The Blasted Tree: A Visual Metaphor

 

On a recent walk through the woods I saw that a large tree had two of its limbs shattered, possibly by a lightning strike. The breaks looked violent, with jagged edges, and an aggressive split. It's startling to see this damage amidst calm, leafy trees. And yet, it's a part of nature's cycle of destruction, decay, and regrowth. I wrote about this pattern here. Seeing this tree made me think of all the images of blasted trees in landscape paintings, and their meaning within those landscapes. 

Jacob van Ruysdael, Landscape with a Half-timbered House and a Blasted Tree, 1653

In her essay on Romantic landscape painting in Hyperallergic, Allison Meier writes:

What's important is that the tree is usually still living, leaves clinging to its battered branches. To the Romantics, it represented the cycle of nature, from death to life, all at once. 

Thomas Hearne, Blasted Tree Near a Lake, 1803

In Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, (1818), Victor Frankenstein describes himself as a blasted tree:

But I am a blasted tree: the bolt has entered my soul, and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be – a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity,  pitiable to others, and intolerable to myself. 

William Blake, Blasted Trees and Flattened Crops, 1821

The idea of the blasted tree has great emotional weight. In Blake's wood engraving the tree is so much like a storm-tossed human figure, bent by the wind, with a few leaves clinging to its outstretched arms. 

Frederic Church, Storm in the Mountains, 1847

A solitary tree, its trunk split and broken, stands high above a turbulent landscape. It is as though Church is pointing to pride and resilience in the face of turmoil. 

Jasper Cropsey, Blasted Tree, 1850

Like in the Church painting, Cropsey situates his damaged tree high up on a precipice, overlooking a dark, foreboding landscape. This painting feels despondent to me, the blasted tree crushed, the light in the sky nearly obliterated. 

Lawren Harris, North Shore, Lake Superior, 1926 

In this painting––the only one I could find on this theme from the 20th century––Harris presents a more optimistic vision of a solitary damaged tree. The tall, central tree is bathed in light; its curving forms reach skyward, an evocation of positive striving. In the history of the arts, our relationship with nature has provided many metaphors, including this one of the blasted tree. Simon Schama wrote a brilliant book, Landscape and Memory, on the various myths and strong cultural connections that we have to the different landscapes surrounding us. In his introduction he wrote:

...the various ecosystems that sustain life on the planet proceed independently of human agency...But it is also true that it is difficult to think of a single such natural system that has not, for better or worse, been substantially modified by human culture...And it is this irreversibly modified world, from the polar caps to the equatorial forests, that is all the nature we have.

At the Met: Egyptian Relief Sculpture

Relief with a billy goat ca. 2551–2528 B.C. Old Kingdom

I am in awe of ancient Egyptian sculpture. The sensitivity to line and form, and rhythm across a wall, that is sustained across centuries is remarkable. It's hard to imagine a culture that stayed so consistent over this length of time, with small variations in style. The close attention to the volumetric shapes of this goat bring it fully to life, even though the representation is simplified and in low relief. Ah, those elegantly curved horns! 

 Relief fragment showing a pile of offerings and part of an offering list ca. 2010–2000 B.C. or ca. 2000–1981 B.C. Middle Kingdom Egypt

Many of these sculptures were found in chambers in pyramid temples, and were offerings to the king, The bounty shown above was thought to provide for life everlasting. This work doesn't have the realism of the relief of a goat shown above, but the abstracted forms and color are very satisfying. This fragment is a clear illustration of how the medium of relief carving is between fully rounded sculpture and painting.

Relief depicting an offering table and part of an inscription ca. 2010–2000 B.C. or ca. 2000–1981 B.C. Middle Kingdom Egypt

Although the details in this relief are more crudely handled, I love the pile of shapes and the duck's head alongside them, resting on curves An exhibition of Middle Kingdom art at the Met several years ago pushed me to start doing low relief sculpture in clay; I wrote about the show in an earlier blog post. As an artist I feel totally inadequate when comparing my reliefs to those from ancient Egypt; mine seem clunky and inelegant. Oh well, I try my best, and it's good to aspire to these role models.

Relief Fragment Showing Waterfowl in a Clapnet ca. 2020–2000 B.C. Middle Kingdom Egypt

This fragment depicts a stack of ducks in repeated curves. I can see that they are different species from the shapes of their heads and the varying curves of their beaks. I couldn't figure out how they were in a net until I looked at the description of this piece on the Met's website. It pointed out that there was till a faint tracery of paint on the ducks' bodies, indicating the net; you can see this if you click on the image to enlarge it. 

