‘But I Can Do That’: How to Shut Up and Look at Art

Jun 1

Installation view of One Day at a Time: Manny Farber and Termite Art, October 14, 2018–March 11, 2019 at MOCA Grand Avenue, courtesy of The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, photo by Zak Kelley

Have you ever watched some fancy-pants art aficionados get caught up in a hypnotic art-trance in front of a blank looking canvas with their little pretentious eyeballs locked onto some plain white paint for hours? I used to think, “These folks really are about to burst with hot air. What on Earth can they be looking at for so long?” Seriously, who stares at a piece of still art like they're trying to outstare Marina Abramovic? But time passed, and now, a little older, a little less judgmental, I find myself caught in the clutches of my very own visual love affair; enthralled with the whirlwind of brushstrokes, textures, and subtleties only to be interrupted by someone joking to their unfortunate audience, “Jesus, even I can do that.” I must then fight the urge to grab them (along with my 8 year old self) by the scruff of the neck, slam their eyes within a hair of said work, and hiss, Look. Shut up and just look.

See, art isn't just about the end result. It's about the journey, the process, and the mind games artists play with themselves to birth something out of thin air. So, when someone dismisses a piece because it looks easy-peasy, they're missing the point. And even if one solely wants to focus on what is directly in front of them with zero regard to the past, there's skill, technique, emotion, and that intangible sprinkle of magic to contemplate that transforms a mere canvas into a portal to another dimension. Even the simplest-looking pieces can have depth, meaning, and a story to tell.

This is dedicated to those who don’t voraciously consume art history and aren’t really interested in doing so but still want (or have no choice but) to engage more deeply with what they’re looking at.

Step One: Get Out There

While there is much to be observed on a screen, nothing compares to seeing a work in person. Is this elitist? Perhaps. I suggest eating a billionaire or calling your local representative to address the issue fully. There are infinite reasons to go see art IRL, one being the surprise you may feel when you’re inevitably dwarfed by the size of a canvas or wall; engulfed by the colors and textures. Feel free to take things personally. Feel harassed by the sheer size or direction of certain lines. Absorb the tension derived from the distance between the work and yourself. You could easily ruin this massive thing that demands respect. Keep those intrusive thoughts to yourself. Or, better yet, relate them to your viewing partner. Revel in the widening of their eyes. Moreover, you can take advantage of being physically present and walk around the artwork. This can help you notice details you may have initially missed and provide you with a new perspective on the piece. Consider the different angles and altitudes. Was this made to be viewed by someone of your height? How would a child see it?

Becky Suss, Bathroom (Ming Green), 2016. Courtesy of Jack Shainman Gallery

In addition, museums showcase exhibitions as a way to share knowledge and educate the curious about a particular topic, event, or period in history. Put simply, if you like one work in an exhibition, you’ll likely enjoy the surrounding art as well. For example, the One Day at a Time: Manny Farber and Termite Art exhibition inside the Los Angeles’s Museum of Contemporary Art at the Geffen Center in 2018 was, according the museum’s statement, “inspired by American painter and film critic Manny Farber and his legendary underground essay “White Elephant Art vs. Termite Art” which was published in 1962. The definition of Termite Art goes as follows:

…it is work in which the creators seem to have no ambitions towards gilt culture but are involved in a kind of squandering-beaverish endeavor that isn’t anywhere or for anything. A peculiar fact about termite tapeworm-fungus-moss art is that it goes always forward eating its own boundaries, and, likely as not, leaves nothing in its path other than signs of eager, industrious, unkempt activity (Faber, Film Culture, No. 27).

What is daring about termite art is its straightforwardness. What you see is what you get. Its termite beauty lies in the “concentration on nailing down one moment without glamorizing it…the feeling that all is expendable, that it could be chopped up and flung down in a different arrangement without ruin” (Faber). This makes it perfect for the simple and enriching act of just looking.

