Seven Videos Explain How Edward Hopper’s Paintings Expressed American Loneliness and Alienation

Though born in the late 19th cen­tu­ry and par­tial­ly shaped by a few sojourns to Europe, Edward Hop­per was an artist fun­da­men­tal­ly of ear­ly 20th-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­ca. He took life in that time and place as his sub­ject, but he also once said that “an artist paints to reveal him­self through what he sees in his sub­ject,” mean­ing that he in some sense embod­ied ear­ly 20th-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­ca. Roy­al Acad­e­my of the Arts Artis­tic Direc­tor Tim Mar­low quotes that line in the 60-sec­ond intro­duc­tion to Hop­per above, then points to a com­mon thread in the painter’s “enig­mat­ic works”: a “pro­found con­tem­pla­tion of the world around us” that turns each of his paint­ings into one cap­tured “moment of still­ness in a fran­tic world.”

Much of Hop­per’s work came out of the Great Depres­sion, “a peri­od of great uncer­tain­ty and anx­i­ety, but also a time of deep nation­al self-imag­i­na­tion about the very idea of Amer­i­can-ness.” To look at the fig­ures who inhab­it Hop­per’s thor­ough­ly Amer­i­can set­tings — a gas sta­tion, a hotel room, inside a train car, an all-night din­er — self-reflec­tion would seem to be their main pas­time.

“A woman sits alone drink­ing a cup of cof­fee,” says the School of Life’s head of Art and Archi­tec­ture Han­na Rox­burgh of Hop­per’s 1927 Automat in the video above. “She seems slight­ly self-con­scious and a lit­tle afraid. Per­haps she’s not used to sit­ting alone in a pub­lic space. Some­thing seems to have gone wrong. The view is invit­ed to invent sto­ries for her of betray­al or loss.”

Lone­li­ness, iso­la­tion, even despair: these words tend to come up in dis­cus­sion of the moods of Hop­per’s char­ac­ters, as well as of his paint­ings them­selves. In the in-depth explo­ration above, Col­in Wing­field focus­es on a sin­gle emo­tion expressed in Hop­per’s work: alien­ation. A prod­uct of the “machine age” in late 19th- and ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry Amer­i­ca, Hop­per expressed an uneasy view of the ways in which accel­er­at­ing indus­tri­al­iza­tion and automa­tion were alter­ing the lives lived around him into unrec­og­niz­abil­i­ty. This view would turn out to have an enor­mous cul­tur­al res­o­nance, as detailed in Edward Hop­per and the Blank Can­vas, the hour­long doc­u­men­tary below.

Touch­ing on the Hop­per influ­ences seen in the work of direc­tors like Alfred Hitch­cock and Ter­rence Mal­ick as well as tele­vi­sion shows like Mad Men and The Simp­sons, Edward Hop­per and the Blank Can­vas also brings in cul­tur­al fig­ures like the Ger­man film­mak­er Wim Wen­ders, an avowed Hop­per enthu­si­ast with much to say about the painter’s vision in Amer­i­ca. More cre­ators from the world of cin­e­ma appear in the video below to offer their per­son­al per­spec­tives on Hop­per’s con­sid­er­able influ­ence on their art form — an art form that had con­sid­er­able influ­ence on Hop­per, an avid movie­go­er since he first watched a motion pic­ture in Paris in 1909.

No sin­gle paint­ing of Hop­per’s has had as much influ­ence on film as 1942’s Nighthawks, by far the painter’s best-known work. How exact­ly he achieved his own cin­e­mat­ic effects in a still image, such as the “sto­ry­board­ing” tech­nique with which he devel­oped its com­po­si­tion, is a sub­ject we’ve fea­tured before here on Open Cul­ture. In the video essay Nighthawks: Look Through the Win­dow,” Evan Puschak — bet­ter known as the Nerd­writer — seeks out the sources of the paint­ing’s endur­ing pow­er, from its “clean, smooth, and almost too real” aes­thet­ic to its rig­or­ous com­po­si­tion to its host of visu­al ele­ments meant to both com­pel and unset­tle the view­er.

