Something About Andy (or, For My Last Blog...)

For my last blog, I saved one of my favorite artists of the 20th century: Andy Warhol. I first became familiar with Andy through the Velvet Underground, a infinitely influential band he produced in the mid- to late-1960s. Because of this familiarity, I decided to do a research paper on him for my American Studies class in high school and ever since, have been in love with his work, from his early pictures of shoes to magazine, to his last works with Jean-Michel Basquiat (who was also featured in our textbook, as pictured below):

Although the book focuses on his commercial Pop Art work (which is incredible), SO much of his other work is either glossed over (films, which is what I will discuss for a good part of this blog) or ignored entirely (his death obsessed early 70s work; his so-called "piss paintings," which are exactly what they sound like; even his series based on DaVinci's "The Last Supper"). 

Warhol's films seldom contained anything that one could label "narrative." Even "Vinyl," his adaptation of Anthony Burgess's "A Clockwork Orange" is notorious for its lack of plotline (spoiler: Edie Sedgwick gets off the box at the end). His most famous film works ('ant-films,' as far as Warhol was concrned) were often incredibly long, incredibly stagnant, and very simply titled. For example, Sleep is a film of John Giorno sleeping for five hours and twenty minutes, Eat is 45 minutes of Robert Indiana eating a mushroom, Empire is over 8 hours of slow motion footage of the Empire State Building, and Taylor Mead's Ass and Blow Job, are, respectively, an hour and a half and 35 minutes of exactly what you'd guess. Here's a bit of Empire to give you an idea:

Even a die-hard Warhol fan has to admit that 30 seconds of that is dull, let alone over 8 hours. It's very similar to watching paint dry. However, in my opinion, it's still art... And pretty good art at that! Warhol never allowed abridged screenings of Empire: If you were going to play Empire, you were going to play ALLLLLLL of it. Warhol's artistic vision was, as he said, "to see time go by." I try to judge artists works by their own goals and, boy, did Warhol ever watch time go by. He really was there for the whole filming. In fact, in the first few reels of the films, Warhol is visible through his reflection in a window. I appreciate Empire, along with Warhol's other films, for being distinctly Andy in all that they did: taking something everybody is used to, putting it through his eyes, and spitting out a new, mass produce-able creation. After all, that's what Pop Art is!

Philip Glass's "Einstein On The Beach" (or, A Masterpiece of Minimalism)

I first encountered Philip Glass a couple of years back while on a MEGA David Bowie kick, as Glass's 1st and 4th symphonies are arrangements of tracks from two of my favorite Bowie albums (Low and "Heroes"). While I'm immensely impressed with how Glass took Bowie's music and, without changing its spirit, managed to completely manipulate it's body, I was much more impressed by his classic opera Einstein On The Beach. Before we go any further, let's take a brief listen. (I'd play the whole thing for you, but it is five hours and you have finals you ought to be studying for).

The progressions take forever to move through, the voices counting are odd and sometimes even clash with each other, and it is incredibly repetitive. Later, bits of poetry will be overlapped and, once in a while, the instrumentation varies, but, truly this is the basic idea. To some it may seem like torture, but, in my opinion, uninterrupted listening to it is tantamount to meditation (a sentiment which the book echoes). The work definitely embodies minimalism as described in the book: "tonality and melody are usually simple, while rhythms and textures, built through minute repetition, are dense and complex."

Einstein On The Beach was the complete opposite of the definition of opera. There is no story being told throughout. There are no characters to watch develop and play out their fates. There is nothing but the tones, the instrument, and the voices. In my opinion though, this creates just as compelling of an image as any beautifully and traditionally operatic work could. If you're willing to let go of the common definition of music and realize that there is more to art than being entertained sometimes and that a feeling can be worth spending a couple of hours alone with a piece of music, Einstein On The Beach is a unique and rewarding piece of music. 

Architecture Doesn't Captivate Me Often (or, Well Done, Perez and Associates)

While I do greatly appreciate architecture and can marvel at it for some time on occasion, it very seldom happens that I find a work of art of that style that has me going back to it over and over again. Chapter 37 of the Humanities textbook presented me with one such piece of art: Piazza d'Italia in New Orleans, designed by Charles Moore.