Step Two: Observe

In person, you are able to examine the details of a work, such as brushstrokes, texture, and other intricacies that may not be visible or obvious in reproductions. This can give you a deeper understanding and appreciation of the artist's technique and style. Take, for example, Laura Owens Untitled, 1997. Owens was one of the approximately thirty artists chosen for the aforementioned 2018 exhibition, and with good reason. Her work is impulsive, chaotic, and delectable. It is executed in sweetly desultory manner; she devours sampled imagery, “from medieval tapestries to emojis—all translated to canvas via dazzling array of techniques, including gutsy brushstrokes, digital rendering, needlework, screen printing, and folksy collage” (Artist statement at MOCA). The result is a series of work that stirs the child within and stimulates a certain hunger at the tips of one’s fingers. Yes, Untitled, 1997 may immediately bring the simplistic image of oceanic horizon, a clear sky, and some birds to mind. Heck, the painting may only be three black marks, four gray marks, a blue background, and a series of multicolored lines.

Let’s just take a moment to look at the obvious: Pale pastel blue quietly covers the entire 96 x 120 inch canvas. Thick, spontaneous strokes of obsidian black grace the panel at three points: the most prominent mark almost escaping the top edge of the upper right hand corner. This underlying bird-esque motif is explored in form: Two connected semicircles mimic the silhouette of a small winged creature. The size of the second circle was made smaller to create the illusion of distance and depth. Its meticulously airbrushed shadow lingers less than a centimeter away from the stroke’s inception point. The shadow brings attention to another haphazardly placed illusion of shade; its owner is only vaguely alluded to and far from what the artist has allowed the viewer to see.

This, paired with the placement of the aforementioned mark, creates a sense of movement; physically and metaphorically. The eye naturally follows the black mark, its shadow, and the second shadow back and forth, back and forth until it creates the illusion of fluttering. The eye is then, almost as if released from the centripetal forces at work, catapulted perpendicularly from the center of Mark No. 1 to the middle right hand edge where a crisp, lone, black dollop hovers kinetically on the center plane; frozen mid-movement. Its weight is emphasized by its shadow which floats softly at its bottom left. The shadow is airbrushed more delicately than the previously mentioned ones and glows invertedly.

The viewer’s gaze is then swung to the far left side to the second largest black mark. Its allotted shadow parallels it perfectly and is the lightest of the trio. It’s exhaustingly executed; so lightly done that it may very well be a darker shade of the background’s pure Maya blue as opposed to its light gray hued colleagues. It radiates from its center and hums like a handheld Rothko. The density and weight of its partner juxtaposes it in a satisfying, echoing manner. The fixed thickness of the raven colored paint catches light on its highest edges which adds depth and dimensionality to the mark. The slick sheen of the high gloss medium contributes to this high relief impression.

Three thick lines of varying width lay slathered across the entire length of the canvas beneath the charismatic trio at the bottom of the plane. They’re stacked like descending steps and are assorted in order of width; the top cornflower blue mark being the thinnest of the three. The middle line resembles the color of a hydrangea grown in acidic earth; a slightly severe baby blue—the dense paint has cracked horizontally in some areas. The last layer is a deep blueberry blue and measures no less than two inches in height. Its edges evoke the image of a generously frosted sheet cake.

Did you get any of that by looking at it on your screen?

Step Three: Shut Up

Maybe you can easily do all of that. But here’s the kicker—you didn’t. And that’s okay. Most of humanity has the ability to create relatively similar looking human beings and that doesn’t invalidate anyone’s existence. Sure, some may be nicer to look at than others, but we can’t judge someone solely on the pleasantness of their torso or the inherent seduction of their massive nose. Art is an experience; a contemplation. Art is an opportunity to explore a universe you would have otherwise never experienced had the artist failed to manifest a mere thought into the physical realm. Remember that you are engaging with an entity; listen to what it is trying to say. Sometimes, the message can be as quiet and subtle as the snagging of light on a fleck of fiberglass. Appreciate the opportunity to empathize and analyze. The emotions you are left with after the conversation is over are entirely up to you. If you can perfectly replicate an artwork, choose to feel inspired by your skills. Put them to use and accumulate fame and fortune. Maybe you won’t. Perhaps the original artist didn’t, either. Van Gogh only sold one painting within his lifetime, yet he completed approximately 2,100 works before he died. As a last request, I implore you to ask yourself why he bothered at all.

Jenny Botello