A ‘Proustian Moment’ at the National Gallery of Art
After I read a section of “Modern Painters” by Victorian art critic John Ruskin and reread Marcel Proust’s essays on the former, I adopted a new approach to art appreciation.
First, I would constrain myself to one (two at most) sections of the museum. With a brief summary of Ruskin’s opinion on early Italian Renaissance Art, I focused my attention in this section.
As Ruskin observes, if someone does not know the Bible, then they cannot comprehend the sculpture adorning the cathedral of Amiens. So I was prepared to be confused when deciphering the subjects and themes of religious works. I confess I had to Google the “Annunciation”. I could piece together the “Adoration of the Magi” from Christmas pageants and special services. I did not believe any in-depth knowledge was required for “Madonna and Child”.
In addition to the two-gallery limit, I used the “side-eye glance test”, taking again a tip from Ruskin. All this involves is strolling through a gallery room and swiveling your head. One or two pieces will pop out to you — focus: focus your attention on those.
This process for me was much more rewarding than my former approach.
Previously, I would read all the exhibit descriptions throughout the gallery and the summaries under each work. I would fold my arms and stare at every piece for 1–2 minutes, waiting for an emotional reaction. When I did not feel anything — or worse when I became bored — I would get disparaged, especially when the work before me was completed by a renowned artistic genius.
“Perhaps,” I thought to myself, “I lack the required education”. Then a dreadful premonition arose: years of studying compositions, months in libraries steeped in art books, and hours drained in lecture halls — all this was to be done before I could comprehend a painting, and unlock the “secret” to its greatness which has granted it immortality.
I pass through most of the rooms without stopping. I know Ruskin likes Fra Angelico because his works contain the “monastic visions of sincere devotion”. There is only one Angelico piece on view: “Adoration of the Magi”. The insight I felt from the work was gained in part from seeing other artists’ renditions of the same theme. In one interpretation it looked like a manufactured stage with famous actors in the midst of a scene. The audience was seemingly composed of only nobles and privileged friends.
In Angelico’s the whole city participates in the era-breaking event. The crowd is packed, and lively with an antic enthusiasm. To increase the impression of innumerable masses, he stuffs people up and down a narrow sloping path and against the horizon towards the upper right. It gives the illusion of an endless stream of spectators pooling into the front of the stable. This environment is conducive to discovering purpose; that feeling of being a part of something larger and external to the self, similar in kind to what you feel at live concerts, shoving and sweating around the mosh pit.
The same phenomenon occurred with a pair of bas-reliefs of the “Madonna and Child”. The vision of one artist contrasts the strengths and weaknesses of another.
I took a closer look at “Madonna and Child” by Benedetto da Maino to appreciate the “Madonna and Child” in the style of Agostino di Duccio.
To distinguish the infant as Christ the religious artist will usually place a calm and serious countenance on the child. He also assumes a dignified pose as we would see from an adult model. Some of the nearby paintings on the same theme even give Christ the appearance of a little man, with features proportionally too large and stern for an infant.
So what a relief! to see a baby imitating the living example. The Christ child in Duccio’s is behaving as a baby should: grabbing at random whatever is nearby and uttering one-syllable nonsense. Here the child has a dove in one hand (exemplifying his gentleness) but is distractedly tugging at the cloth of the Madonna’s headpiece. I imagine if I were to reach for the dove in his hand and tap the top of his fist, it would reflexively clench before he even looked at me.
Look at his mouth! It is opened with lips so sweetly curved, spilling out “buh-buhs” and “dah-dahs”. You can perceive the slightest hint of amusement behind the Madonna’s closed mouth, as though she was successfully stifling her laughter. Is there something going on along her cheeks as well?
The religious argument for making Christ act like any other child should not be lost on the viewer. It implies that he was like any other person, yet acted unlike any other person, breathing a life at its highest spiritual potential: when attaining virtue is a recurring desire, and cultivating universal love is a habit.
Moving along, the “Portrait of a Lady” by Neroccio de’ Landi stood out as well. It awoke in me (though I could savor it only for a moment!) a much younger being of myself: a gullible boy who would swoon and pedestal the pretty girls among elementary school classmates.
Back to the days when “puppy-love” was a weekly visitor, and with affection turned such charming creatures into angels who lived down on Earth. The anxious thrill! when one of these crushes would have their cubby near mine, or would be placed in the same group as me for some forgetful activity; or have their seat assigned near mine in class, close enough for playful conversation.
Oh, the boundless joy I felt when I caught ear that they thought of me in a positive light, or held a special endearment as a result of discovering that I, out of all the boys in class, was one of the smartest, the fastest, or the most skilled at a now-meaningless task (such as drawing a particular shape, saying the alphabet backwards, or skipping jump rope with one leg). Then, upon hearing such kind words, with emotions that seemed to penetrate the depths of my little heart newly reciprocated, did my life appear before me as clear, as magical, and as full of promise as a waking dream; and all the mundane, everyday occurrences of school life (waiting in line at the water fountain after recess, or walking down the hall to the next class) were transformed into fortunate opportunities to be in the presence of a princess.
As the romantic reverie of discovering lost time dissipated, I drifted in and out of other galleries hoping on the off-chance of feeling something nearly as spectacular. The only other notable piece was by Vincent Van Gogh. Van Gogh is one of those artists who attract the general public’s attention not so much from his art (though remarkably expressive and genuinely original) as from his tragic life story.
Feel the invigorating rush of a strong cool wind tangling up your hair in these curling lush fields!
This was the last notable impression from my visit to the National Gallery. There are attempts made by both amateurs and professionals to read the life tragedies in an artist’s work. For example, I do not think Vincent’s still life of sunflowers tell a tale of “the broken man who struggles to overcome the loneliness from frustrated genius”. Like the painting above, I think they were painted to simply brighten up a barren bedroom in the south of France.
