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Contrapposto Made Easy

Contrapposto means “counter poise” in Italian.  It’s the posture with attitude: “Hey, you talkin’ to me? “ The pelvis is pushed up on one side of the torso and the angle of the shoulders leans in the same direction.  This happens when your weight is on one leg and your other leg is just there for company.

In the guide paper diagram, above,  you can see that the figure is standing in perfect balance by the fact that there is a straight line connecting the middle of her neck to the middle of her weight-bearing heel.

Now let’s look at how four students approximated this perfect-balance-with-attitude.

In 1) we see a successful contrapposto.  The sartorial details, the drapery effects and the hands are not important for this exercise.  Getting this figure to stand convincingly –with a sense of the left leg pushing up the left side of the pelvis and the shoulders leaning left—is a major accomplishment.

The figure in 2) stands convincingly and in balance.  The contrapposto stance is clear.  The shoulder tilt is especially successful.

Next, 3), the figure is drawn in a solid, frontal stance with a hint of contrapposto in the legs. For a true contrapposto her left leg would have to be towards the middle of the body so that the left heel would be intersected by that vertical guide line.  This would make the left leg load bearing and we would feel that  the left leg is pushing the pelvis up on the left side.  The guide line for the shoulders slopes down nicely, but in the drawing the shoulders are horizontal, which weakens the  contrapposto effect.

In 4) the figure is standing on the left leg, giving her a legitimate contrapposto stance.  Notice that the guide line for the shoulder is at a pronounced downward slope.  The fleshed-out drawing ignores this line and makes the shoulders almost horizontal.  The contrapposto would be more hey-you if the right shoulder would be higher, i.e. if it met the guide line.

 

This is interesting, I think, because it shows a subconscious preference for balance and symmetry, which are reassuring and comfortable.  The contrapposto twist is lively!   Wicked, even.  You don’t know what the person with this attitude will challenge you with.

The contrapposto pose was invented by a Greek sculptor in the early 5th century BC, around 480.  We’ll have a look at that next: the Kritios Boy.

All contents copyright (C) 2010 Katherine Hilden. All rights reserved.

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Tracing Paper

Before the pandemic quarantine we drew heads upside-down.  It’s a technique invented in the “70s  by an art teacher named Betty Edwards.  She noticed that she couldn’t talk and draw at the same time.  So she figured that one of the two brain functions, the verbal or the visual, had to be turned off.  Since she wanted to draw, the verbal blah-blah had to be turned off.  The way to do that—her brilliant insight—was to look at images that were turned up-side-down.  But drawing from USD photos turns off not only the verbal part of the brain, but also—oh, horror—your emotional involvement with the human form, say, the face.  You’ll never turn those emotions completely off for the simple reason that you’re wired to react with extra attention to fellow humans.

Well, what about drawing someone sitting there in front of you?  Can’t turn reality upside down!  The idea behind the USD technique is that by practicing it over and over, you will train your brain to turn off the verbal mode at will, anytime, even when drawing things right-side-up.

The tendency for beginners is to start with the outline of the face and then to put in the eyes, nose and mouth.  Or just start with some feature, like the right eye and then wing it from there.

This approach inevitably leads to kitsch.  We’ll get into that later. For starters, you can just go to the previous blog.  You can see that here’s someone who never practiced USD drawing.

We don’t want kitsch, do we.  So, how to start?!

You start by blocking out the head.  That’s what we did in last week’s class.  It’s easy.  Tape your photo down and then tape tracing paper over that.

No, no, you’re not tracing the drawing!!!  You’re only drawing straight lines to show the main directions that connect the crucial points of the head. These lines do not outline anything; they don’t follow the contour of any feature, like the eye, nose or mouth.

When you’re looking at the photo of this Roman marble head through your tracing paper, try to see him as a “block head,” as if the sculpture had only gotten as far as chiseling out the rough form.

Once you have those straight lines on the tracing paper you separate the tracing paper from the photo page.  You continue drawing on the tracing paper, observing the face’s features and shadows seen on the photo.

The students in this beginners’ class produced the kind of drawings we see in Renaissance artists.

