Maori Portraits

self-portrait

Today I went to the De Young Museum in San Francisco, where I saw a stellar exhibition of art—frescoes, figurines, pottery, shell necklaces, carvings—from Teotihuacan (1st century–6th century) and a collection of thirty-one portraits of Māori painted by the Bohemian artist Gottfried Lindauer (1839–1926). There's an excellent website devoted to Lindauer, who worked strictly from photographs, but with imaginative variations when it came to detail.

The portraits, which were often painted after the subject had died, are variously interpreted today. As the above website puts it, "How Lindauer's portraits have been seen, understood and evaluated has . . . varied enormously, depending on their viewers' and owners' views, knowledge and needs, and on the different socio-cultural contexts of use. For many colonial Europeans, the portraits, besides representing supposedly vanishing Māori culture, functioned as ethnographic documents, providing an inventory of Māori physiognomy, moko [skin decoration, or tattoos], dress, artifacts and ornaments. For some settler colonists the portraits may well have been experienced too as kinds of trophy: emblems of settler colonial power over Māori. And subsequently Lindauer's Māori portraits have become valuable commercial commodities, financial instruments that can be profitably bought and sold. . . . For many Māori, especially the families and descendants of the portrayed, the paintings have very different values and meanings. They were and are experienced as embodiments of the presence, spirit and mana [authority, influence] of the person, as links between the past and present, and as taonga [any highly prized thing] that need to be protected, and which also protect people and culture. As the man who made the portraits, Lindauer too was held in high regard."

Here are a few of the portraits, which document "peacemakers and warriors, politicians and diplomats, tour guides and landholders, entrepreneurs and global traders painted between 1874 and 1903." The exhibition had good, thorough write-ups of each individual and the originary photograph when available. I was struck over and over by the deep humanity and spirit of the subjects, as portrayed by Lindauer. (Click on the images to view them large on black.)

Mrs Mihiterina Takamoana, Napier, NZ (1887)

Whetoi Pomare (1896)

Heta Te Haara (1896)

Rangi Topeora (n.d.)

Paora Tuhaere (1895)

Te Paea Hinerangi (1896)

Book Report: The Girl with All the Gifts

1. M. R. Carey, The Girl with All the Gifts (2016) (1/28/18)

I have not been reading. I keep picking up books, starting them, and then getting distracted. My pile of half-attempted books is about two feet high. The last book report I made was at the end of September! That is serious not-reading.

But not long ago a friend in my writing group recommended a dystopian futuristic novel, so I dutifully bought it. And the other day, I picked it up. It drew me right in, and before I knew it I was closing the book, all done.

It's also a zombie novel, which I had no clue of when I started. The packaging makes no reference to this detail. You don't really realize it until you're a ways in, and by then I was hooked. I'm not sure I would have attempted it had I known, so I'm just as glad I didn't know. It's a good book: fast paced, well written, with a cluster of (mostly) sympathetic characters.

The story revolves especially around Melanie, a special girl in a special school who, it turns out, is a somewhat arrested zombie (or "hungry," as they are known here): she does go into a frenzy when she smells humans, but she is also very intelligent, which true hungries are not—they're just hungry. Melanie is able to use reason, plus such tools as a metal muzzle and handcuffs, to battle this instinctive drive. She is especially motivated by the strong feelings she holds for her teacher, Miss Justineau.

About a third of the way into the story, it becomes one of cross-country flight as Melanie and Miss Justineau, plus a gruff sergeant, a fearful private, and a driven scientist (played by Glenn Close in the upcoming movie, which seems like perfect casting), try to make their way to a haven called Beacon, dodging hungries and feral humans along the way. Plus, they encounter the fungus that caused the zombie disease in the first place—itself a beautifully creative imagining.

What I especially enjoyed about the story was the exploration of relationship, as well as the occasional ontological musing. For example: "And then like Pandora [the original 'girl with all the gifts'], opening the great big box of the world and not being afraid, not even caring whether what’s inside is good or bad. Because it's both. Everything is always both. But you have to open it to find that out."

And now that I remember what a pleasure it is to sit with a book, I hereby am launching my Fifty Books project. To be finished by the end of January 2019.

Artist Robert Rauschenberg

Retroactive II (1964)

I've seen Robert Rauschenberg's work before—I know I have. I think of silkscreened photos of astronauts and JFK, overlain by rectangular blocks of solid paint, artistic-political statements evoking the adventurousness and turmoil of the 1960s. But when I scroll through Google images, no single painting jumps out, as in, "Aha, yes, I have seen that one before!" And indeed, there's way (way) more variety in his imagery than I had ever imagined. Maybe I just know his name, and lump him in with those post-expressionist/pop artists like Andy Warhol, Jasper Johns, Jackson Pollock, Roy Liechtenstein, and leave it at that? Who knows.

At Gemini G.E.L.,
Los Angeles,1969

In any event, today I was schooled in the genius of Robert Rauschenberg (1925– 2008)—the first American artist to win the Golden Lion at the Venice Biennale, in 1964—through a fabulous show called "Erasing the Rules" at SFMOMA, which brings together 170 of his works from early in his career in the early 1950s until the end of his life. A pivotal figure in the history of American art, he pushed back at the abstract expressionists and helped give rise to pop art.

One thing that marked his career was a negotiation between the "retinal"—the visual pleasures of tone, color, and subtle detail, which the abstract expressionists spurned—and the conceptual. Another is his exuberant experimentation with the material bases of art, whether paint or pencil, metal or silkscreen; fabric in the form of printers' rags, bedsheets, socks and t-shirts, or beautiful blocks of silk; or the stuff of the cultural world, such as newspapers and magazine photos, which he collaged into multi-layered works of both personal and social commentary.

