Thoughts on the lion sculptures that "guard" The Art Institute of Chicago

While scrolling through my twitter feed yesterday, I found a link to a post by WTTW Chicago titled: Ask Geoffrey: The History of the Art Institute Lions with the caption: Since arriving in 1894, the Art Institute's lions have become more than just statues - they're almost mascots for the city. Explore their storied history with a look back in time. 

Link: https://news.wttw.com/2019/10/02/ask-geoffrey-history-art-institute-lions

If you read any of my work or if you know me personally, you also know that I'm interested in my own personal history of the present. The lions have been iconic for me as a Chicagoan. Since I was very small, I've seen those lions and have been excited by them, because I knew what was past them through the glass doors. Huge green lions sculptures meant going into the Art Institute to see world famous art and explore an amazing building that filled me with a sense of awe. But I never really thought about what those sculptures might actually mean. Until yesterday. 

Keep in mind, even as a child, I knew the lions were symbolic. To me, they were symbolic of grandeur and power. Pride! Because they're ferocious animals and also because I was obsessed with the Disney animation The Lion King. But I'm less interested in my initial reactions to them, which are naive, to say the least, and also, the time of being a child is done now. It's time to really think and investigate. These all make up part of the reason why I clicked this link to their supposed history in the first place. 

The tidbits and information shared by the news people on WTTW was shocking to me. First of all, I very rarely watch television. I avoid it as much as possible. So when I saw how piecemeal the history of these sculptures was presented, I became a bit agitated. They mentioned the artist of course, a man by the name of Edward Kemeys, an amimalier (French for "sculptor of animals"), who was commissioned by Marshall Fields' wife (if you don't know, Marshall Fields was a huge department store magnate here in Chicago over a century ago) to sculpt these lions out of iron. They weigh tons. How do two fierce iron lions come to serve as a dedication to a man known for his fancy department store?

If the lions are symbolic of capitalist interest and capitalist prosperity, why don't these newsmen come right out and say so? A sort of Wall Street ideology in which the best hustler is the King of the Pride? I get that. I'd be OK with that explanation even. Now I don't know whether the newsmen don't say so because they are, well, not very bright - or - do they not say so because they think this a negative interpretation?

Negative interpretation or not, TRUTH is always appreciated. No matter what. Truth is also respected. I can't respect a news piece that doesn't at least attempt to cover the bigger picture; i.e. where are the critical thinking skills of the people on public television presenting us with news? This is part of the reason I really. really like watching John Oliver. 

Anyway. 

I looked up some other articles on the history of the Art Institute lions and didn't find anything worthy of sharing except for an article published by the Art Institute of Chicago itself, titled The Lions of Michigan Avenue by Paul Jones, published November of 2018. Again I was disappointed. Though I did find some interesting tidbits about Edward Kemeys' life, like the fact that he lived amongst the indigenous peoples of North America for some time to become closer to his "work" i.e. the natural world and the wild, there was nothing here that gave me any indication as to why he was interested in these subjects in the first place. I get the feeling that he was neither an advocate for the natural world or environmentalist nor an animal lover... at least in terms of the life of animals themselves.

Here's the link to the AIC article: https://www.artic.edu/articles/720/the-lions-of-michigan-avenue

From now on, every time I go to the Art Institute (which right now I'm averaging once a year, two times if I'm lucky), I'm going to look at those lions and say a little prayer. My prayer will include Africa (as they are African lions), all peoples from Africa and descended from Africans, and I also will include my private thoughts on the future of art and artistry (I might divulge these thoughts on the blog sometime later on). I'll end with this: how can two magnificently sculpted lions with two very distinct and beautiful faces carved from iron come to be a mascot for a city that resides in a country that have never, ever had lions native to its land? How can these lions hold any significance for the Art Institute which is a museum dedicated to classic and modern art? These lions are closer to a kitschy representation of some sort of contemporary ironic joke. Furthermore, the real, awful irony of the thing is that the lions do not represent anything within our culture... the ancient Egyptians worshipped cats because they cleaned up their mice problem (fact), so their architecture reflected that... Koreans still hold the tiger as a national symbol, as the tiger is a resident of their country, and their culture reflects that... the Middle East has used lions as a representation of power for centuries, but that's because these lions were such a mythology to them as they lurked in their landscape. 