Hop­per explains his way of work­ing in his own words in the short video from the Walk­er Art Cen­ter below. “It’s a long process of ges­ta­tion in the mind and a ris­ing emo­tion,” he says, fol­lowed by “draw­ings, quite often many draw­ings”: “var­i­ous small sketch­es, sketch­es of the thing that i wish to do, also sketch­es of details in the pic­ture.” As for the themes of “lone­li­ness, iso­la­tion, mod­ern man and his man-made envi­ron­ment” so often ascribed to the final prod­ucts, “those are the words of crit­ics. It may be true and it may not be true. It’s how the view­er looks at the pic­tures, what he sees in them.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Edward Hop­per “Sto­ry­board­ed” His Icon­ic Paint­ing Nighthawks

Edward Hopper’s Icon­ic Paint­ing Nighthawks Explained in a 7‑Minute Video Intro­duc­tion

9‑Year-Old Edward Hop­per Draws a Pic­ture on the Back of His 3rd Grade Report Card

10 Paint­ings by Edward Hop­per, the Most Cin­e­mat­ic Amer­i­can Painter of All, Turned into Ani­mat­ed GIFs

How Famous Paint­ings Inspired Cin­e­mat­ic Shots in the Films of Taran­ti­no, Gilliam, Hitch­cock & More: A Big Super­cut

60-Sec­ond Intro­duc­tions to 12 Ground­break­ing Artists: Matisse, Dalí, Duchamp, Hop­per, Pol­lock, Rothko & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

How Andrew Wyeth Made a Painting: A Journey Into His Best-Known Work Christina’s World

Andrew Wyeth died a decade ago, but his sta­tus as a beloved Amer­i­can painter was assured long before. He paint­ed his best-known work Christi­na’s World in 1948, a time in Amer­i­can paint­ing when images of imme­di­ate­ly rec­og­niz­able fields, farm­hous­es, and mid­dle-aged women were not, to put it mild­ly, in vogue. But Christi­na’s World has sur­vived right along­side, say, Jack­son Pol­lock­’s drip paint­ings from the very same year. How it has done so — and what way of see­ing enabled Wyeth to paint it with such con­fi­dence in the first place — con­sti­tutes the sub­ject of this new video essay by Evan Puschak, bet­ter known as the Nerd­writer (whose inves­ti­ga­tions into Picas­so, Rem­brandt, Van Gogh, Hop­per and oth­ers we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture).

“Being real­is­tic and dra­mat­ic, Christi­na’s World more eas­i­ly fits the shape of our mem­o­ries, our dreams, our fears and crav­ings,” says Puc­shak. “In oth­er words, it resem­bles a sto­ry.” Not only does the paint­ing’s com­bi­na­tion of the famil­iar and the unknown fire up our imag­i­na­tion, get­ting us to gen­er­ate nar­ra­tives to apply to it, it also guides our vision, tak­ing us on a jour­ney from woman to house to barn and back again. But for all its appear­ance of pas­toral rever­ie, it also has a cer­tain dark­ness about it, hint­ed at by the col­ors, which are mut­ed, reflect­ing the par­tic­u­lar aus­ter­i­ty of New Eng­land land­scapes, a com­mon image in ear­ly Amer­i­can art and thought,” as well as the body of Christi­na her­self, lift­ed from the earth only by “thin and con­tort­ed arms.”

The real Christi­na, as is now com­mon art-his­tor­i­cal knowl­edge, suf­fered from a dis­ease of the ner­vous sys­tem that robbed her of her abil­i­ty to walk; her pref­er­ence of crawl­ing rather than using a wheel­chair meant that she nav­i­gat­ed her world in a much dif­fer­ent man­ner than most of us do. But even as Wyeth shows us one vari­ety of lit­tle-acknowl­edged human lim­i­ta­tion, he also shows us anoth­er vari­ety of lit­tle-acknowl­edged human abil­i­ty. Puschak sug­gests that Wyeth was “look­ing for a secret in nature,” and in the search became the tran­scen­den­tal­ist writer Ralph Wal­do Emer­son­’s “trans­par­ent eye-ball,” which con­tains noth­ing yet sees every­thing.