Untitled (Hotel Bilbao),
ca. 1952

The fact that so much of his work is collage means that you have to see it in person. Sure, that's true of any work of art. But collage holds surprises. He started with simple assemblages from travels in Europe with fellow artist (and, for a time, lover) Cy Twombly. And he continued to experiment, becoming ever more exuberant, irreverent, and radiant.

Monogram, 1959

And then there's the stuffed Angora goat that he encircled with a car tire, which stands on top of reinterpreted Life magazine photographs. 

Rauschenberg studied with Josef Albers at Black Mountain College, where he met composer John Cage and choreographer Merce Cunningham and other early innovators, with whom he continued to collaborate and share ideas. Jasper Johns, another lover, was also a close influence.

I won't outline his entire life, but let's just say, I was very moved and inspired by the various turns he took in his approach to his art, by his wild inventiveness, by his productivity and the diversity of his pieces. This man did not stand still, but constantly challenged the very identity of "art" and his own relationship to it.

Here are a few photos I took today. There are probably better images online, but... these are handy. And mine. With some of them, I even took note of their titles and a few details... (As always, click on the images to see them large on black.)

One of the Red paintings, 1953–54 (detail)

Untitled, 1958
Handkerchief, safety pins, chain necklaces,
paint, and pants

Gift for Apollo, 1959
Oil, fragments of pants, necktie, wood, fabric, newspaper, printed
paper, and printed reproductions on wood with metal bucket,
chain, doorknob, L-brackets, metal washer, nail, cement, and
rubber wheels with metal spokes.
This would be an example of what he called "combines"

Autobiography, 1968
16.5 feet high x 4 feet wide

Rosalie/Red Cheek/Temporary Letter/Stock (Cardboard), 1971
One of the earliest works of the Cardboard series, this piece embodies
Rauschenberg's transition from NYC to Captiva Island, Forida. The
use of cardboard, which he described as "a materials of waste and
softness," marked both a radical departure from the glass, metal,
and electronics of his preceding, technological works and a
continuation of his long-held interest in impermanence, variability,
and the subversive potential of mundane materials.

On the far wall are dirty printers' rags that RR placed
between two pieces of printing paper and passed through a
press. Below is a close-up. I loved the way the end of the
rag is outlined in the pressed paper (below).

Mirage (Jammer), 1975
Part of a series of what he called "jammers," employing
silk he brought from India, thread, sometimes some
wood, or even metal teapots

Hiccups, 1978
Solvent transfer and fabric with metal zippers on
handmade paper
"Here snippets of ribbon and fabric intermingle with transfer
images from popular magazines featuring maps, animals,
landscapes, and athletes. The string of colors and pictures
that reels out across the wall is playful and endlessly variable,
as the ninety-seven panels can be unzipped and recombined in any
order each time they are installed. Expansive, improvisational,
and calling for time to view and absorb, Hiccups can be seen as
an extension of Rauschenberg's early interest in
performance."
I loved these images, so I'm going to bore you with a few
semi–close-ups. I'd like to go back and spend more
time with this piece.

Alas, I did not record the names of the pieces shown
here and in the next photo.

Except for Untitled (Spread), 1963 (detail below)

Drawing for Dante's 700th Birthday, 1965
Watercolor and gouache on board with silkscreen ink
"This later tribute to Dante [following a set of illustrations of
the Inferno] boils with images of civil unrest, racist posters,
Holocaust victims, and war-ravaged landscapes.... Life
published them under the title 'A Modern Inferno,' calling
out the two astronaut figures that 'stand apart from the earth
like detached witnesses, observing the accelerating force
of dehumanizing machines and the bestiality that threatens
to destroy man.'"
I found this piece incredibly moving, considering that now,
a little over fifty years later, so little seems to have changed...

Architect John C. Portman

On Friday, John C. Portman died, at the age of 93. I had not heard of him until today, when I learned of his death—and life—on NPR. But I know his work, somewhat. I've stood in the inner atrium of his Hyatt Regency hotel in San Francisco marveling. That—the atrium—is an architectural feature he is especially known for: also at Los Angeles's Westin Bonaventure, Atlanta's Peachtree Center, Detroit's Renaissance Center, the Marriott Marquis in New York, variously in Asia, and so many other places.

Last year, a book, Portman's America & Other Speculations, was published, full of photos of his work. 

He's criticized for creating concrete islands, cut off from the flow of humanity. His buildings make me think of Blade Runner. But design-wise, they sure are beautiful. Here are a few images I found by googling. To be able to think that big!

Hyatt Regency, San Francisco

AmericasMart Building 3, Atlanta

Marriott Marquis, Atlanta

Bonaventure, Los Angeles

Shandong Hotel, Jinan, China

Marriott Marquis, Atlanta

The Renaissance Center, Detroit

Marriott Marquis, Times Square, NYC

Atlanta

More modest architecture: Entelechy I, a home designed
for his family, in Sea Island, Georgia (1964)

And as a side note, it turns out we shared a birthday: he was born exactly thirty years before me. There's serendipity for ya. Plus, he was married for seventy-three years. That is a long marriage. RIP, Mr. Portman.

An Afternoon on the Coast

We took a short drive down the coast today to look for a geocache—here, just north of Garrapata State Park (I'm looking south toward the Pt. Sur Light Station):

and then migrated back up the coast to one of our favorite places for a walk, Monastery Beach to Carmel River State Beach. I took a few photos. It was a super low tide. The sky was alive. It was a grand day for a stroll along the shore. (As always, click on the images to view them large on black.)