I don't tend to blow up pictures to huge proportions on here, but I just feel like this deserves it. Taking a look at page 146 in the Humanities book presents a smaller, though somewhat more vibrant, shot. This piece of architecture absolutely exemplifies the Postmodernist manifesto presented in the textbook: "A playful assortment of fragments 'quoted' from architectural traditions as ill-mated as a fast-food stand and a Hellenistic temple." The book also mentions that Postmodernist architecture seeks to dismantle and reassemble in search for meaning.  

Just look at it! There, a piece of a fountain. There, part of a temple with an inscription on it. There, a stairway which will later be lit up with neon lights (check out the last picture in this blog). And, looming behind it all, modern skyscraper, perfect for fitting that 'ill-mated' bit of the theory. To me, this looks like the set to a surreal Fellini film. It embodies the best of Italian architecture, then smashes it up into fragments, and reassembles it into something with an incredible amount of beauty. I hope one day to travel to New Orleans and get to marvel at this in person.

Alone In The Universe (or, Being A Nathanael West Fan in Humanities)

While the bloggers in this class have said a myriad of things about Isabel Allende's The House of the Spirits, there's one thing in common between many of them: a sentence or two stating how, regardless of what they think of Allende, at least it's better than West.

 I could understand jealousy of his incredible mustache, but it seems like most people's issues are guided towards his novel, The Day of the Locust. Frankly, I just don't get it. Since reading The Day of the Locust in class, I have become a huge fan of West's works. I appreciate his lengthy, detailed descriptions, the darkness of the stories, the archetypes that are his characters, and the stark criticism of reality present, underlying the overall surreal feel of many of his passages. For some reason, I just don't get this same feeling with Allende. While West captivated me throughout The Day of the Locust with his sordid tale of Hollywood (and his since done the same with tales of advice column writers and scatalogical humor obsessed poets wondering the bowels of the Trojan Horse), Allende, unfortunately, hasn't done much of anything for me.

While I will admit that some of the 'magical realism' content in Allende's novel, including the giant dog (Barabbas), the man who can send ants away by telling them (Pedro), and, of course, good ol' Clara the Clairvoyant are at least of bizarre interest, I find the book, as a whole, to be dull. That being said, I've never been one for 'family epics,' regardless of style. Just not a genre that has ever captivated my interest. Beyond that, I found West, even in all of his strangeness, to be more relevant. Call me dark, but I'd rather hear West rant on the American Dream all night than spend half an hour hearing Allende ramble about an odd family. Can I understand why The House of the Spirits belongs in the curriculum? Yeah. Does that mean I need to care for it? Nope. Give me mustachio up there anyday!

Ingmar Bergman (Or, The Greatest Director of All Time)

Although I think he deserved a little more space, I was very happy to find that Ingmar Bergman got a shout-out in the textbook. I'm of the opinion that Bergman is quite possibly the greatest director of all time. Placing the discussion of Bergman in the chapter "The Quest for Meaning" was, in my opinion, a fantastic decision.

Many of Bergman's movies were about a quest for meaning in a modern, meaningless world. Contrary to many other artistic works of the period, Bergman's works have a deeply entrancing meaning that takes much contemplation but (relatively to the other pieces of art) little digging. In looking at Bergman's work, a great example is The Seventh Seal. 

In short, the film is about (to quote the book) "a knight who returns home from the Crusades, only to confront widespread plague and human suffering. Disillusioned, he ultimately challenges Death to a game of chess, the stakes of which are life itself." I won't go much further into the storyline, as I think everyone should see the film and I don't want to give TOO much away. However, I'll take a brief look at some of the main themes.

Death is both a character (played here by Bengt Ekerot) and a major theme in the story. It is interesting to see how the various characters treat death throughout the film. While the Knight treats Death as an adversary, the Squire treats Death as if he is nothing more than a huge joke. Other characters react in fear or acceptance. It is interesting to see all of these viewpoints, knowing that this film came out less than 15 years after World War II. Man had not dealt with death in that capacity since the Black Plague, which is occurring during this film. Regardless of how one feels about Death, though, everyone will dance with him eventually.

Another theme is the silence of God (I disagree with the book calling it the "loss of God," though that was how some viewed it in that time period and even into the current one). The scene that sums this up for me is posted below. 

I don't think I've ever seen greater expression of doubt or desire for God. 

"Is it so cruelly inconceivable to grasp God with the senses? Why should He hide himself in a mist of half-spoken promises and unseen miracles?...What is going to happen to those of us who want to believe but aren't able to?" 

