Art Abroad

After feasting on what had become our customary lunch fare in Paris—a Mixte sandwich (ham and cheese on a baguette), frites, and a bottle of red wind—at a café near the Sacré-Cœur Basilica, we stumbled upon a humble, inviting gallery just a few feet down the narrow street. As we stepped inside L’art de Rien (translation: The Art of Nothing), an Orwellian aura enveloped the gallery. A alarming warning—”Big Brother Is Watching You”—appeared everywhere. The exhibition (curated by Isabelle Lebre) consisted mainly of posters by various artists, ranging from overtly political to humorously absurd, but also included videos, sculptures and other forms. Spurred on by government plans to install more than a thousand surveillance cameras throughout the city by 2012, the 1984-inspired exhibition extended beyond the gallery, as a group of a dozen artists put up posters in place of the hundred or so proposed CCTV cameras in the 18th arrondissement, where the L’art de Rien is located. “The goal is not to condemn, but to think,” Lebre said.

“There has never been any division between my life and my work,” the Italian sculptor Marisa Merz once said. She created this piece, on display at the Tate Modern, in 1966 for her home and as a gallery installation. Untitled (Living Sculpture) triggers a whimsical and fantastical undercurrent as you walk beneath these jellyfish-like creations hanging from the ceiling. “It was made from thin strips of shiny aluminium, clipped together and suspended from the ceiling to form great coiled and spiralling forms,” according to the museum’s commentary, “inviting us to explore the relationship between material and space.” Read more about Merz’s work and see another view of this installation by clicking the image.

In Amsterdam, if you find yourself facing a difficult decision, a should-I-or-shouldn’t-I situation, the answer is always simple and always the same: “Why not!” [Click the photo to view larger in new window.]

This random scene along Canal Saint-Martin, comprised of disparate pieces of street art that together form a kooky-but-compelling composition, possessed a sort of magnetism, as Jimi Hendrix keeps a watchful eye on two foxy, albeit alien, ladies. [Click the photo to view larger in new window.]

Auguste Rodin, the French sculptor best known for The Thinker, was everywhere: at the Musée d’Orsay, in the Jardin des Tuileries, at the Paris museum devoted to his life and work, and even at the Tate Modern in London. It was there, at the latter, that we discovered and admired Rodin’s The Kiss (the second, from 1900, of three large-scale marble versions made by Rodin) at length and in detail. A surprisingly sensuous sculpture, The Kiss depicts 13th-century noblewoman Francesca da Rimini and her lover Paolo Malatesta, who also happened to be the younger brother of Francesca’s husband Giovanni. The couple—immortalized in Dante’s Inferno—fell in love while reading the story of Lancelot and Guinevere, only to be discovered and killed by Giovanni. Considered controversial at the time due to its erotic nature, Rodin’s The Kiss, like The Thinker and several other individual works, first appeared (smaller in size) as part of his monumental masterpiece, The Gates of Hell. As noted by the Tate Modern’s website, “Its blend of eroticism and idealism makes it one of the great images of sexual love.” Click the image above to see The Kiss from another angle.

There is a good chance that, if you aren’t already, a visit to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam will convert you into an fervent fan of the artist whose troubled nature (i.e., the severed ear lobe, suicide, et cetera) too often eclipses his brilliance in the minds of the general public. You probably won’t leave, however, with a single favorite work. Just when I thought I discovered a favorite, I’d take a few steps and find myself mesmerized by another Van Gogh creation. With such an extensive collection of one artist’s work to explore—from his landscapes and still lifes to self-portraits and peasant life depictions, spanning the various periods of Van Gogh’s life—selecting a lone piece to feature here is a near-impossible task.

Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette (above) stands out among the paintings in the Van Gogh Museum collection for its lack of vivid color and macabre subject matter. Largely self-taught after deciding to become an artist in 1880 at the age of 27, he produced some 900 paintings (along with another 1,100 drawings and sketches) until his untimely death 10 years later. This undated creation, thought to be produced in 1886, is the result of his brief stint (only a few weeks) at the art academy in Antwerp. Van Gogh enrolled to have the opportunity to draw and paint live models, but his wishes clashed with the school’s traditions. “Students…learned by copying prints and studying plaster casts,” according to the museum’s commentary. “After they had progressed sufficiently, they were permitted to study the live model. Skeletons were often used to help them understand human anatomy.” Van Gogh probably painted the skull with cigarette as a joke, lampooning the academy’s strict methods and staid practices.

If I had to describe the Musée d’Orsay in only one word, it would certainly be a difficult chore. Phenomenal comes to mind, as does magnificent, awe-inspiring and handfuls of other similarly effusive adjectives. First, the museum’s home is itself a work of art. Located on the Left Bank, across the Seine from Jardin des Tuileries, the Musée d’Orsay occupies a building originally constructed as a train station for the Universal Exhibition of 1900. (As an aside, it also served as a set for Orson Welles’ take on Kafka’s The Trial.) Its main hall—a long, glass-ceilinged nave that allows beautiful natural light to illuminate the space—is most impressive.

Even more extraordinary is the collection of art, especially the paintings, that this Beaux-Arts architectural gem houses. The Musée d’Orsay is considered by many the “Temple of Impressionism” with good reason, but the collection—including works created between 1848 and 1914—extends to Post-Impressionist masters as well. Walking through the galleries can be a breathtaking experiences and also a bit of an overwhelming one. The lineup here consists of some of the most popular names in art history: Claude Monet and Édouard Manet, Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gauguin, Pierre-Auguste Renoir and Paul Cézanne, Edgar Degas and Georges Seurat, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec and Gustave Courbet. Piece after piece beckons for a closer inspection, longer contemplation. Surely, several works by these admired and adored artists displayed at the Musée d’Orsay will be featured in this series. Above is a Monet from 1877, titled La gare Saint-Lazare (The Saint-Lazare Station), which led to a series featuring the station from various viewpoints.

We seemed to walk through Trafalgar Square at least once or twice a day during our stay in London. One Friday morning we passed an artist recreating Sandro Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus—using paint and brushes, of all things—on the sidewalk (or some medium laid out on it) outside of the National Gallery. Amidst the constant threat posed by heavy foot traffic, the artist had finished the painstakingly detailed piece when we returned several hours later. The result: a surprisingly accurate and altogether remarkable reproduction of an iconic image. [Click the photo to view larger in new window.]

Global warming is a real threat, according to this anti-establishment piece of street art in Amsterdam.

“All the world’s a stage,” but there is no better place to see a performance of a Shakespeare* play than at the Globe Theatre. After crossing the River Thames via the Millennium Bridge to London’s Bankside on the evening of Friday, Sept. 10, we seemingly stepped back in time. The reconstruction of the Globe Theatre relied heavily on 16th century building materials, equipment and techniques—save for a handful of modern concessions. The result is an amazingly authentic atmosphere.

Pint in hand, we climbed the stairs to our bench seats in the third tier, looking down at the stage from above as a cool breeze entered the circular opening in the thatched roof. The highly entertaining and uproarious performance of the Shakespeare* comedy The Merry Wives of Windsor, with themes and action still relevant in today’s much different world, seemed as if it could have been written a few months earlier—perhaps as a pilot for some breakout HBO hit sitcom—rather than 400-plus years ago. The crowd literally laughing out loud throughout most of the production, I was reminded that these plays were written to be performed. And, while some might contest this notion, that’s how they are best enjoyed—on the stage rather than on the page.

*William Shakespeare did not actually write the works attributed to him. The true author is Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford. Shameless self-promotion: For more information on this authorship controversy, Web of Conspiracy contains a concise yet comprehensive chapter on the topic.