So what the hell do these steel sculpted lions mean for a city that has no reason to worship nor respect nor appreciate lions in the first place? Those steel lions become an empty symbol of idiocy and a pathetic artistic attempt to display meaning. All I can hope is that if and when we create art, from now on into the future, especially for a public art commission, that it mean something for the geography in which it will be on display, that it mean something for the very people that will come to know it as a mascot or reminder of their surroundings... which should, in the best case scenario, mean home.

Philosophy (final state)

This painting has been destroyed. 

In May 1945, the paintings are believed to have been destroyed as retreating German SS forces set fire to the castle to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. However, while the castle was gutted, there is no proof that the paintings were destroyed.^{[citation needed]} As far as is known, all that remains now are preparatory sketches and a few photographs.

"On the left a group of figures, the beginning of life, fruition, decay. On the right, the globe as mystery. Emerging below, a figure of light: knowledge."  - Gustav Klimt

Read more: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Klimt_University_of_Vienna_Ceiling_Paintings

- F

When Aesthetic Dominance Renders Us

At the moment, one of my projects includes "researching" (here meaning reading about and studying) Marc Chagall. One of my favorite works of art includes his America Windows at the Art Institute of Chicago. If you're ever there, make sure to go see them. Here's a picture I took of a detail of it in 2016 - but imagine, there are two more panels on either side, encompassing an entire wall, top to bottom, side to side:

I'll have a CPL blog post up regarding Chagall soon, which can be found at: https://www.chipublib.org/author/felicia-edens/

But I'm writing now because I wanted to share this with you: the transcript of a part of a talk he gave in May of 1963.

"An exceptionally sharp eye might see that a genuine color or texture automatically comprises every possible technique as well as a moral and philosophical content. Any moral crisis is a crisis of color, texture, blood and the elements, of speech, vibration, etc..."

Precisely. And so the point, I think, is this: when art renders us naked (not nude, but naked) then perhaps there is an opening out and a reach for, if not a total grasping of, authenticity. In and on this very rare occasion, I don't think, morally, there is anything wrong, bad, or evil with following, or seizing that moment in whatever way possible, going to its end, or in any case, not letting go. 

Perhaps needless to say: I cannot say goodbye to the manifestations of the self which are dominated aesthetically by a personality, a persona. I'll provide a link, a point of connection.  But more importantly, however, is that I know what true moral and philosophical content consists of (though I cannot say what I know). I know that it assumes a kind of nakedness (a nakedness not to be ashamed of), and I know it is worth fighting for. I know it is precisely when aesthetic dominance renders us.

Anyway, back to Chagall...

- F

P.S. I'm thinking of the Weaver from Perdido Street Station. 

Pre-Raphaelite Resistance

For every locomotive they build, I shall paint another angel." 

- Sir Edward Burne-Jones

(The Beguiling of Merlin 1872 - 1877)

The Fall of the Rebel Angels

Peter Bruegel the Elder's painting The Fall of the Rebel Angels shows us there really is a force to subtraction: you subtract from an angel until you end up with a demon. If you download an image of the painting onto your computer, or better yet see it hanging in the Royal Museum of the Arts in Antwerp, you will notice how the rebel angels fall from heaven at the top left of the canvas to hell at the bottom right. Their wings are at first subtracted for the lesser wings of bats and dragons. Toward the earth they are reduced to moths, frogs, and other soft things. They are driven together by the golden angels of heaven armed with effulgent discs, lances, and swords, whose task it is to sanitize our world. You will see how the rebel angels continue to change their forms as they are driven into a sea, whose opening is an obscure drainpipe. They lose their legs, wings, all hope of surfacing and become fish, squid, spawn, and seeds of trees never to be planted. Underwater they continue to be subtracted from their former selves until they are at last incorporeal and see-through at the bottom.