Yes, here’s Leonardo da Vinci working on a profile study.  We like to feel we’re in good company.

Next, Michelangelo:  The David’s pouty curly-lipped profile.

If you’re a serious art student you’ve got to draw The David, head to toes, from different angles.  This will give you a work out. When you’ve put in your time with The David, you might want to look up the many parodies of this hero-dude.

Here are three student drawings that started with the lines showing the large masses and rough directions of the profile.

After our work-out with The David last week, we tackled a fashion magazine face with teeth and lips.  That wrap around upper lip takes some studying and practice. To be worked on  some more next class.

This tracing paper technique is a solid start for organizing your approach to drawing the face.  Remember, once you have the large masses and directions down—STOP.  Do not give in to the temptation of tracing features.  DO NOT TRACE ANYTHING.

All contents copyright (C) 2010 Katherine Hilden. All rights reserved.

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Christina Quarles’ paintings will be up at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago until the end of August.  My first thought when I saw her work online was: Gladys Nilssen!

img-gladys-nilsson161640484509

Gladys Nilssen’s work first appeared in Chicago galleries in the mid 60’s.  Large watercolors showed human-ish figures, gawky, spaghetti limbed and bulbous in odd places.  Her goofiness remains …smart.  Smart, as in witty.

Christina Quarles’s debt to Gladys Nilssen is apparent at first sight. But nothing I’ve read about the younger artist mentions Gladys Nilssen. 

When I get to Chicago later this summer (hope, hope!) I’ll linger in the Quarles show and ask viewers if they’re seeing the connection to Gladys Nilssen.  Better yet, I’ll ask the curators of the show if they see the connection.  I’ll report back.

In the meantime, contrast and compare.  Here are the links to consult as you do your homework:

https://www.google.com/search?sxsrf=ALeKk02tNWIhxAKjwcDagxUqOfJWPy9JMg:1616364436569&source=univ&tbm=isch&q=gladys+nilsson&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjAwMbgssLvAhXPK80KHZMXDJgQiR56BAgdEAI&biw=1324&bih=837

https://www.garthgreenan.com/exhibitions/gladys-nilsson-the-1980s

https://www.halesgallery.com/artists/89-gladys-nilsson/overview/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gladys_Nilsson

https://www.christinaquarles.com/About

https://www.christinaquarles.com/Paintings

https://www.culturetype.com/2020/04/05/on-view-christina-quarles-at-mca-chicago/

https://www.google.com/search?q=Christine+Quarles+at+MCA+chicago&sxsrf=ALeKk012XomWpRSl7FzGQ87TbMqicj-N6A:1616267723110&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=_arlLLLvQhzpdM%252COCmwmvDe2E6hIM%252C%252Fg%252F11h6njpc4x&vet=1&usg=AI4_-kSGFegT5Lzql6G5xpNLo2V0-MNKrA&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiYtP27yr_vAhVKXc0KHb4YDwcQ_B16BAgeEAI&biw=1397&bih=837#imgrc=ZVaH_iuXaHagSM

https://www.latimes.com/entertainment/arts/la-et-cm-christina-quarles-review-20190415-story.html

Gladys Nilssen, b 1940

            “Vested Interest,” 1987, watercolor on paper, 40” x 60”

Christina Quarles, b. 1985

            “Casually Cruel,” 2018, Acrylic on canvas, 77” x 96”

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Fredric Edwin Church

This picture was inspired by Church’s second trip to South America in the spring of 1857. Church sketched prolifically throughout his nine weeks travel in Ecuador, and many extant watercolors and drawings contain elements found in this work. The picture was publicly unveiled in New York at Lyrique Hall, 756 Broadway, on April 27, 1859. Subsequently moved to the gallery of the Tenth Street Studio Building, it was lit by gas jets concealed behind silver reflectors in a darkened chamber. The work caused a sensation, and twelve to thirteen thousand people paid twenty-five cents apiece to file by it each month. The picture was also shown in London, where it was greatly admired as well.

That’s the Met’s paragraph about this painting. The painting measures 66 in x 120 in and can be seen at the Met on Fifth Avenue.