“He sees in the nature around him, even in the bar­ren land­scapes of new Eng­land, some­thing pro­found­ly real,” says Puschak. “As an artist, he helps us to see it too.” He also reminds us 21st cen­tu­ry urban­ites, who dwell as much in the dig­i­tal realm as the phys­i­cal one, of the “piece of us in the land, in the trees, in the sky, and a sense of whole­ness waits for us when we can remem­ber not to for­get it.” The idea may sound as unfash­ion­able as real­ism looked in Wyeth’s day, but to the artist’s own mind, he was nev­er a real­ist at all. “My peo­ple, my objects breathe in a dif­fer­ent way,” he once said. “There’s anoth­er core — an excite­ment that’s def­i­nite­ly abstract. My God, when you real­ly begin to peer into some­thing, a sim­ple object, and real­ize the pro­found mean­ing of that thing — if you have an emo­tion about it, there’s no end.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How To Under­stand a Picas­so Paint­ing: A Video Primer

What Makes The Night Watch Rembrandt’s Mas­ter­piece

Van Gogh’s Ugli­est Mas­ter­piece: A Break Down of His Late, Great Paint­ing, The Night Café (1888)

What Makes The Death of Socrates a Great Work of Art?: A Thought-Pro­vok­ing Read­ing of David’s Philo­soph­i­cal & Polit­i­cal Paint­ing

Edward Hopper’s Icon­ic Paint­ing Nighthawks Explained in a 7‑Minute Video Intro­duc­tion

You Can Sleep in an Edward Hop­per Paint­ing at the Vir­ginia Muse­um of Fine Arts: Is This the Next New Muse­um Trend?

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

 

The Prado Museum Digitally Alters Four Masterpieces to Strikingly Illustrate the Impact of Climate Change

Accord­ing to the Unit­ed Nations’ Inter­gov­ern­men­tal Pan­el on Cli­mate Change, glob­al warm­ing is like­ly to reach 1.5°C above pre-indus­tri­al lev­els between 2030 and 2052 should it con­tin­ue to increase at its cur­rent rate.

What does this mean, exact­ly?

A cat­a­stroph­ic series of chain reac­tions, includ­ing but not lim­it­ed to:

–Sea lev­el rise
–Change in land and ocean ecosys­tems
–Increased inten­si­ty and fre­quen­cy of weath­er extremes
–Tem­per­a­ture extremes on land
–Drought due to pre­cip­i­ta­tion deficits
–Species loss and extinc­tion

Look to the IPCC’s 2018 Spe­cial Report: Glob­al Warm­ing of 1.5°C for more specifics, or have a gan­der at these dig­i­tal updates of mas­ter­pieces in Madrid’s Museo del Pra­do’s col­lec­tions.

The muse­um col­lab­o­rat­ed with the World Wildlife Fund, choos­ing four paint­ings to be altered in time for the recent­ly wrapped Madrid Cli­mate Change Con­fer­ence.

Artist Julio Fala­gan brings extreme drought to bear on El Paso de la Lagu­na Esti­gia (Charon Cross­ing the Styx) by Joachim Patinir, 1520 — 1524

Mar­ta Zafra rais­es the sea lev­el on Felipe IV a Cabal­lo (Philip the IV on Horse­back) by Velázquez, cir­ca 1635.

The Para­sol that sup­plies the title for Fran­cis­co de Goya’s El Quitasol of 1777 becomes a tat­tered umbrel­la bare­ly shel­ter­ing mis­er­able, crowd­ed refugees in the sod­den, makeshift camp of Pedro Veloso’s reimag­in­ing.

And the Niños en la Playa cap­tured relax­ing on the beach in 1909 by Joaquín Sorol­la now com­pete for space with dead fish, as observed by artist Con­spir­a­cy 110 years fur­ther along.

None of the orig­i­nal works are cur­rent­ly on dis­play.

It would be a pub­lic ser­vice if they were, along­side their dras­ti­cal­ly retouched twins and per­haps Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights, to fur­ther unnerve view­ers about the sort of hell we’ll soon be fac­ing if we, too, don’t make some major alter­ations.

For now the works in the +1.5ºC Lo Cam­bia Todo (+1.5ºC Changes Every­thing) project are mak­ing an impact on giant bill­boards in Madrid, as well as online.

