The Raft of the Medusa
Minneapolis. The first time I saw The Raft of the Medusa by Theodore Gericault, I didn’t view the real thing. It was a study, not full-size, occupying one wall near the entrance. Zipping through the other great art in that museum, I returned to sit in front of it, eviscerated by the ruin that could be portrayed with canvas and some paint.
The original is in the Louvre, so massive that it occupies floor-to-ceiling wall space in one of the long galleries in a main wing. It was a packed house the day I was there, wall-to-arts-dripping-wall. Every painting in that room is an epic treasure. Still, I was drawn to the Gericault. I edged my way onto a crowded bench in front of it and craned my neck until it ached, my eyes shining with tears.
What is it about that work that is so seminal, so basic, for me?
It’s not a pretty picture, though it is well executed. When I first saw it, I knew nothing about the period, the artist, the medium, the history – absolutely nothing. I’ve since learned those things, trying to understand why I connected with a work of such despair and violent, hopeless death. I even read a whole book about the artist and his most famous painting.
I remain flummoxed.
It isn’t even that I necessarily like the painting. Sometimes, the things that move us are visions that repel us. The notion that art has to be something we like, a projection that makes us feel good, is one I don’t buy. For the first time in my life, I walked away from a work of art on my knees, hobbled by grief.
Have you ever cried over a work of art?
This post is the second installment in the series Eye of the Beholder, my wandering observations about works of art that speak to me. If this is your first visit to the series, please click here to catch up on the first post, and go here for the second.
I have not. But, my second wife did when we saw a Renoir painting many years ago. I thought it was a magical moment. To see a favorite work of art in person, that you have only seen in art history books, is quite an experience. The greatest moment for me, was when I saw Madame X at the Met.
p.s… Did I tell you, Andra, what a great idea ‘Eye of the Beholder’ is… I my have to steal it…
I had a similar moment with Madame X.
But, that’s another story for another day.
I think it would be great to read a series about art that inspires you and others, Ted. It’s a good way to foster conversation, though I chose this topic at this time for other reasons.
I think that images like this clearly illustrate our fragility, mortality and eventual helplessness. We tend to be frightened and saddened by this discovery.
Maybe that’s what I was feeling. It’s so hard to process it all in the moment. All I know is that I will look at that painting every time I go to the Louvre.
I have never cried over a work of art, I have experienced a number of varied emotions in viewing pieces of art, but, mostly good feelings. I don’t spend much time looking at art that is depressing, there is enough real life problems to occupy our time.
I have three of Simbari’s paintings and they bring joy in the beauty of life around us.
I understand, Lou. The majority of people feel the way you do, I think. It sometimes makes it hard for someone like me, who’s creating a different sort of art, to craft a work that has to sell – that it can be a commodity is the most important thing. Will people like these characters? – because that is important. Does this book make people feel good? – because that’s what they want. Does it have a happy ending? – again, what they want. Does it contain too many images that may upset them? – and those vary from reader to reader to reader. Put too many in and – blam – your book is in danger. On the flip side, it can’t come across as Pollyanna. It has to be believable to the reader.
All those lines in the sand are challenges for me, not necessarily bad ones. It was nice last week to do some dark writing on the blog, because it stretched me as a creator. BUT. I had several people unsubscribe from my blog, several others tell me they didn’t want to read things like that. I respect those feelings. Again, I am not saying they are wrong. The biggest reward for me was having MTM tell me that my writing stretched him and enhanced the whole ghost experience he had, because he never thought about the person in the chair, what their story was, before I wrote what I did. It was worth losing a few readers and followers to get that from him.
How sad, and somewhat silly, to disassociate oneself from your blog over distaste for a few posts! I’ve not been reading your blog from its beginning, and recently I haven’t been commenting much (anywhere) because of computer woes, but I READ it! This is not a Pollyanna world; everything is not all sweetness and light; and we need to be able to “see” things from all perspectives in order to understand that side of life — you help us to do that (at least those of us who choose to be shown)!
People feel the way they do, Karen, and I respect that. I really hope I make readers see things from different perspectives. That is one of the biggest compliments I’ve ever gotten, and given the neurotic place I’m in right now off the blog, you don’t know how much I needed it. Thank you.