"Faith is a torment – did you know that? It is like loving someone who is out there in the darkness but never appears, no matter how loudly you call." 

It is understandable for the Knight to be asking these questions during the Plague, much like it is understandable for Bergman to be asking the questions following World War II. It is an incredible view to have such stark insight into and personally hits me, because I knew how it felt when I asked some of those questions in the past. Bergman is an incredibly influential and expressive director and was perfect for his time and place and will continue to be perfect for as long as man remains what he is now.

Tagore's "The Man Had No Useful Work" (or, Why Haven't I Heard of This Guy Before?)

The literature featured in this chapter of the textbook includes some of my favorite novels, poems, and plays of all time (Orwell's 1984, Huxley's Brave New World, Beckett's Waiting For Godot, and the poetry of Dylan Thomas, for example). However, I found that, at the end of the reading assignment, I was confronted with a poet whom I had never heard of. I was very excited when, after reading his poem "The Man Had No Useful Work," I realized that I had found yet another author whose work I could fall in love with.

Tagore is known for being the first non-European to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Tagore's poem reflects his idea that "the crisis of modern society lay in a set of mis-place values that prized the rush of business and the acquisition of material comforts at the expense of beauty, creativity, and spiritual harmony." Looking at the poem, this view is VERY evident.

A nameless man who "had no useful work" ends up in Paradise by mistake. This "Paradise" seems to be a commentary on what Tagore believes would be the "Paradise" embraced by his times (and, I believe, ours)- in this Paradise, only "good, busy souls" are allowed. The man is constantly in the way of people trying to quickly get places and do things (things that are never concretely defined).

At this point, he meets a "very busy girl" and attempts to take her pitcher from her. She is confused because, rather than wanting to use her pitcher for something useful, he wants to paint patterns on it. He presses on about this until she finally lets him. When it is returned to her, she notes that "it has no meaning." Does this make it useless to her? No.

When the girl returns home, she is faced with something meaningless having value, which is contrary to the bounds of "paradise" (and modern life). The man continues his loving revolt against meaning by weaving a colored ribbon for the girls hair. Again, she is presented with something beautiful without meaning.

It is at this point that those in charge of Paradise notice that time is starting to be wasted and send the man back to earth. The girl wishes to go with him. "For the first time the chief of the elders is faced with a situation which has no sense in it."

This story is an amazing commentary on the society both of Tangore's time and ours. It is a lesson on the beauty of the "meaningless," a love song to the arts that the workmanship attitude of the time threatens to stamp out on the grounds that it is useless. What is a Paradise without beauty? I think there is a big lesson to be learned and taken to heart from Tangore's poem.

Leni Riefenstahl's "Triumph of the Will" (or, The Art of Propaganda)

The best way to begin a discussion of Leni Riefenstahl's masterwork Triumph des Willens (Triumph of the Will) is with some illustrations. Two things are COMPLETELY obvious from stills taken from the film: the Nazi party is massive and the Nazi party is powerful. In her 1934 propaganda film, Riefenstahl created a document of the 1934 Nazi Party Congress, held in Nuremberg. Through incredible and artistic usages of camera angles, lighting, and other film techniques, Riefenstahl put together pictures of  a Nazi party to be joined, adored, and feared. A Nazi party whose leader was a supreme, almost God-like figure. One who would lead the nation out of the dire straits of Germany of the 1920s and 1930s into a new Aryan Golden Age.

Surprisingly, Riefenstahl was not an old hand at film directing. She had previously directed only a few films and, as far back as 1925, had been acting in various films, including Der heilige Berg (The Holy Mountain) and Das Blaue Licht (The Blue Light- also her directorial debut). Riefenstahl was approached by Adolf Hitler shortly after he gained power. The following quote from Leni herself shows some of her thoughts on being approached by Hitler:

"Shortly after he came to power Hitler called me to see him and explained that he wanted a film about a Party Congress, and wanted me to make it. My first reaction was to say that I did not know anything about the way such a thing worked or the organization of the Party, so that I would obviously photograph all the wrong things and please nobody - even supposing that I could make a documentary, which I had never yet done. Hitler said that this was exactly why he wanted me to do it: because anyone who knew all about the relative importance of the various people and groups and so on might make a film that would be pedantically accurate, but this was not what he wanted. He wanted a film showing the Congress through a non-expert eye, selecting just what was most artistically satisfying - in terms of spectacle, I suppose you might say. He wanted a film which would move, appeal to, impress an audience which was not necessarily interested in politics."