#LoCam­bi­aTo­do

via Colos­sal

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Glob­al Warm­ing: A Free Course from UChica­go Explains Cli­mate Change

Cli­mate Change Gets Strik­ing­ly Visu­al­ized by a Scot­tish Art Instal­la­tion

A Cen­tu­ry of Glob­al Warm­ing Visu­al­ized in a 35 Sec­ond Video

Per­pet­u­al Ocean: A Van Gogh-Like Visu­al­iza­tion of our Ocean Cur­rents

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC on Mon­day, Jan­u­ary 6 when her month­ly book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domaincel­e­brates Cape-Cod­di­ties by Roger Liv­ingston Scaife (1920). Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Steve Martin on How to Look at Abstract Art

The stan­dard “any­one could do that” response to abstract art gen­er­al­ly falls apart when the per­son who says it tries their hand at mak­ing some­thing like a Kandin­sky or Miró. Not only were these artists high­ly trained in tech­niques and mate­ri­als, but both pos­sessed their own spe­cif­ic the­o­ries of abstract art—the role of line, col­or, shape, neg­a­tive space, etc., along with grander ideas about the role of art itself. Few of us walk around with such con­sid­ered opin­ions and the abil­i­ty to turn them into art­works. The abstrac­tion begins in the mind before it reach­es the can­vas.

For his appear­ance on the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art and BBC web series The Way I See It, Steve Mar­tin chose two obscure Amer­i­can abstract artists who per­fect­ly illus­trate the rela­tion­ship between the the­o­ry and prac­tice of abstrac­tion.

“I don’t gen­er­al­ly care about the­o­ries,” Mar­tin says. “They kind of get in the way of look­ing at the pic­ture. But I think the result of work­ing from a the­o­ry can be fan­tas­tic.” We may not need to know that these two artists, Mor­gan Rus­sell and Stan­ton Mac­don­ald Wright, paint­ed in accor­dance with a the­o­ry they called Syn­chromism, but it cer­tain­ly helps.

“The result­ing paint­ings, called Syn­chromies,” explains The Art Sto­ry, “used the col­or scale in the way notes might be arranged in a musi­cal piece. As the two artists wrote, ‘Syn­chromism sim­ply means ‘with col­or’ as sym­pho­ny means ‘with sound’.…” And as com­pos­er and pianist Jason Moran demon­strates in his The Way I See It episode, above, Piet Mon­dri­an went even fur­ther in this direc­tion with his Broad­way Boo­gie Woo­gie, which rep­re­sents, in its arrange­ment of col­ored squares, the very essence of the musi­cal form from which it takes its title. Moran can even play the paint­ing like a musi­cal score.

The kind of abstrac­tion Mar­tin and Moran grav­i­tate toward turns sound into visu­al plea­sure and stim­u­lates the think­ing mind. Com­ment­ing on one of his selec­tions, Mar­tin says, “I think of this as an intel­lec­tu­al paint­ing.” When it came time for John Waters to make his choice, he went for the gut (and the uncon­scious), with “a giant, two-pan­eled paint­ing of a ham­mer,” he says, “a very butch paint­ing by a het­ero­sex­u­al woman. I love the idea of how scary it is and how pow­er­ful.” It’s an image, he says, that reminds him of per­son­al trauma—though noth­ing so grue­some as one might think.

Waters seeks a kind of cathar­sis from art by look­ing at work that scares him. Lee Lozano’s unti­tled 1963 paint­ing, he says, is “threat­en­ing…. All the art I like makes me angry at first…. That’s part of its job, to make you angry.” Paint­ings of this size have tra­di­tion­al­ly been “reserved for lofty sub­jects,” notes the MoMA. “In this painting—and in oth­ers, of wrench­es, clamps, and screwdrivers—Lozano weds the mun­dane with the grand.” As Waters delight­ed­ly points out, her work, like his own, deals a heavy blow, pun intend­ed, to canons of taste.

The Way I See It series acts as a teas­er for a BBC pod­cast of the same name, which inter­views 30 cre­atives and sci­en­tists on their respons­es to pieces of art in the MoMA’s col­lec­tion. See more of these short videos at the MoMA’s YouTube chan­nel. Down­load episodes of the pod­cast here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Quick Six Minute Jour­ney Through Mod­ern Art: How You Get from Manet’s 1862 Paint­ing, “The Lun­cheon on the Grass,” to Jack­son Pol­lock 1950s Drip Paint­ings

The Art Assign­ment: Learn About Art & the Cre­ative Process in a New Web Series by John & Sarah Green

Steve Mar­tin Teach­es His First Online Course on Com­e­dy

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Meditation for Artists: Learn Moebius’ Meditative Technique Called “Automatic Drawing”