There is usually a catch in my chest, followed by a shudder or two, before the tear forms in the eye. Sorrow and beauty both bring a tear to my eye…the artist pulls you into the artwork, you feel it, you breathe it, you are..well…there experiencing it. At least that’s what happens to me.
That is the perfect way to describe it, Lori. Exactly how I respond, too.
That’s a new piece for me, I think.
I’ve never cried over art that I recall but I almost never cry over anything but my own life unless there are raging hormones involved. I am much more inclined to find things either unsettling or calming. Occasionally repulsive.
Ah yes. Raging hormones. I know them well.
In those times, the funniest episodes of SNL could make me cry.
I think works that are haunting are some of the best there are. I go away from them, and I cannot forget them. I’m still thinking about them the next week/month/year, and those thoughts can instantly conjure the feelings I had at the time of viewing.
I have definitely been haunted. In both good ways and bad.
I don’t believe I have ever cried over a work of art, Andra, though I have been moved. Viewing the Winslow Homer retrospective at the Art Institute of Chicago a few years ago was an extraordinary experience, made more so by the company I was in; first with my friend, a watercolorist, who viewed the paintings with al the excitement of a child. She was told to “move away from the painting” so many times I thought we were going to be evicted. It was because she was so in awe with Homer’s technique. The second time, it was with Tom, the same exhibit, a different day.He, too, was interested in the mechanics of the works and it was as if we were back in school. Isn’t it wonderful where art can take us?
Oh how I love the Art Institute, Penny. I enjoy browsing through museums alone, because I can go at my own pace and drink up the things that interest only me, but I think I enjoy seeing them with someone else – a good friend or MTM – much more. It is so cool to get the other person’s perspective and see what they like and gravitate toward. I almost always see specific pieces and artists differently because of it.
As previously pointed out, I gravitate to the comic side of things…would much rather laugh than cry, and the older I get the more easily I am moved to tears…..over most anything!!!
That said, I love much that was done by Monet and Renoir; and, though I used to lump it all together and DISlike, I’ve even found in recent years that I am drawn to the occasional abstract piece. Go figure!
In recent years, I have become more a fan of modern art myself. I’m sure MTM had something to do with that.
My favorite painter of all time is of the Impressionist school, but that’s another post for another day.
I too have been mesmerized by the enormity of the raft. And I witnessed two five year olds fall under its power as well. Its story is undeniably compelling.
The day I was there, a little girl not much older than Cayleigh was doing a sketch of portions of it. Sitting on the floor. Completely at home. It was a fabulous thing to see.
I would love to see the Raft of Medusa, Andra. It is powerful! I am moved by great and even lesser “great” works of art almost in direct response to where I am emotionally–similar to what I say about music. I move in and out rather fluidly with strong emotional responses. I’m very excited about a Caravaggio exhibit coming to LACMA, in November, I believe. I have a very strong response to the painting, “Saint Francis in Ecstasy” and at this point I only know it in books. Aren’t we fortunate that so many incredibly great works of art have been preserved. And I, too, love modern art. I didn’t at one time, but then perspectives should change over the life span. I love this series, Andra.
Why did you even type “Caravaggio” and “LACMA” in the same comment? WHYWHYWHY? Now, I’m going to work myself into a frenzy trying to finagle a way to see it…….
A lot of the power of the work comes from the size of it, I think. It is a massive thing. It almost comes down off the wall and consumes you. I have also cried over a Caravaggio, once.
Just a few weeks ago, I relocated a “lost” notebook with some writing and poetry from 20 years ago. In it was a stream of consciousness essay about my raw feelings (and tears) after seeing one of the site-specific works from The Spoleto Festival’s “Places with a Past” installations…the one at the Governor Thomas Bennet House on Bee St. The NY Times wrote of that, “Walking through Lorna Simpson’s installation in five rooms of a former slave quarters, seeing the names of slave ships and looking at black baby dolls suggesting infant mortality and seeing photographs of trees in the garden while listening to Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit,” there is a sense of the passage of of slaves from Africa to Charleston and their lives there.” I have been thinking of tidying up that essay and publishing it to my poetry blog. If readers want to know more about this incredible set of exhibitions, the NY Times article is great: http://www.nytimes.com/1991/05/27/arts/review-art-visual-arts-join-spoleto-festival-usa.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm
I’ll say it again. I SO MISS those installations Spoleto used to do. I know why they don’t do them anymore – they don’t make money. But, they were such delights for me, the kind of stuff I try to see in a heartbeat when I visit bigger cities. I know they can’t cater to crazies like me, but dang, I miss those experiences so much.
