What makes art last?

It’s kind of a loaded question, isn’t it? There are a lot of factors. How well known the artist was. If he had backers that chose to endorse him (or her!). If he got a lot of commissions. If his work was preserved well enough. If he had a lot of friends or a lot of money. Even trivial things like what city he worked out of, whether or not he was a menace to society, or if he had powerful enemies.

But, then again, all of that could be thrown out the window. Van Gogh was never quite in line with the other painters of his time. Michelangelo and da Vinci hated each other. Marcel Duchamp is quite widely hated by those that don’t appreciate modern art, and yet he is one of the most recognizable names of that period.

La Guernica by Pablo PIcasso

I guess my question is more based on opinion and less based on fact. Why do certain artists and works speak to us after all this time? Some of them are no longer immediately relevant, like Picasso’s La Guernica. And it takes someone who has studied art to understand what is being depicted in this particular painting. It isn’t exactly for the layman.

And yet people flock to museums every day. They enjoy looking at these works, even if they don’t necessarily understand them. I have a B.A. in Art History, but I wouldn’t even begin to know the meanings of half the paintings I’ve seen. But they still speak to me. I still appreciate them. I still find them beautiful.

But why?

Is it because we’re meant to? Is it because we know that Michelangelo was an incredible artist? Or that da Vinci was a brilliant inventor? Or that Gauguin was truly ahead of his time? Is it based on fact, or is it based on opinion?

The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli

If you were to look at a painting by Botticelli, without any preconceived biases or notions, would you still enjoy it? Would you still appreciate its beauty? Or, compared to what we can do with computers these days, would you find it primitive? Say it was The Birth of Venus. Could you still relate to its story? Could you understand the meaning?

I guess the notion is a morbid one. Do we appreciate art because we were told to? Because certain people in history, due to influence or money, preserved the works they liked the best? They say that history is told by the winning side. Can the same principle be applied here?

What do you think? Do we appreciate the Greats because we were told they are great, or do we appreciate them because we still connect to their artwork? If it’s the latter, what makes them still relevant to our modern world?

Artists through the ages: Botticelli

The life of an artist and the works they produce can teach us so much about writing. And it doesn’t have to be boring! Check out the latest post in this series: “Artists through the ages: Leonardo da Vinci.”

Botticelli is another favorite artist of mine. He doesn’t get quite as much attention and Michelangelo and da Vinci, but he deserves to be recognized for his talents. He was also born in the mid 1400s and lived until the very early 1500s. Whereas both Michelangelo and da Vinci were a part of the High Renaissance, Botticelli was their predecessor and is considered to be a part of the Early Renaissance, although they did co-exist for a short time.

Interesting Facts:

1. He was initially trained as a goldsmith.
2. He was a part of the committee that decided where Michelangelo’s David should be placed.
3. He also contributed some frescoes to the Sistine Chapel.
4. He was never married, and actually had a strong aversion to the idea of marriage.

If you know any painting by Botticelli, it’s The Birth of Venus. He’s also famous for La Primavera and Venus and Mars.

I’m going to do something a little different with this blog post – and it’s not only because I couldn’t find any quotes from Botticelli (okay, it IS because I couldn’t find any quotes).

I’ve always been in love with La Primavera. If you look closely, the painting is chock full of tiny details that give you an overall impression of the painting even if you don’t pick up on them individually. For example, the oranges symbolize the Medici family, which were huge supporters of the creation of art during this period. The myrtle is symbolic for Venus, as that’s what she was wrapped in after she was born and came to shore on her conch shell.

These are just a few of the things you can pick out in the painting to help you interpret it. And in this same way, a book should be written. A good book should be a lot like a good painting, and vice versa, because the tiny details should also give you an overall impression of the novel, even if you don’t pick up on them individually.

For example, the color in a painting is very important. Is it realistic or surreal? Is it bright or dark? This sets the tone for the painting and puts us in a certain mood. The coloring can tell us that the painting is supposed to be exciting and happy, or it can tell us that it’s supposed to be tragic and powerful.

Along the same lines, your words in your story are like the colors in a painting. They set the tone of your story, depending on which ones you choose. Whether you color your book with bright, happy colors or with dark, terrifying colors is up to you – as long as you keep the words and the tone of your story consistent.

Art is laden with symbolism, but that’s the nature of the beast. This is especially true in older paintings, and particularly in Christian-based artwork. Art back then was used to convey a message to the illiterate masses, so symbols were necessary in order to get the point across.

To a lesser extent, it’s important to have symbols in your story as well. You don’t have to go so far as to make the whole story an allegory, like The Chronicles of Narnia, but even if people don’t pick up on the exact meaning and purpose of the symbols, they’ll still get a broad idea of what they’re doing in the story. When I first saw The Sixth Sense, a lot of the symbolism was lost on me, even though – subconsciously – certain things still influenced my viewing of the film. When I went back and re-watched it, I picked up on a lot more. Nothing changed, other than the fact that I became more aware. A painting, a movie, and a novel can all work in similar ways.

In La Primavera, the figures are realistic. This is no Picasso. The women are curvy and have soft, angelic faces. The man on the left is muscled and stoic. In short, they’re portrayals of both men and women that are appropriate to how someone like Botticelli would have view these people.

The characters in a book should work in a similar fashion. Whether you choose to have this naturalistic, idealistic portrayal of your characters is up to you. You can even go the Picasso route and have a character that’s out of sorts, as long the character is relatable. That’s always the most important thing. As long as we can still pick out the eyes, the nose, and the face in a Picasso painting, we can believe that this disfigured and strange being is in fact still human.

Something that you get automatically with a painting – or any other piece of art for that matter – is that the story is shown. There’s no telling in art. The piece should always speak for itself and show you the story that is trying to be told. Books struggle with this a lot more, and that’s why I believe it’s important for writers to study art. Look at all we can learn! Look at how, in La Primavera, the man on the left is stirring the storm clouds. We can infer that this is the god Mercury without having the artist paint his name on his chest. Even the simple fact that the women are dressed in white and Zephyrus is a dark, ominous blue tells us how we’re supposed to feel about the two different figures.

Writing should always work in the same way. We’re badgered into believing that we must always show and never tell, and I’ll never purport that to be untrue. But it can be hard! Sometimes you’re telling and you’re not even aware of it. Sometimes you think you’re showing (in the best way possible, get your minds out of the gutters!) and you’re really just telling your audience everything. Artists like Botticelli didn’t have the luxury (or the need, really) to explain their paintings. They let the artwork speak for itself, and we should always strive for our books to do the same.