5 Lintel of Amenemhat I and Deities ca. 1981–1952 B.C. Middle Kingdom Egypt

Relief block from a building of Amenemhat I ca. 1981–1952 B.C. Middle Kingdom Egypt, with god Horus

The two reliefs above are from the same building, the king's mortuary temple. The artists who carved these reliefs––all the reliefs shown in this post are carved from limestone blocks––were very skilled. The hieroglyphs at the top are especially beautiful in their simplification of objects, which turns them into language. I find that lintel so very beautiful; I want to run my hand along the edges of the forms, to feel their subtle distinctions.

 Reliefs from the North Wall of a Chapel of Ramesses I ca. 1295–1294 B.C. New Kingdom Egypt

This more recent relief made during the New Kingdom is more crowded with activity than earlier works. There are piles of provisions atop piles of provisions, and below, many workers preparing food or libations. The sculpted forms are more rounded than those in the Middle or Old Kingdoms, which increases the feeling of a bustling, overstuffed storehouse. Rhythms are varied and I see a rich visual polyphony.

Relief plaque with a swallow, and with Face of an Owl 400–30 B.C. Late Period–Ptolemaic Period

There's a heightened sense of realism in these two small plaques, made much later than the works above. At this time Egyptian art was influenced by that of Greece; Alexander the Great had conquered Egypt in 332 B.C. An article on the Met's website explains the history and artistic interchanges of this period. I see the Egyptian style in the basic simplification of form, and the carefully observed details; the relief is higher, as is common with Greek sculptural reliefs. The owl is a marvel, a compelling portrait of an inscrutable bird. I know I just wrote that these works are more realistic than what came before, but paradoxically, they are also wonderfully stylized: the artists managed to portray creatures that are both real and ideal, perfect of their kind. It is so interesting to think about this delicate shifting balance between naturalistic representation and abstraction that is evidenced across the centuries in Egyptian art. 

At the Met: Animals

Storage Jar decorated with Ibexes, Central Iran, 4,000-3600 B.C.

Humans have lived with, worked with, observed, worshipped, made myths about non-human animals for millennia. When I look at this elegantly delineated ibex, it's hard for me to comprehend that this pot was made 6,000 years ago. In John Berger's elucidating essay, "Why Look at Animals", he describes how humans and animals had lived parallel lives in the past, before the 19th century, in which 

every tradition between man and nature was broken. Before this rupture, animals constituted the first circle of what surrounded man. Perhaps that already suggests too great a distance. They were with man at the centre of his world. Animals first entered the imagination as messengers and promises. 

Berger goes on to describe various ancient myths centering on animals, and how this human/animal relationship changed in modern times. Thinking of that closeness it's not at all surprising that there should be so many depictions of animals in art and artifacts. 

 

Weights in the shape of a frog, Mesopotamia, Iran, or Cypress, early 2nd millenium B.C.

Very simple lines and minimal form are all that's needed to sculpt the essence of an attentive frog. Upraised head, folded legs, bulging eye; she's ready to leap forward. And her rounded volume asks for a caress.

Wall painting from a bedroom, Roman, last decade of the 1st century B.C.

A sensitively rendered bird stands alert in the center of a dark swath of wall, warmly glowing against the polished surface. Someone who knows bird species could probably identify this one since it is so specific in its details.

Figure of a Hare, Egypt, 11th century

Such a lively little hare, with those large ears pricked and the tiny tail raised. I can't help but think that the maker of this piece particularly enjoyed sculpting that alert expression of anticipation.   

Statue of a Predatory Bird, Iran, 12th-13th century

There is a range of depiction from naturalism to abstraction that is very interesting to me. Different cultures have different approaches, all valid, all producing beautiful work. This predatory bird, with its large head and simple sweep of wings is closer to an abstract rendering, but I can still feel his aggressive posture.  There's a fluid line from the jutting beak to the swelling breast and back through the wings which is very satisfying. 

Bowl with fish motif, Iran, 13th century

Dish, follower of Bernard Palissy, French, late 16th century

Here are two favorite ceramic pieces at the Met, a bowl from Iran, and a later dish from France. They show very different approaches to decoration: one simplified and the other complex and full of detail. I love them both. The Iranian bowl has a clear design, having linear elements contrasting with the circling fish at the center. The French dish also has a central element, that of a looping snake, but surrounding it are fish and crustaceans and shells and foliage and an overall texture. It's as though these two pieces provide a clear illustration of abstraction and realism, and how effective each approach can be.

(I highly recommend clicking on the French dish in order to see more of its details.)