Hitler's goal of getting a film in his hands that showed spectacle and appeal to a mass audience was accomplished admirably (in style, of course-- I'm no neo-Nazi) by Riefenstahl. Riefenstahl's images showed an incredible view of the power and unity of the Nazi Party.

This scene, famously labeled "Sea of Flags," shows how massive the Nazi Party was. With their leader watching over them, the Nazi military marches around the memorial monument in Nuremberg. The incredible amount of unity shown in their movement makes the Nazi Party something bigger than the sum of its parts. It is without a doubt a power to be reckoned with. Riefenstahl created an artistic vision more powerful than anything a poster could have shown and painted a vivid and horrifying picture of the might of the Nazi Party. Here, triumphant trumpet music is used to highlight the power of the party.

In another scene, Riefenstahl shows Hitler marching up to the podium to give a speech in front of the party. Once again, camera angles are used to great effect. Beyond that, though, the noise of the crowd creates an overwhelming sensation-- the Nazi party is huge and is drowning out everything around it.

In the finale to the film, Riefenstahl shows a speech from Hitler. During the speech, she cuts to the crowd frequently. These shots seem to say "Look at this crowd!! See how they pay attention to him! See how they honor him and adore every word that comes out of his mouth!!! Shouldn't you as well? Do you have a choice?"

In her film, Riefenstahl created some of the most lasting images of the most horrifying movement of the 20th century. While the Nazi party has thankfully long since fallen, many of Riefenstahl's artistic angles and shots and her general expertise when it comes to mise-en-scene will continue to influence filmmakers (propagandist and otherwise) for as long as film is an art form.

The Strange and Unsettling World of "Un Chien Andalou"

I can still recall the first time that I had the privilege to view Salvador Dali and Luis Buñuel's silent surrealist masterpiece Un Chien Andalou. I watched the film at about 1:30 in the morning during my first semester at ICC. When I saw the images presented, I was repulsed, shocked, confused, but, more than anything, fascinated. Since seeing Un Chien Andalou, I have been somewhat obsessed with surrealist cinema. That being said, I was disappointed that the textbook delegated no more than a blurb at the bottom of the page to the entire movement. Un Chien Andalou and other films produced by this movement were important to the movement in their time and have since gone on to majorly influence some modern visual art forms.


First off, here's Un Chien Andalou in its entirety:
Full Film (16 minutes)


As the textbook said, "Dali exhibited a perverse desire to shock his audiences." I can definitely say that some of the imagery is very shocking to me (and, like any member of today's society with an affinity for pop culture, I've seen a lot). I think it's amazing that, 82 years since its creation, the film still holds that power.

The idea of the creators came from dreams they had had, such as a dream of Dali's about a hand crawling with ants. They took Freud's ideas of suppressed emotions and the unconscious and attempted to put some of the darker images contained in those areas of the mind into the light. Throughout the film, bizarre violence, nightmarish images, religious references, and the theme of death assault the viewer. Taking all of these ideas and smashing them together into one incredibly unsettling film certainly fulfilled many tenets of surrealism. Dali stated that seeking a meaning in his paintings would be to miss the point altogether. Rather, like his other art, the film was designed to "stamp (itself) indelibly upon the mind," a goal which it admirably accomplishes.

Un Chien Andalou has also been very important to modern filmmakers of all sorts. Well-known critic Roger Ebert, in his review of the film, pointed out that it was one of the first "independent movies." Ken Dancyger, a film scholar, made an inference that the film (with its unique mix of bizarre images, quick cuts, and the like) had a major influence on the making of music videos. A great example of surrealistic styling in music video's is the clip for Soundgarden's 1994 track "Black Hole Sun."

Also, the movie had an INCREDIBLE amount of influence on such classic filmmakers as Cocteau, Renoir, Bergman, and Fellini. The influence stretched even beyond them, to such directors as David Lynch, whose 1977 debut film Eraserhead definitely reflects some of the feeling and ideals of surrealism.

In summation, I find the surrealist film Un Chien Andalou to be of great importance, both in studying the art movement of surrealism and film itself. You may be asking yourself: what does it mean? Don't. Ask how it makes you feel.