from Submergence by J.M. Ledgard

In which the Arab author imagines stolen Israeli art"

"THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL | THIS IS NOT A WALL"

from Imagining a Free Palestine by George Abraham via The Paris Review

- F 

A Day At The Art Institute

Dan and I went to the Art Institute last weekend the day before the new John Singer-Sargent exhibition was due to close. 

While walking through the Ancient Greece and Ancient Roman sculpture and art gallery, we overheard a girl, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, ask this of her friend, who was about the same age:

"How do you feel about places like this? Like museums. All this stuff behind glass boxes? Or these fancy displays? I don't know. It doesn't do anything for me. I want to care about all of it, but I don't."

We might judge her, laugh at these remarks, sneer at one another despite of her. After all, these are ancient relics! But, like her friend, Dan and I just smiled gently to ourselves and remained silent for bit, thinking. 

If you think hard enough about it, she's not entirely wrong to feel this way. It reminds me of something the great contemporary philosopher Slavoj Zizek once spoke about in regards to the 2006 film Children of Men:

"The true infertility is the very lack of meaningful historical experience, and that's why I like this elegant point in the film of importing all the works of art. All those classical statues are there, but they are deprived of a world. They're totally meaningless because what does it mean to have a statue of Michelangelo or whatever? It only works if it signals a certain world, and when this world is lacking, it's nothing. It is against this background, I think that the film approaches the topic of immigration and so on."

(from Children Of Men, directed by Alfonso Cuaron)

As a librarian, this makes perfect sense. While we review the stimulating and significant value of being able to look at and analyze primary sources, such as original historical documents or even artwork, there is a point when we have to make mention the necessity of secondary sources. Secondary sources, oftentimes written by scholars and academics, of course, and this might be obvious, put these primary sources in perspective and context. Despite this self-evidence, as librarians and any kind of teacher, this fact is still important to articulate. The thing itself - the primary source - might not be enough. 


How was this young woman supposed to understand the gravity of having an ancient object, such as the statue of Sophocles, without having any prior knowledge of his work? As I gazed upon this relic, I did pity those who never read or intended to read a great work such as Antigone. 

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

In my defense, her lack of desire to wonder or know about the art and objects surrounding her was a little bit alarming. Even when I was a child, born here with hardly any knowledge of the classical texts or art, and none passed onto me by my parents (both immigrants), I always felt a need to understand where their importance in this society came from, where it was built from, what need. Simply, I had a feeling that there was more to this life than Cosmopolitan magazine and whatever else seemed "trendy"; though mind you, I keep notes on both.

"No one is an expert on anything unless there's a burning need somewhere to have that particular skill," says the character Danny from one of my favorite films as well as the book it is based off of, Submergence by J. M. Ledgard.

(One day I'll write about the different circumstances which made reading my skill of choice.)

The need, for me, came from wanting to find meaning beyond the surface. Sometimes that comes in a form so different from what we come to see as reality.

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

Ancient Roman as well as Ancient Greek mythology inform much of what surrounds us today, with its influence shown in religious practices and stories, artwork that can be found in its cheapest forms on the lawns of our neighbors, and in much of our literary canons from the past thousands of years. And much of this mythology interests me all the more because of my newfound love for fairy-tales and folklore. There is a close connection between the rich literary canon of the West - usually seen as something elite - and the fairy-tales and folklore of what a lot of people consider to be more connected to the working class and even the poor. To connect these two classes by way of stories that impact one another is absolutely fascinating because it might be something ultimately unifying. 

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18

The last gallery Dan and I decided to explore was the Medieval Art gallery. One of the most striking objects we came across was this choral book, from sometime during that period (5th to 15th Century), Europe.