Med­i­ta­tion and art have an ancient, inter­twined his­to­ry in Chi­na, where the begin­nings of Chan Bud­dhism are insep­a­ra­ble from land­scape paint­ing. In Japan, Zen art has con­sti­tut­ed “a prac­tice in appre­ci­at­ing sim­plic­i­ty,” of dis­ap­pear­ing into the cre­ative act, cul­ti­vat­ing degrees of ego­less­ness that allow an artist’s move­ments to become spon­ta­neous and unham­pered by sec­ond guess­es. The “first Japan­ese artists to work in [ink],” notes the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art, “were Zen monks who paint­ed in a quick and evoca­tive man­ner.” They passed their tech­niques, and their wis­dom, on to their stu­dents.

Per­haps the clos­est ana­logue to this tra­di­tion in the west is com­ic art. Artist Ted Gula has worked with comics leg­ends Frank Frazetta and Moe­bius and drawn for Dis­ney, Mar­vel, and DC. As a child, he watched Jack Kir­by work. “He wouldn’t speak,” says Gula. “He’d be in a trance…. The pen­cil would hit the paper and it wouldn’t stop until the page was com­plete, like it poured out.” How is that pos­si­ble? Gula asked him­self, aston­ished. Kir­by had dis­ap­peared into the work. There were no pre­lim­i­nary sketch­es or rough indi­ca­tors. He would draw an entire book like that, Gula says in the video above from Proko.

Say what you will about the con­tent of Kirby’s work—superhero comics aren’t to everyone’s lik­ing. But no dis­taste for the nature of his sto­ry­telling dimin­ish­es Kirby’s attain­ment of a pure­ly extem­po­ra­ne­ous method he seems nev­er to have explained to Gula in words. Lat­er, how­ev­er, while work­ing with Moe­bius, Gula says, he learned the tech­nique of “auto­mat­ic draw­ing.” Demon­strat­ing it for us above, Gula describes a way of draw­ing that shares much in com­mon with oth­er med­i­ta­tive visu­al art tra­di­tions.

“It’s all doing very organ­ic shapes,” he says, show­ing us how to “draw your mind’s eye. This takes your mind, and your mind’s eye, to a place that nor­mal­ly is unex­plored, and it can’t help but enhance your whole view of your abil­i­ty.” The ego must step aside, exec­u­tive func­tion­ing isn’t need­ed here. “I have no idea,” Gula says, “it’s all just hap­pen­ing on its own.” Moe­bius explained it as “just let­ting my mind relax” and Gula has observed sim­i­lar prac­tices among all the artists he’s worked with.

Gula describes auto­mat­ic draw­ing as a nat­ur­al process for the artist’s mind and hands. The inter­view­er, artist and teacher Sam Prokopenko, also men­tions Kore­an artist Kim Jung Gi in their inter­view, who does “amaz­ing­ly accu­rate draw­ings from his mem­o­ry with­out any con­struc­tion lines,” as Prokopenko says above, in a video from his “12 Days of Proko” series, which inter­views well-known artists about their tech­niques. What’s Kim Jung Gi’s secret? Is he pos­sessed of a super­hu­man, pho­to­graph­ic mem­o­ry? No, he tells Prokopenko.

The secret to becom­ing ful­ly immersed in the work—one that sure­ly goes for so many pur­suits, both cre­ative and athletic—is just to do it: over and over and over and over and over again. (To many people’s dis­ap­point­ment, this also seems to be the secret of med­i­ta­tion.) In Kim Jung Gi’s case, “of course, some part of it is a tal­ent he was born with, but we can’t over­look how much that tal­ent was devel­oped.” We need no expert tal­ent, either innate or devel­oped, to get start­ed. Auto­mat­ic draw­ing seems to require a beginner’s mind.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Moe­bius Gives 18 Wis­dom-Filled Tips to Aspir­ing Artists

Watch Moe­bius and Miyaza­ki, Two of the Most Imag­i­na­tive Artists, in Con­ver­sa­tion (2004)

In Search of Mœbius: A Doc­u­men­tary Intro­duc­tion to the Inscrutable Imag­i­na­tion of the Late Com­ic Artist Mœbius

Moe­bius’ Sto­ry­boards & Con­cept Art for Jodorowsky’s Dune

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

You Can Sleep in an Edward Hopper Painting at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts: Is This the Next New Museum Trend?