“…any extant watercolors and drawings contain elements found in this work.”  In other words, this is what’s called “a composite painting,” meaning it does not represent any view actually seen by the painter. Rather, the painter assembled landscape-snippets from his sketch book into a grand vista of enormous depth.

In (1) we see flowers so close that we can see the veins of leaves.  The people in (2) are so far away that they are the size of leaves in (1).  In (3) we can make out some houses.  The mountain ridges from (4) through (6) become progressively paler to our view because they are farther and farther in the distance.  The snow-capped peaks in (7) occupy only a small area of the painting surface, but by the time our attention has progressed from (1) through (6) we know (7) is very, very far away and huge.

It’s a mind boggling trip. Even after you’ve imagined the painter going through his sketch book to select the bits that would be collaged together like this, you will stand in front of this painting with dropped jaw and –well, totally–fall for it.  Your mind will toggle between “haha, this is contrived” and “wow, I inhabit this vast mountainous space.”  That’s us, with our skepticism and modern irony.

There’s a glib explanation of what modern painting is:  pre-moderns believed that a painting was a window through which they saw a scene; us moderns know better, we are fully aware that the painting is a flat surface with paint on it, period.

I don’t think it’s that simple.  To see this painting, in 1859, New Englanders traveled to New York in their corsets and starched underwear. Something must have been pinching them all the time, including their shoes, as they stood in front of this dramatically lit huge painting and they knew perfectly well where they were.  They were aware that they were not looking through a window frame at a mountain in Ecuador

The past several posts here have been about this duality of “it’s a window, it’s a flat surface.” The duality is nothing new. Perceptive, thinking people have always been puzzled by illusions, I would imagine, going back to Egyptians painting faces on sarcophagi.  Western philosophers, starting with Plato, have tried to sort out the distinction between reality and illusion.  Psychology and neurology have been nailing it down, but in our subjective experience the puzzle is alive and well.  That’s why we make images.

Click on painting for enlargement.

Fredric Erwin Church, 1826-1900

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Blurry, Contemplate

Look at this for a minute.  Stay calm and slightly amused.

Within seconds, you will notice that the image is becoming a little sharper.

Because your brain is familiar with these shapes it will auto-correct by projecting what you know should be there onto the blurry contours.

You don’t want to strain or overdo this.  But as an occasional exercise it can reassure you that all systems are go.

(Click image to enlarge.)

https://www.technologynetworks.com/neuroscience/news/how-do-we-make-sense-of-a-blurry-scene-301542

 

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Some years ago at the Art Institute of Chicago I was walking towards gallery 240, just behind a woman and two well-dressed, well-behaved children who were about six and eight years old.  The woman might have been their mom or an aunt.  She bent down to them and said, “And now we’re going to look at Pointillism.”

I was immediately upset and wanted to say something to the woman. But I didn’t know what to say and lingered in that gallery hoping I could handle this gracefully.

Next time I’ll just say discretely but firmly, “Don’t say that to a child.”

Or anybody.

When you go to a gallery or art museum allow yourself to be ignorant.  Ok, how about unknowing.

Even if you go twice a month, enter the building with no expectations. Wander around as if you were illiterate and had never heard of any ism in art history. Let your jaw drop and your mind go non-verbal.

This takes practice.  It’s not easy to be…ignorant…unknowing.

Ignorance is the precondition for astonishment.

Please, let’s all be erudite, elegant and articulate.  But not so fast.  Not when we’re six. Or even sixteen.  Or however old you are when you start looking at art.  You should be allowed, or allow yourself, to look and react with your gut feeling.  Ooh, ahh, yukk, eech, meh, whatever.

But you keep going back and keep looking.  You will inevitably learn a few things about art history. But what’s most fascinating is that you learn something about yourself:  how you react, how you see, how you think and feel.

I pulled the above photo from the internet.  I love it because it shows people really looking.  Whether they’re seeing this for the first time or coming back every week to study Seurat’s technique, they are astonished.

There’s a lot of self-knowledge in the capacity to be astonished.