Power Object, Republic of Benin, Fon peoples, 19th century

An elephant is a symbol of strength for the Fon peoples, and silver makes the work a prestige item. In the museum description––link above––it is stated that precious objects such as this are filled with "supernaturally potent materials to protect the monarch". This is a culture in which the magical power of animals had not yet receded. 

Flat Bag, Coeur d"Alene, Schitsu'umsh, Coeur d'Alene artist, 1895-1905

We can compare this simplified beaded image of birds with the more realistic Roman wall painting of a bird above, but I don't see that either one is stronger than the other; they are simply different. On this bag, I especially like the way the artist made patterns out of the wings and tail feathers; those diagonals play against each other, creating an animated design. 

Bronze statuette of a horse, Greek, lat 2nd-1st century B.C. 

I've posted all the works above in historical order, but kept this horse for last. This elegant and proud small stallion, sixteen inches high,  presents me with an opportunity to speak of my relationships with animals. I live in a rural area, so have lots of animals nearby: deer, moose, bear, turkey, woodchuck, raccoon, birds of all sorts, and other small creatures. I love having this animal life around me, unless they help themselves in my vegetable garden. And of course I have pets, which John Berger in his essay says are one result of animal marginalization in our culture. I do treasure my inter-species interactions. My most intense experience of working with an animal, though, came when I had a horse. There was a remarkably sensitive communication with this large animal when I was sitting on her back, speaking to her with the weight of my body, the pressure of my legs, the touch of the bit in her mouth, and also with my voice. It was magical, and made the image of the centaur––the human/horse creature––completely understandable. It also made me feel closer to a time when non-human animals were an integral part of our lives. 

Altoon Sultan, Heifers, Pawlet, Vermont, 1987, 30 x 72 in.

I've worked on this post for a couple of days, and this morning I remembered that I too have a painting of animals in the collection at the Met (not on view). I painted Heifers during a time when I worked on agricultural landscapes, and many of them, being dairy farms, included cows. Cows are curious, and I feel that they wonder about me, as I do about them. This mutual regard across species, this wonderment and magic, makes it clear why artists have wanted to depict animals from the time of the earliest paintings, many thousands of years ago. 

At the Met: Faces

Head and Neck from a marble figure, Cycladic, 2700-2500 B.C.

While wandering through the Metropolitan Museum of Art I was struck by the inventiveness and varied approaches to abstraction when it came to depicting faces, both human and animal. In this very early small Cycladic head, all we see is the shape of the face with a protruding nose, yet it is distinctly human, We read this as a face even with minimal information; its forms are simple and beautifully rendered. 

Spouted Vessel, Mexican, Huastec, 13th-15th century

This decorated Mexican vessel depicts a face with an expression of wide-eyed surprise, emphasized by the eyelashes surrounding the protruding eyes and the dark, upturned nostrils. The piece is decorated with elegant abstract designs, moving it away from any perceived naturalism.

Vulture Bowl, Mexico, Isla de Sacrificios, 13th-15th century

I love this wacky bird, eyeing me intently. His polka-dotted neck and abstracted feathers, along with the handles as wings, add whimsy. Of course, I don't know if that interpretation is that of the artist; perhaps they saw this bird as threatening. 

Memorial Head, Ghana, Akan peoples, 17th century

African artists from all over the continent had a marvelous ability to simplify the human face into beautiful shapes, lines, curves, volumes. With its perfect oval form, closed eyes, and calm expression it could almost be the head of a Buddha, as well as a ruler of the Akan people. 

Mask, Cote d'Ivoire or Liberia, Ku peoples, 19th-mid 20th century

From serenity in the work above, there's a shift to an elongated fierceness in this mask with jagged teeth and cylindrical eyes, and a knife-edge slice of a nose. The forms are softened by the gentle curves of the mask's outline.

Janus-faced headdress, Nigeria, Yoruba peoples, 19th century

This headdress is called Janus-faced because there's a similar face backing this one. The eye shapes remind me of the ovals of the memorial head above, but this face is more aggressively abstract; the long, protruding nose with lips below balance the eyes beautifully. I find the saw-toothed edge very interesting; I don't think I've seen that before. At the top of the headdress are two horns, and etched into the wood below them are two ovals for the eyes of an animal. 

African power figure, Kongo peoples, 19th-mid 20th century

I'm fascinated by the upturned head of this magical power figure. He seems to be quietly beseeching the gods. Although the form of his head is stylized, and his body is hung with strange (to me) objects of prayer, he is so very alive. 