Let’s pre­tend our Fairy Art Moth­er is grant­i­ng one wish—to spend the night inside the paint­ing of your choice.

What paint­ing will we each choose, and why?

Will you sleep out in the open, undis­turbed by lions, a la Rousseau’s The Sleep­ing Gyp­sy?

Or expe­ri­ence the volup­tuous dreams of Fred­er­ic Leighton’s Flam­ing June?

Paul Gauguin’s por­trait of his son, Clo­vis presents a tan­ta­liz­ing prospect for those of us who haven’t slept like a baby in decades…

The Night­mare by Herny Fuseli should chime with Goth­ic sen­si­bil­i­ties…

And it’s a fair­ly safe bet that some of us will select Edward Hop­per’s West­ern Motel, at the top of this post, if only because we heard the Vir­ginia Muse­um of Fine Arts was accept­ing dou­ble occu­pan­cy book­ings for an extreme­ly faith­ful fac­sim­i­le, as part of its Edward Hop­per and the Amer­i­can Hotel exhi­bi­tion.

Alas, if unsur­pris­ing­ly, the Hop­per Hotel Expe­ri­ence, with mini golf and a curat­ed tour, sold out quick­ly, with prices rang­ing from $150 to $500 for an off-hours stay.

Tick­et-hold­ing vis­i­tors can still peer in at the room any time the exhib­it is open to the pub­lic, but it’s after hours when the Insta­gram­ming kicks into high gear.

What guest could resist the temp­ta­tion to strike a pose amid the vin­tage lug­gage and (blue­tooth-enabled) wood pan­eled radio, fill­ing in for the 1957 painting’s lone fig­ure, an icon­ic Hop­per woman in a bur­gundy dress?

The Art Insti­tute of Chica­go notes that she is sin­gu­lar among Hopper’s sub­jects, in that she appears to be gaz­ing direct­ly at the view­er.

But as per the Yale Uni­ver­si­ty Art Gallery, from which West­ern Motel is on loan:

The woman star­ing across the room does not seem to see us; the pen­sive­ness of her stare and her tense pos­ture accen­tu­ate the sense of some impend­ing event. She appears to be wait­ing: the lug­gage is packed, the room is devoid of per­son­al objects, the bed is made, and a car is parked out­side the win­dow.

Hope­ful­ly, those lucky enough to have secured a book­ing will have per­fect­ed the pose in the mir­ror at home pri­or to arrival. This “motel” is a bit of a stage set, in that guests must leave the paint­ing to access the pub­lic bath­room that con­sti­tutes the facil­i­ties.

(No word on whether the theme extends to a paper “san­i­tized for your pro­tec­tion” band across the toi­let, but there’s no show­er and a secu­ri­ty offi­cer is sta­tioned out­side the room for the dura­tion of each stay.)

The pop­u­lar­i­ty of this once-in-a-life­time exhib­it tie-in may spark oth­er muse­ums to fol­low suit.

The Art Insti­tute of Chica­go start­ed the trend in 2016 with a painstak­ing recre­ation of Vin­cent Van Gogh’s room at Arles, which it list­ed on Air BnB for $10/night.

Think of all the fun we could have if the bed­rooms of art his­to­ry opened to us…

Dog lovers could get cozy in Andrew Wyeth’s Mas­ter Bed­room.

Delacroix’s The Death of Sar­dana­palus (1827) would require some­thing more than dou­ble occu­pan­cy for prop­er Insta­gram­ming.

Piero del­la Francesca’s The Dream of Con­stan­tine might elic­it impres­sive mes­sages from the sub-con­science

Tuber­cu­lo­sis noth­with­stand­ing, Aubrey Beardsley’s Self Por­trait in Bed is rife with pos­si­bil­i­ties.

Or skip the cul­tur­al fore­play and head straight for the NSFW plea­sures of The French Bed, a la Rembrandt’s etch­ing.