I can’t wait to read what you wrote from touring that exhibit.
I love many periods of art. I’ve been loving Pop Art lately, and Contemporary as a whole. It kind of fits the Pollyanna world I try to live in.
As for people unsubscribing, I find that interesting. I wouldn’t call myself hugely open-minded, but your writing is so sound. It’s their decision, but also their loss. I love to read your stuff, and what you’re going to do next.
Next thing I know, someone will be running over me for wearing plaid, because plaid offends them. (To see what I’m talking about, click over to MJ’s blog http://www.mjmonaghan.com/2012/08/28/plaid-hater/).
I think I’m just worn out. I’m weary with the mentality that is so prevalent right now, the one that requires everyone to have 100% agreement on issues, or that person is done with you. I’m tired of seeing, quite honestly, shocking things coming from the tips of people’s fingers and being flung into cyberspace. (And, this goes way beyond this blog post and has nothing to do with Lou’s original comment, I know, but I guess I just need to say it somewhere…..)
I am the least perfect person I know, and I fail at much in life. But, I try to respect that other people come from different places than me. Lots of experiences and emotional baggage made them who they are and shaped the beliefs and principles they have, and I have no right to tell them they’re wrong or judge them for those things. I may not agree with them, but I can respect their journey as a person, regardless. It frustrates me when I try so hard to live that way, and others are so happy to say “cross any of my lines once, and – BLAM – through with you.” Do we even bother to get to know each other as human beings anymore? Or, are we just a set of labels that automatically define who we are?
You’re doing the right thing by having that standard for yourself, and though it would be nice, others do not necessarily have the same values to truly accept other’s opinions. Though so many people tout acceptance and tolerance, many times they are the first to not accept and write people off.
I hope I don’t do that. I mean, I know I have been guilty of it in my life, but I hope I don’t do it now. I can only control how I behave, but that doesn’t stop some of these things from stinging. Even when they shouldn’t.
Art is a supreme form of non-verbal communication, and can speak to those parts of us which are unconscious. There are some responses programmed into us before our speech began, and they are profound indeed.
I wonder if you will ever fathom the painting’s impact on you?
Probably not. But, it is a good exercise to keep trying. (Especially as an excuse to visit Paris is an essential part of said exercise.)
There are many works of art and artists that I love, but I can’t say that I have ever been that totally moved by them. Kind of makes me sad. But, instead, I offer up music. What I may lack in being moved by visual art I more than make up for in being moved by the musical arts. I have often been moved to tears by works of music, and the first time I saw a musical on Broadway (which happened to be Les Miserables), I sobbed like a baby. Though I will deny that if you tell anyone!!
I am telling everyone you cried at Les Mis, Carnell. EVERYONE……….
I only cried because of the ticket price. My story and I am sticking to it.
\/\/
Had really good seats though. Dead center, about 4 rows back. And truthfully about 3 months after it opened. We lucked out. Too bad the “we” didn’t include Nancy!!
Medusa is absolutely one of my favorite mythical figures. For me, the thing that stands out about this painting is its loneliness. She can’t have any of them. They can’t come near without killing themselves. They are each alone in their desire for her, and she is alone in knowing they cannot be hers except in death.
Perfect, Jessie. I also love Medusa. Maybe that’s part of the allure for this piece for me.
I’ve become breathless; hair stands on end; laughed…but not moved to tears. I’m also terrible about viewing art that is more than a few centuries old. I never visit those rooms when I go to the Art Institute in Chicago. ~
I don’t know that I’ve cried specifically, but I have had visceral reactions to artwork. I also remember sitting in the Louvre feeling completely overwhelmed because of the beauty and intensity of what surrounded me.