Georges Seurat, 1859-1891

A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte,  painted 1884–1886

 

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Christo

Christo Vladimirov Javacheff

June 13, 1935 – May 31, 2020

https://www.cnn.com/style/article/christo-artist-dead/index.html

https://facefame.wordpress.com/2013/03/17/christo-javacheff/

 

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MondrianTree6

Oh, trees!

If you’re a Mondrian-lover you stand in front of one of his paintings, like the one above, and exclaim, “I just love the way he painted trees!”  Right?

You have a friend who doesn’t understand Mondrian, so you volunteer to give her a tour of the moderns at the Art Institute of Chicago or the MoMa.  You position yourselves in front of the Mondrians, and you learnedly explain that here we have the essence of tree-ness.  Right?

Mondrian was painting simplified trees.  Right?

Mondrian drew diagrams of trees. Right?

Abstract trees. Right?

Oh, please!

No one has ever looked at a Mondrian and seen trees. Right?

Right!!!!!

Then why do we constantly get the evolution of his paintings—The Mondrians—from trees.

http://emptyeasel.com/2007/04/17/piet-mondrian-the-evolution-of-pure-abstract-paintings/

MondrianTree1

[The] process of simplification and reduction would continue until he wasn’t even painting from nature at all.

The rise of Cubism also gave Mondrian a means to segment and reduce objects to their most basic forms.

MondrianTree2

Dutch painter Piet Mondrian (1872-1944) lived in Paris when he was in his early 40’s.  There he met Braque and other Cubists.

To interpret Cubism as “reducing objects to their most basic forms”  is as blatantly ridiculous as the other cliché about cubism, namely that a cubist painting shows us an object from all four sides.  I’ll post just one example here, Picasso’s “Portrait of D.H. Kahnweiler,” 1910. Have a good look. You are seeing Mr. Kahnweiler’s “basic forms” and you’re seeing him from all “four sides.” Correct?

kahnweil

Really?

LOOK!

Cubism is so scary to think about that people, even otherwise intelligent people, repeat these absurdities about “basic forms” and “four sides.”  You’ll find this sort of thing not only on internet pages but, with more academic circumlocutions, in serious publications. The Cubists—Picasso and Braque–are scary to think about because they made a clean break with the past.  Naughty, naughty. Thou shalt honor thy father and mother…  The only father the Cubists honored was Cézanne and he, in Robert Hughes’ words, painted DOUBT.

Let’s see now, we don’t have any commandments honoring doubt.

In 1910, art that threw out all previous assumptions was difficult to take.  Still is.  But doubt is so much more invigorating than having answers without first having questions.  Medieval certainties and Renaissance illustrations of mythological characters are not invigorating, are they?!

The Cubists—and they didn’t call themselves that—came up with something new.  The painting is now not an illustration but a work in its own right.

You must be kidding?  In its own right?  The audacity!

That’s right.  Audacity.

So, are Mondrian’s paintings abstractions or essences or diagrams of trees?  No.  They are something completely new.  They stand in their own right as objects.  Something to contemplate.

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16FebArches
These cropped forms suggest some architectural element, with variations. Or, maybe, chair backs. In any case, something well designed, serious and possibly monumental. At the same time, unstable and meaningless. If they are structures, you can see that they lack bracing but are, nevertheless, solid. They’re grand in some way. And there are many of them, this we can infer from the cropping.
This, therefore, is a painting that at first glance suggests clarity of statement. But if you fall for its seduction, you’ll soon chase yourself in circular thinking and you end up not “getting” it at all. This is a good thing. You’re looking at art.
Painting by Harold Bauer. Oil on canvas, ~30” x 24”
16FebArchesFlipNow let’s flip it horizontally. Oh, look! The flipped version seems much friendlier, more accessible. It lacks the gravitas of the original. I would not ponder this version, I would consider it “lite,” a bit decorative, merely clever.
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In her essay on German realism, George Eliot says: “The greatest benefit we owe to the artist, whether painter, poet, or novelist, is the extension of our sympathies…Art is the nearest thing to life; it is a mode of amplifying experience and extending our contact with our fellow-men beyond the bounds of our personal lot.”

Quote found in James Wood’s  How Fiction Works, p 171.

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