Edward Hop­per and the Amer­i­can Hotel will be trav­el­ing to the Indi­anapo­lis Muse­um of Art at New­fields in June 2020.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take a Jour­ney Inside Vin­cent Van Gogh’s Paint­ings with a New Dig­i­tal Exhi­bi­tion

How Edward Hop­per “Sto­ry­board­ed” His Icon­ic Paint­ing Nighthawks

60-Sec­ond Intro­duc­tions to 12 Ground­break­ing Artists: Matisse, Dalí, Duchamp, Hop­per, Pol­lock, Rothko & More

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC on Mon­day, Decem­ber 9 when her month­ly book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain cel­e­brates Dennison’s Christ­mas Book (1921). Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

The Isamu Noguchi Museum Puts Online an Archive of 60,000 Photographs, Manuscripts & Digitized Drawings by the Japanese Sculptor

No mat­ter how unfa­mil­iar you may be with the work of Isamu Noguchi, you’re like­ly to have encoun­tered it, quite pos­si­bly more than once, in the form of a Noguchi table. Designed in the 1940s for the Her­man Miller fur­ni­ture com­pa­ny (in a cat­a­log that also includ­ed the work of George Nel­son, Paul Lás­zló, and Charles Eames of the epony­mous chair), it shows off Noguchi’s dis­tinc­tive aes­thet­ic as well as many of his most acclaimed sculp­tures, set designs, and pub­lic spaces. That aes­thet­ic could only have arisen from a sin­gu­lar artis­tic life like Noguchi’s, which began in Los Ange­les where he was born to an Amer­i­can moth­er and a Japan­ese father, and soon start­ed cross­ing back and forth across both the Pacif­ic and the Atlantic: a child­hood spent around Japan, school­ing and appren­tice­ship back in the U.S., a Guggen­heim Fel­low­ship in Paris, peri­ods of study in Chi­na and Japan — and all that before age 30.

Now, thanks to the Noguchi Muse­um, we can take a clos­er look at not just the Noguchi table but all the fruits of Noguchi’s long work­ing life, which began in the 1910s and con­tin­ued until his death in the 1980s. (He exe­cut­ed his first notable work, the design of the gar­den for his moth­er’s house in Chi­gasa­ki, at just eight years old.)

The insti­tu­tion that bears his name recent­ly dig­i­tized and made avail­able 60,000 archival pho­tographs, man­u­scripts, and dig­i­tized draw­ings, and also launched a dig­i­tal cat­a­logue raison­né designed to be updat­ed with dis­cov­er­ies still to come about Noguchi’s life and work. “The com­ple­tion of a mul­ti­year project, the archive now fea­tures 28,000 pho­tographs doc­u­ment­ing the artist’s works, exhi­bi­tions, var­i­ous stu­dios, per­son­al pho­tographs, and influ­en­tial friends and col­leagues,” writes Hyper­al­ler­gic’s Alis­sa Guz­man. “The wealth of imagery is over­whelm­ing and also sur­pris­ing, bring­ing atten­tion to works we might not often asso­ciate with Noguchi.”

Indeed, as the pro­jec­t’s man­ag­ing edi­tor Alex Ross tells Guz­man, the research process revealed “sev­er­al sig­nif­i­cant art­works which were assumed to have been lost or destroyed,” as well as “pre­vi­ous­ly unat­trib­uted pieces that the archive is now able to con­firm as works by Noguchi.” The dif­fi­cul­ty of con­firm­ing the authen­tic­i­ty of cer­tain works speaks to the pro­tean qual­i­ty of Noguchi’s art that goes hand-in-hand with its dis­tinc­tive­ness, a bal­ance struck by few major artists of any era. And though quite a few of Noguchi’s cre­ations (and not just the table) have been described as time­less, no oth­er body of work reflects quite so clear­ly the inter­min­gling of East and West – a West that includ­ed the Old World as well as the New — that, hav­ing begun on eco­nom­ic and social lev­els, reached the aes­thet­ic one in the cen­tu­ry through which Noguchi lived. Explore his cat­a­logue raison­né, and you may find that, no mat­ter what part of the world you’re from, you have more expe­ri­ence with Noguchi’s work than you thought.

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

3D Scans of 7,500 Famous Sculp­tures, Stat­ues & Art­works: Down­load & 3D Print Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David & More

The Get­ty Dig­i­tal Archive Expands to 135,000 Free Images: Down­load High Res­o­lu­tion Scans of Paint­ings, Sculp­tures, Pho­tographs & Much Much More

Down­load 2,500 Beau­ti­ful Wood­block Prints and Draw­ings by Japan­ese Mas­ters (1600–1915)

Down­load Vin­cent van Gogh’s Col­lec­tion of 500 Japan­ese Prints, Which Inspired Him to Cre­ate “the Art of the Future”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Lynda Barry’s New Book Offers a Master Class in Making Comics

In the same way you don’t have to like the way your liv­er looks for it to be able to func­tion, you don’t have to like the way your draw­ings look for them to start to work.  —Lyn­da Bar­ry

Want to feel more alive in the world?

