The compound around Paris' Louvre at night.. and yes, I did in fact almost go all Robert Langdon on that Pyramid.. |
But there was an overwhelming sense of desperation as I stepped into the National Art Gallery, not because of what was being exhibited (which was the Art of Mapping at the time of my visit and the fact the gift shop was closed forever). What struck me was the the glaring lack of a vibrant feel that I did thankfully feel in the air at the IAAM, even if at the time of my mid-afternoon weekday visit, both venues were not exactly filled with people. That experience was enough to make me want to launch into a discussion into why that was, but that is not the purpose of this particular narrative. I digress... (what's new?!!)
Looking, seeing, a personal take
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I had a headache and neck pain staring at these.. How Baroque..
and that drew me to imagine the music of Bach, Handel and
Vivaldi playing in rooms such as these back in the day
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Having said that, I genuinely have a healthy respect for those more capable than I when it comes to the visual "arts". Whilst I may not have the eye for it, (staring at an art piece demands too many neurons in the right half of my brain, enough for a slight throbbing headache), I am in awe of the intricacies in the "art" that is often pointed out to me by those better trained.
Whatever little genetic predisposition is probably dormant in my being as I do come from a family blessed with the talent for the "arts" courtesy of my late grand uncle, an aunt and countless cousins. Above them all being a younger sibling, who in her student years, used to share her passion by enlightening me with the masters that she studied like Matisse and Kandinsky.. oh, please don't ask me to list them for I'll definitely draw a blank. I'm still clueless..
But, see there in lies a dilemma. What exactly is "art"? If you look it up, there will be multiple definitions. One such definition includes - "the conscious use of the imagination in the production of objects intended to be contemplated and/or appreciated as beautiful as in the arrangements of form, sounds or words". I suppose, one could go down the academic path and tear that definition apart and declare it as flawed. But I won't, but will say that in addition to many many definitions, there are also long drawn-out narratives (!!) about how truly difficult it is to define and classify it. This is why I've put the word "art" in inverted commas. At the end of the day, as much as it is something that is very publicly appreciated, it is also (admittedly) quite personal, often referred to as being somewhat of an acquired taste.
What I have been able to discern from the multitude of definitions is that the words "creative" and "imagination" are prevalent across the board, be it in the manner of its translation into the visual (sculpture, picture, painting or photograph), the vibratory (sounds, music) or in the vernacular (words).
The Back story
Age also allows for a bit of refinement, particularly in my demonstrating the patience and perseverance of going through a gallery filled with art. I might not see deeper than what's visually demonstrated at face value, I can spend the time required to browse through a collection.
I'll admire the use of colours, the juxtaposing of the subjects depicted and to some extent the choice of materials, but rest assured I will be drawn more toward the back story, the period from which the piece was created and even the tragic and/or dramatic story that may have prompted the artist in the first place. For me, the intrigue of the arts comes more in the history of the piece itself and/or the artist him/herself. It's much the same in the way I appreciate music, I am far more attracted to the underlying elements behind a piece.
For instance, I recently reacquainted myself with my obsession with Beethoven's 9th Symphony in D minor aka The Choral (I bet you'd know it if I hummed it to you, pray that I don't) - arguably his most daring, magnificently monumental and mammoth creation. The thing is, being note-blind (thanks to an awfully evil organ teacher to obliterate whatever talent I might have had as a kid), I cannot appreciate the intricacies and inflections of the musical passages nor marvel at how its played in all its magnificent parts from the string, wind, percussion right through to the choral parts in the fourth movement. That said, the beauty of the piece still reduces me to a sobbing wreck after the entire length of its glorious 74 minutes*.
What attracted me the most was that Ludwig was almost if not already, categorically and completely deaf, if not intolerably of an unsound mind by the time he finally premiered the 9th at the Theatre am Kärntnertor in Vienna, 192 years ago. Giuseppe Verdi (the man who penned amongst the world's most famous operas like La Traviata and Rigoletto - you know that tune La Donna è Mobile) who was amongst the audience was however amongst the symphony's detractors particular on the vocal arrangement in the fourth and final movement.