Masks, Kodiak Island, Alaska, ca. 1870

With these two masks we are back in the Western hemisphere, but as I look at them I might think that they're African. It makes me wonder whether there is a universality of form in this stylized  type of art, tempered by cultural differences. The move away from naturalism toward simplification brings great power to this imagery that a more delicate realism cannot match, although that has its own strengths. 

Marble anthropoid sarcophagus, Graeco-Phoenician, last quarter of 5th century B.C.

This sculpture of a woman's head with its clear, bold features and stylized curls is more naturalistic than the works above, but still quite simplified. Her head rises above a plain sarcophagus (see in link) whose only details are the wavy lines at the top. This makes for a startling apparition when seeing the actual work.

Marble funerary altar of Cominia Tyche, Roman, ca. A.D. 60-100

A style closer to a Western idea of realism is evident in this sensitively rendered funerary portrait of a young woman. The flesh appears soft, the features delicate and particular to an individual. Only the hair is abstracted, with the curls as tightly wound circles. 

Portrait of a Carthusian, Petrus Christus, 1446

I had to include one painting in this post, and that of a face that I find intriguing. The heightened realism of Christus' painting invites me to attempt to understand the character of this monk. He is looking out with an expression that is somewhat askance, solemn and questioning. The portrait is so carefully observed, from the features to the delicate, cascading beard. Christus also plays with illusion by painting a fly on the edge of the frame.

Woman's Head, Amedeo Modigliani, 1912

Modigliani's modernism takes us back to an abstracted vision, inspired by the art of Africa. Those oval eyes, long nose, and slitted mouth can be seen as direct descendants of some of the sculpture pictured above, with his personal touch of elongation. 

**I enjoyed thinking about and seeing how differently faces can be appear in art. The Met allows for that with its extensive collections. I would like to remind you that clicking on an image will show it enlarged. I've provided links to the Met's descriptions of some of the objects if the information on their website is especially elucidating. 

At Last, at the Met: Some Favorites

Egyptian bowl with human feet, ca. 3900-3650 B.C.

Visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art is always a delight for me, and a solace. Finally, after a long hiatus, I was back wandering the galleries full of marvels from around the world. In this first of several posts from the Met I thought I'd show some favorite things that I go to see almost every time I'm in the museum. I was very interested to note that I seemed to gravitate to objects, things of three dimensions rather than paintings, during that day. 

First, a charming small bowl––about 5 inches wide––held up by feet, found in the Egyptian galleries. The image is an embodiment of the hieroglyph "to bring" so it's believed that it was an offering bowl. I love its rounded little feet, its imperfect round bowl tilting forward as though saying "here I am".  When I saw that there was a small reproduction of this piece in the museum shop, I just had to have it, and it's now sitting on my desk, offering me joy. 

Reclining Dog, Mexico, Colima, 200 B.C.-A.D. 300

This small dog is another perfect ceramic piece. He's to be found in the galleries devoted to the arts of the Americas. His expression is both alert, in his raised head and pricked ears, and calm, in the folded forms of his limbs. Such a good dog!

Hunting Dog, European, 15th-16th century, or later

In a gallery on the way to the American wing is a small sculpture of a hunting dog. He has a very different demeanor from the one above: he is active, which shows in the movement of limbs, head, and tail. I love how the curve of his backward arcing neck implies a circle with the upraised tail. I never miss stopping to admire the fluidity and elegance of the lines in this work.

Mourner, Pere Oller, Catalan, ca. 1417

A very different mood is evoked by this figure, which is seemingly monumental, but less than 15 inches high. The flowing garment has lyrical curves, which follow the movement of the body beneath. The enlarged hands emphasize grief, especially the one holding the tilted head, a solemn gesture of sadness. This is such a beautiful, tender piece.

 

Mourning Virgin, France, 1450-75

The sense of mourning in this sculpture is austere and restrained. The shadowed face, the downward-set mouth, the quietly crossed hands, all point to an attitude of inner resolve. The deeply carved folds of the cloak add drama. This is a figure of a strong woman. (To see the entire sculpture, go to the link under the photo.)

Fragment of a Queen's Face, Egypt, New Kingdom, Amarna period, 1353-1336 B.C.

Although this is a fragment, its sensitivity and presence is compelling; it's almost difficult to look away when standing in front of it. The subject of the work is unknown, but whoever she was, she was beautiful and proud. The sculptor produced a remarkable work.