Get back in touch with your inner four-year-old artist, using meth­ods put for­ward by artist, edu­ca­tor, and g*ddamn nation­al trea­sure Lyn­da Bar­ry.

Mak­ing Comics, the lat­est book from the Uni­ver­si­ty of Wis­con­sin asso­ciate pro­fes­sor, MacArthur Genius, and Omega Insti­tute fac­ul­ty mem­ber, bypass­es stan­dard­ized pro­fes­sion­al skills such as ink­ing, sto­ry­board­ing, and let­ter­ing, in order to foment a deep­er emo­tion­al con­nec­tion between car­toon­ist and com­ic.

First things first, you can draw. Stop say­ing you can’t. You can.

Stop say­ing your draw­ings look like they were made by a four-year-old.

In Barry’s expe­ri­ence, the unfet­tered draw­ings of four-year-old artists are some­thing to aim for.

As author and comics his­to­ri­an Chris Gavaler notes in his Pop Mat­ters review:

Mak­ing Comics is a love let­ter to every child who ever picked up a cray­on and start­ed mak­ing marks with unself­con­scious inten­si­ty. Those chil­dren include her col­lege stu­dents. Like her read­ers, some arrive at class with artis­tic train­ing and some arrive with none at all. The lat­ter arrive hav­ing long for­got­ten the unin­hib­it­ed style of image-mak­ing they under­stood instinc­tive­ly as chil­dren. Find­ing each of those chil­dren is Bar­ry’s mis­sion, and she is very very good at it.

Bar­ry, who is child­less, is keen­ly attuned to the sort of play­ful assign­ments that hold imme­di­ate appeal for chil­dren of all ages.

And she doles out instruc­tions on a need to know basis, dis­arm­ing the self-doubt and excuse-mak­ing that plague adult stu­dents who are pre­sent­ed with the big pic­ture too ear­ly in the process.

In Mak­ing Comics, exer­cis­es include draw­ing with eyes closed, draw­ing with the non-dom­i­nant hand, two-hand­ed draw­ing, simul­ta­ne­ous part­ner draw­ing, Exquis­ite Corpse, and trans­form­ing scrib­bles and cof­fee stains by teas­ing out what­ev­er image they may sug­gest.

Bar­ry also con­veys pre­cise instruc­tions with regard to speed and mate­ri­als, know­ing that those can close as many win­dows as they open.

She’s bat­tling the sti­fling impulse toward per­fec­tion, the impos­si­ble stan­dards that cause so many to turn away from mak­ing pic­tures and sto­ries as they mature.

Don’t sweat it! More rock, less talk! Unleash the mon­sters of your id! Invite unfore­seen ghosts into the frame!

As Bar­ry says:

….there are two work­ing lan­guages in human life. One is sort of top of the mind, what we’re con­scious of. The oth­er is this uncon­scious stuff that we might not know about or have access to. The way we access it is usu­al­ly through this thing we call ‘the arts.’ Unfor­tu­nate­ly, that has got­ten removed from the reg­u­lar dai­ly expe­ri­ence of human life. What I’m try­ing to do is to show that there is a way that they can come togeth­er, and that you can make things in a way that makes you actu­al­ly feel alive and present.

Read an excerpt of Lyn­da Barry’s Mak­ing Comics. Or pur­chase your own copy of Mak­ing Comics here.

Video at the top of the page cour­tesy of Art Book Walk-throughs & Reviews.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Fol­low Car­toon­ist Lyn­da Barry’s 2017 “Mak­ing Comics” Class Online, Pre­sent­ed at UW-Wis­con­sin

Lyn­da Bar­ry on How the Smart­phone Is Endan­ger­ing Three Ingre­di­ents of Cre­ativ­i­ty: Lone­li­ness, Uncer­tain­ty & Bore­dom

Car­toon­ist Lyn­da Bar­ry Teach­es You How to Draw

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC on Mon­day, Decem­ber 9 when her month­ly book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain cel­e­brates Dennison’s Christ­mas Book (1921). Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

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