Notations were completely different, without circles and stems, and overall the music was less precise in terms of rhythm and dynamics. The singers were more likely to make their own decision on how to interpret the music. This book, if seen in person, is very large, I think even a little over a foot in height; the choir had to share one book, and all had to see the notes on the exposed pages. 

(The idea of transformation is such a prevalent thought in my mind these days; how like me to see all things meta; across time and all encompassing.)

I did not take any pictures at the John Singer-Sargent exhibition, primarily out of respect for the artist. The audience was allowed to take pictures but when I attempted to do so, the paintings did not have the same effect in any way whatsoever. Sargent's paintings are very large, and the thickness of his paint is so key to the emotion that it draws to the viewer, brushstrokes and such and effused light (excuse my language, I am not a fine arts expert) that the camera on my phone could not do it any justice. They were all striking images, conjuring up emotions not of peace and happiness but of toughness and work, public persona, and the grim notion that tenderness always lies beneath the surface of this calloused reality. I even think I saw suffering in the subjects of his work, despite the luxury the people lived within; suffering from the grueling politics of the day. They were, suffice it to say, beautiful. 

A good day at the art museum left us brimming with new information and appreciation, and the anticipated tiredness that came with. It's our plan to always go to the Art Institute with two exhibits in mind, see those, and stop wherever our eyes and legs feel inclined. 

I'll end with this: I am happy that this trip did not require the obligatory gift shop present. Of course, we took a peek in there, but as I get older I'm realizing that the gift shop is NOT my point of excitement as much as it was when I was a child. I surprised myself by buying nothing. 

Until next time.

- F

The truth will set you free, but not before it's finished with you."

I'm reading Sarah Bakewell's book At The Existentialist Cafe (2016) in preparation for a book discussion I will be joining on August 4th (if time allows. That's the same day Dan and I are going to get our marriage certificate!). The book is absolutely fascinating, helpful, and informative. Review to come.

Just a few nights ago I learned what I thought was just a rumor before - that one of my favorite philosophers, Martin Heidegger, was a supporter of the Nazi party before and after WWII. This, as written about with striking objectivity in Bakewell's book, turns out to be evidentially true - and not only that, but he was a declared member of the Nazi Party. I read parts of Heidegger's most famous work, Being and Time, years ago as an undergrad. I really loved it. Can I still go back to it, get something out of it, and appreciate one of my favorite philosophical treatises now having the knowledge that it's writer later joined the Nazis? 

As a graduate student I discussed something similar. Prior to writing his quirky and fun children's novels, Dr. Seuss created racist cartoons. Can I still read Dr. Seuss through a clear, objective lens now that I have the knowledge of his previous political views? 

I think not. 

(This brings up an even bigger question of authenticity.)

If an artist's work is honest and truthful, not hiding anything (even in the most abstract form), then I believe it can be appreciated for that very idea of honesty, truthfulness, authenticity. But, if the artist is hiding, obscuring, or even unconsciously portraying questionable ideas that emerge (sooner or later) in his or her work, then the art immediately becomes contextualized within social, political, and economic values of production. And isn't artistry at it's highest when it can be free from these boundaries? This is why self-deprecating artists are, most of the time, appreciated and more easily "forgiven" (think Woody Allen and comedians like Louis C.K.).

Both Heidegger and Dr. Suess were "in the closet" (please excuse my language) about their politics, especially Dr. Seuss. And later in his life, Heidegger wasn't even attempting to deny his affiliation with the Nazi Party. However, this was less clear in his philosophical work. His views were subtle and never direct (except within The Black Notebooks, which were published last, and which contain stomach-churning words by Heidgger). 

How is directness achieved in art? That's rhetorical. Directness in art, no matter the form or content, is so crucial to authenticity, I would say that this "directness" is almost, if not as important as skill itself. I might go back to that later... 