Pendant Mask, Queen Mother, Nigeria, Kingdom of Benin, 16th century

Here is another powerful portrait of a queen, sculpted in ivory. The heavily lidded eyes are contemplative, the downward lines of nose and mouth are sensitively defined. I'm fascinated by the combination of naturalism and formal idealism in this work. There is also religion in the complex headdress and collar, with mudfish representing the king's dual nature of human and divine.

A Man with High Coloring, Egypt, 161-180 A.D.

Of all the encaustic portraits in the Egyptian galleries, this one is my favorite. The paint is modeled so as to enhance the form of the face and the texture of hair and beard. The gaze is intense. These qualities combine to create a face that is so full of life that he could be our contemporary.

Hans Memling, Portrait of an Old Man, ca. 1475

I love looking at this sensitively rendered portrait of an old man. He seems kind and thoughtful, reflecting on his life as he nears its end. In this painting, Memling shows himself to be a deeply humanistic painter. 

Petrus Christus, The Lamentation, ca. 1450

image courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art

Now on to two works which I had hoped to see, but were not on view. The Lamentation by Petrus Christus  is my most loved painting in the museum, so I was crushed not to see it. The clarity of form, the repeating curved lines of the figures, the small mundane details, the landscape setting, the emotional reserve of the figures, all combine to create a strikingly moving scene.

Standing Man, Iran, 2nd century A.D. 

I also missed seeing the jolly face and gesture of this sculpture from ancient Iran. He sends us greetings from across space and time.

Regret: Bertrand Tavernier's "A Sunday in the Country"

 

On a lovely Sunday morning in 1912, the elderly artist Monsieur Ladmiral prepares for a visit from his son and family. We see that M. Ladmiral must be a successful painter: his house in a country setting near Paris is large and beautiful, his studio situated in the garden is spacious and elegant. It is evident from the paintings hanging in the house and studio that he is a very traditional painter, conservative in style; the upheavals in art of the late 19th century passed him by. 

The sense of life not being fully lived pervades this poignant film. Ladmiral's reserved middle-aged son Gonzague visits regularly, bringing his straight-laced wife and three children. At one point Gonzague wonders if he should have pursued painting when he was young; but perhaps he wouldn't be as good as his father, or, he would compete with him. Ladmiral also seems a bit disappointed in his son, a feeling that is thrown into vivid contrast with the unexpected arrival, via motor car, of his beloved daughter Irene. We can see that he adores her brilliant free spirit, her unconventionality, her need to liven things up. She is the only one whose opinion about his work he seeks, and fears. In the studio, she disparages a painting in process on the easel as yet another "corner of the studio" painting; how dull, how ordinary.

. 

Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Dance at the Moulin de la Galette, 1876

Then she whisks her beloved father away in the motor, to a café near a river, where there is dancing. For me this scene is the heart of the film, where Tavernier calls up the spirit of Renoir. And here is where father and daughter have a candid talk about his work. Irene says to him, pointing to the dancers, "That's what you should have painted". His response is beautifully thoughtful, and relevant, I believe, to choices all artists make: 

I painted the way I was taught. I believed my teachers: to respect the traditional rules, maybe a bit too much. I saw originality in others' work. Cézanne's major exhibition in '96 or '97 was interesting, but I thought "Where can that lead me", like van Gogh's work. I'd singled him out. I spent a summer painting in Arles. Perhaps I lacked courage. Some years ago, I considered changing my style. I thought about it seriously, but it hurt your mother that I was still groping at that age. I'd just been decorated; our future was assured. If I'd imitated what was original in other painters––Monet, Caillebotte, Renoir––I'd have been even less original. I'd have lost my own special melody; at least it was mine. I painted as I felt, with honesty. If I didn't achieve more, I at least glimpsed what I could have done. 

Then he recounts his dream about Moses, who saw the Promised Land, so could die without regret. Irene listens to his passionate, yet hesitant words with attentive love. 

When all his guests have gone, M. Ladmiral sits alone in the studio. Although his talk with Irene made it sound as though he had no regrets, the expression on his face––he is sensitively portrayed by Louis Ducreux––reveals uncertainty. He removes the unfinished painting of the studio corner from the easel and turns it against the wall. He places a smaller blank canvas on the easel, which he turns so he can look at it from the studio couch. The camera lingers on his hands, moving as though seeking answers. This scene was so touching, even heartbreaking. Although he spoke of having no regrets, he seems full of self-doubt.

I loved this about A Sunday in the Country: it wasn't only sensitive to family relations, but also astute in its portrayal of an artist's questioning of their work. I wonder if artists reading this have felt that. I certainly have: that sudden crushing sense of bewilderment, the "what am I doing?", the ground sliding out from under my feet. We go on, as best as we know how.