The thing is, my imagination runs riot whenever I come to the inevitable conclusion of the 9th, seeing in my mind's eye how Ludwig, with his back to the audience, was unable to hear the thundering, rapturous and colossal response from the crowd. It took one of the musicians (the lady who sang the contralto part it was said) to turn him around to see the waving hats and hankies in appreciation - thanks to Gary Oldman who plays Beethoven in the film Immortal Beloved, that image has forever been burned onto my psyche. Bottom line, when a piece like that has such a rich historical tapestry attached to it, I am inexplicably drawn to it, even if I cannot read a single musical note from it.
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| Leonardo Da Vinci's Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris |
Whilst many stood staring admiring his brush work, absorbed in Leo's attention to detail and choice of colours (and taking selfies), I was far more intrigued with the many speculative conjectures behind the woman at the centre of the painting. If you'd asked me if it was painted in watercolour or oil, I would have no idea (OK! OK! I know it's in oil, painted in the high renaissance period of the 1500s). What is intriguing is the fact that so many differing hypothesis have sprung out of signor Da Vinci's work, which to me is far too interesting to ignore.
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| Homer, the ancient bard, credited with the infamous works of The Iliad & Odyssey |
In part, being a lover of ancient histories, I accord that same innate attraction to a backstory and willingly admit that my choice of "Athena" as my name during my long-forgotten inline-hockey days was deliberate. Looking back, it was so lame!!
To my own defense, I was then (and still) attracted to her attributes - strength, femininity and wisdom as described in ancient Greek mythology. And when I ambled into the Louvre's collection of Greek art, I went numb marvelling at the sculptures of Athena, Artemis and Ares and even that of the most famous of ancient bards of them all, Homer - the Greek poet who lived somewhere around 800BCE.
That drew my mind back to a time when I devoured Homer's Iliad and Odyssey with utter fascination as I imagined what it must have been like to witness how the power-crazed Mycenae King Agamemnon used the poor excuse of the kidnapping of his brother Menelaus' wife Helen to embark on a decade long seige on Troy. To me, it is incredible that such a work continues to thrive and capture the imagination of so many generations, inspiring painters, poets, sculptures, writers and even Warner Bros. Pictures (pfft)! Oh dang it Paris, did you have to shoot your blasted arrow that mortally wounded the mighty Achilles??! (and please I beg you to NOT THINK OF BRAD PITT either)!
Were it not for the artists who laboriously sculptured that piece of stone or bronze, people like me would not be able to visualise beyond our limited imagination what ancient historical figures like the famed Myrmidon hero or the King of Ithaca might have looked like.
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| what a gift.. to be able to sculpt these from an unassuming rock.. the Greek deities / heroes as represented in the eye of the artists... TL: Artemis, BL: Hermes, TR: Diomedes, BR: Ares and in the centre: Athena |
Respect, don't teach to discriminate
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| My late grandfather loved his books and he had an extraordinarily marverlous collection of leather-bound books including Alexander Pope's translation of Homer's Iliad. It's mine now!! |
Anyway, that exposure opened my eyes to how difficult and challenging life as an artist can be. For instance, as one art advocate once said to me, "for every one artist that sells a major artpiece for a huge chunk of money, you can be assured of an entire army of other artists struggling to put food in their mouth, let alone attempt to feed a family with that talent."
A humbling thought and one I can relate to as a struggling pseudo-wannabe-writer (or stringer of random words). As if to add insult to injury, some, if not most, do not get even an iota of recognition in their lifetime. At best, whatever ambiguous attention they may have received in their day was at the cruel end of the stick of contemptuous ridicule. I dare say, perhaps obscurity is a lonely dance that artists all share..
One art antagonist once argued with me about how art is absolutely useless and that life ought to be focused on the more practical things in life. Good thing I was gasping with air lest I throttle him with my bare hands. I only had enough energy to ask him if he enjoyed staring at the bare walls of his home when there's a thunderstorm that's wiped out the cable service or if he enjoyed the enveloping silence sat in that hour drive home in the traffic jam. Oh wait, you watch TV no? And didn't you profess your undying love for Daenerys Targaryen as evidenced in the marathon reruns of Game of Thrones? And didn't I see you ferrying Tolkien's Lord of the Rings about the other day?? Was that to show off and make you look more learned in the eyes of your fellows? Whatever dude, why discriminate a form of art whilst favouring another? Just because you don't or can't appreciate art in all its forms, doesn't mean you have to be a complete and utter **** about it either. A**h*le.