(Honestly, I wasn't big on Dr. Seuss as a child. It was Behelman's Madeline, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and then The Baby Sitter's Club. His sense of humor didn't sit well with me as a child - I'm more likely to laugh at his books now than I was then! Even knowing what I know!)

I'll end with this quote from one of the great fiction writers of our time, David Foster Wallace:

"The truth will set you free, but not before it's finished with you."

- F

Berceuse

"May your dreams bring you peace in the darkness

May you always rise over the rain

May the light from above always lead you to love

May you stay in the arms of the angels"

                             by Masaaki Sasamoto                                            by Regina Sczesc Mehr

 

- F

Starry Starry Night

I ran away from home a year or so after high school. I left in the middle of the night with all my stuff (some furniture and clothes) and moved into a crumbling down apartment in a not very nice part of the city (just some months after I left, a man hung himself in the basement). The room I moved into was abandoned by a well-known party girl in the city. I didn't know a lot of people.

I was frightened. I was shaken up by what I was doing. I didn't really know what it was I was doing or exactly why. All I knew was that, at the time, it was the only option. I felt stuck. It doesn't matter why, it just matters that I moved because I had to do something about that utterly stuck feeling.

I took my futon with me to the apartment I was moving into. After it was set-up, I sat on it and took in my surroundings. I let the cold unease of not knowing what lay ahead, with no insurance, no money, no job, let alone not being in college, not having a plan at all, settle into my bones. I did know I had someone who could take care of me for a little while.

I probably needed therapy but didn't know enough at that time to seek it out. And even if I could, I wouldn't have been able to afford the travel there or the therapy itself. I chain-smoked my cigarettes with the window open, letting the soft bright light from my room shine out into the frigid air and onto the moving cars, bikes, and bundled up people.

At least my futon bed felt clean and fresh. But I was fearful. I was surviving another Chicago winter, but this time away from the only home I knew. I anticipated the next morning as I sat there staring out. I had to wake up extremely early to catch the Pace bus so I could start looking for jobs. But I dreaded it with a heavy depression that crept through my body like death. First of all, I didn't know where I was going to go. Secondly, I didn't know what kind of job I was looking for.

I wanted and needed rest, but I didn't know how to go about getting it. How does one "get" rest? It shouldn't be something a person must attain. It should be something acquired over time, something that a person has in reserve for a long day (now, I'm lucky enough to know how that feels). Maybe someday I'll write about rest, but this time my intention is to write about something I found in the garbage.

On my way to this apartment, before I even set foot in it, me and my then boyfriend found something sticking out of a dumpster. It was rolled up and we took it out (don't ask me what our rationality was at that time, but I guess we would sometimes look through the city trash for something interesting). The rolled up paper happened to reveal a print of Van Gogh's famous painting "The Starry Night". Or it was "Starry Night Over The Rhone". I can't really remember. Most of it is a blur. I remember the blueness of it. Such a blue.

After some urging, I took it with me. That print was the first thing I placed on the wall of that empty room. I placed it onto the dry wall and slowly, quietly, pressed in each thumbtack. Finally, looking up at it from my bed, I remember feeling, amidst all that fear and uncertainty and thoughts of a dire, useless life, a peace - a calm - that filled the air. That even if I had done this horrible thing, even though I may not make it in the world, even though I didn't know what was going on or what I was doing, that I could feel. I felt love and kindness and gentleness along with all the confusion and sorrow of wanting something that I couldn't describe because I didn't understand and didn't have the words for my own thoughts. The print of Van Gogh's painting gave my soul a focal point for a subdued excitement that maybe not now, but some time, everything would be alright.

I knew nothing of Van Gogh (I don't know much now either). But I realize that art took me away from that scary place and placed me outside of it, somewhere bigger, somewhere where I was able to connect with the world in a way that just... made sense.

In memoriam of that time, here are two versions of "Vincent" which touch my heart: the original by Don McLean and a cover by James Blake.

- F