Anyway, as this point was made blindingly clear to me that perhaps more than irritation, I actually felt sorry for him, sorry that he is so ignorant, sorry that he fails to realise that art is all around him, from the music he hums to at the gym, or the book he reads (and picked out based on the pretty cover), or the movie he spent RM14 to go see or the pretty pictures of the sunsets while on vacation to post on his Facebook and Instagram. The point is perhaps, some people just don't, can't or won't see it. And that perhaps comes down to a number of reasons to which I shall in no way attempt to delve into, for I am neither an anthropologist or a master of the human sciences nor do I dare say I'm expert enough to attempt a futile attempt to convincingly sway any detractors.
I will say this, ignorance is dangerous. And blind, blissful ignorance is malevolent. I believe we humans are naturally attracted to pretty things, and that some are blessed with the enviable gift of being able to capture that beauty in a multitude of ways.
In some people they hear the chirping of the birds in the morning as the beginnings of a symphonic arrangement; the haphazardness of mindless traffic along Jalan Sultan Ismail the seed to what might become a visual masterpiece of metallic art. Some might see the ritualism of everydayness in ones life a source of inspiration that gives birth to a wonderfully crafted rhythmic prose. There are those amongst us who have the gift of transforming tragedy and utter hopelessness into a profound piece of writing or photograph, whilst some are better able to articulate and emote through movement in dance.
In some people they hear the chirping of the birds in the morning as the beginnings of a symphonic arrangement; the haphazardness of mindless traffic along Jalan Sultan Ismail the seed to what might become a visual masterpiece of metallic art. Some might see the ritualism of everydayness in ones life a source of inspiration that gives birth to a wonderfully crafted rhythmic prose. There are those amongst us who have the gift of transforming tragedy and utter hopelessness into a profound piece of writing or photograph, whilst some are better able to articulate and emote through movement in dance.
Whatever form art takes on, I dedicate this humble, haphazard collection of random words and congratulate those of you who have chosen this thankless vocation of the arts. May that well of inspiration never run dry, even if I will never have the art of making enough money to buy your remarkable piece, watch every performance you do or go to every exhibition you're in.
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| this is my niece's artwork done when she was 8 years-old. |
I also respect that art is very personal and subject to taste - aye!! beauty is in the eye of the beholder (gagging at being forced to pull that cliché out!!), but I am firm believer that as rational beings, surely it is not difficult to at the very least acknowledge that our experiences are shaped by that which surrounds us, even artists and their work. So even if you cannot understand the motive behind a person's art in whatever form it manifests itself, surely you can respect that person's choice and appreciate that he/she is expressing him/herself in ways only they can.
Don't we all want to be heard in some way? So on that premise alone why not respect that artists might prefer or can only articulate what they wish to communicate in the form of a painting, sketch or sculpture, a piece of music, a dance choreography or poetic prose, etc..? This regardless of how dreamy, dazzling, delectable, delicious, dreary, dark, disturbing, dubious, dangerous or even delirious our interpretation of that telling may be.
I also do not honestly know what inspired me to scribble this particular seemingly nonsensical rambling down, other than to hope that perhaps the coming generation can be encouraged to learn to, at the very least, understand, appreciate and respect rather than discriminate. After all, the optimist in me likes to believe that tolerance is one of many things that defines humanity, especially for rational beings that exist in such a social human paradigm that is in itself diverse in creed, class and colour, as well as craft.
Thanks.... that's off my chest.
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this was my one and only sorry-a** excuse of a
selfie at the Louvre, with Athena, no less
and Bach serenading me in my ear, I think..
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Near-the-end-note: There are so many many many recordings of Beethoven's 9th and I couldn't find Furtwängler's 1942 version, which was said to have been the most apocalyptic and frightening and majestic.. oh well.
* FYI - the Compact Disc (CD) was (allegedly) deliberately invented to have a 74-minute play time in order to accommodate Beethoven's majestic 9th Symphony.
