The Mitchell Gallery

The Elizabeth Myers Mitchell Gallery

The Handyman Can

The Handyman Can

H & N

Hans Godo Frabel, Hammers and Nails, 1980, glass.  Photo courtesy of Edward Owens.

I couldn’t help thinking that I had seen some of these works before. Sawbird, by Mark Blumenstein, in particular looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. It was a couple days before I realized. I had seen pieces like this on the roadside, beckoning me to flea markets and garage sales. The attention-grabbing quality of the works is especially potent as a lure to the road tripping consumer, but even when that use is absent, this quality is equally present in the work as it sits in the gallery. When visitors came to the previous exhibit, The Life and Art of Mary Petty, it was easy to direct them to the chronological arrangement of the “New Yorker” magazine covers. On the other hand, in this exhibit, it is fascinating to see the eye drawn all around the room. So many of these pieces act like those sculptures on the roadside, calling attention to themselves. The arrangement of so many immediately exciting pieces around the room makes for an exciting bit of tension when entering the gallery. Do you make a beeline for that piece made of wrenches? What’s that all the way up there?

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Mark Blumenstein, Saw Bird, 1979. Metal and hardware.

But where does this attention-grabbing quality come from? While it iseasy to pass off the essential concept of this collection as “tools”, the selection currently at the Mitchell Gallery focuses on a particular aesthetic use of those tools. Almost every piece in the collection places a tool in a striking or unusual context. Take Hans Frabel’s piece Hammer and Nails. The glass is blown into the shape of a hammer and nails. What’s most striking about this piece, however, is how it is positioned. Frabel has framed it so that the hammer is just about to strike the nail – I enjoy showing visitors the angle at which this illusion is most apparent. The instant reaction is a recognition of the fragility of the two. How easily they can be made to shatter. We know, of course, that the hammer will never come down on the nail. The hammer is suspended by a hidden pin at it’s base, a fact which is easily missed. Raising it in this way then renders it miraculous – almost unbreakable. The tension then, between the obvious fragility and the uncanny suspension, never allows the viewer to become too comfortable with the hammer, prompting it’s careful consideration.

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James Rosenquist, Trash Can in the Grass—Calix Krater, 1978. Screenprint. 

A less immediately striking image is Trash Can in the Grass by James Rosenquist. This print envisions a Calyx-Krater, an Ancient Greek ceremonial vase. Unlike the gorgeously ornamented pieces we imagine from antiquity, however, Rosenquist depicts the vase as if it were crafted from garbage. The result is less Hellenistic and more Helter-Skelter. On further reflection, however, the question of how different this work is than our archeological discoveries reveals itself to be more complex. Most of the Calyx discovered by historians are fragmented, reconstructed. We have the general shape of the vase, but a perfect specimen is elusive. To reconstruct a vase, then, is to piece it together in a way that best resembles that original. Rosenquist’s work takes an everyday object and asks us to consider its resemblance to the ancient vase. The work looks backwards to the history of the “Calyx”, as well as enabling us to comprehend a trash can as a part of a larger lineage. Like the hammer, the material is different, but the shape – the tool-ness – of the object remains the same.

Not all of the pieces are in conversation with the practicality of their original material. Pieces like Sawbird are, instead, oriented towards a kind of delight. These pieces call attention less to the artists consideration of their material’s use. They invite us to marvel at their creator’s imagination. Like the hammer, the bird is suspended, marvelous. Both in their reconfiguration as artwork and in their arrangement in the gallery, the tools are defamiliarized. Rather than acting as means of construction, these tools, in fact, deconstruct our ability to take these everyday objects for granted. In doing so, they lend us the ability to view our world through a new lens, to take delight and fascination in even the most ordinary of objects.

This exhibition is made possible through a leadership gift from the Helena Foundation and is generously sponsored by PNC Bank and Anne S. Potter. Additional support is provided by David and Laura Watt, Richard and Carole Falk, and Katie Blyth + Gary Brown + Brogan Brown.

“ReTooled: Highlights from the Hechinger Collection” was organized by International Arts & Artists, Washington, DC. Gift of John and June Hechingeriaanda

Fay’s Way

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Mary Petty, Fay Modeling Ermine CapeThe New Yorker Magazine, cover illustration, January 10, 1953. Watercolor and ink on paper.

 

I’ve really enjoyed having the Mary Petty collection at the Gallery these last couple weeks. Often visitors to the gallery are awe-struck and contemplative. The affects of works may be playful, but works which are as humorous as the ones in this collection are rare. Seeing people laugh is delightful, the immediate response is refreshing and breaks up what might have otherwise been a solemn day of studious reflection.

Petty’s covers primarily feature the Upper-Class Peabody clan, and their maid Fay. Fay often elicits “Amelia Bedelia” impressions from visitors, and as Fay is to that stereotypical maid, so the Peabodys are to the monied world of the early 20th century, all pearl necklaces and artifacts of “cultural knowledge” – a rocco harpsichord for instance, or an opera on the television.

One of my favorite things about this exhibit in particular is the ability to see Mary Pettys development as an artist. All the covers are arranged chronologically, and the evolution and emergence of a style is really exciting to see. All the covers lined up also prompts thinking about the “Cover” as a form. There is always negative space at the top for the trade dressing, every canvas is exactly the same size, etcetera. The fact that Petty is able to have so much fun within these confines is remarkable. One of my favorites involves a bit of showing off on the artists part – Petty has the family sitting for a portrait (Fay is, of course, off in the background.) Petty details the artists canvas beautifully. Within this cover is a duplicate portrait in miniature, featuring a more impressionist style – “chic” for the time of the Peabodys. The delight Ms Petty takes in details like this is present in every cover, and it makes walking through the gallery a true joy.

The physicality of these paintings is also lovely. Our eyes are always drawn towards Fay. In a sea of warm and cool colors, her typical Black and White dress is striking. This discontinuity is even more striking in a cover from January 1953, where Fay is trying on Ms Peabodys ermine coat. She is dwarfed by it, and the image of a spritely caricature trying to match the silhouette. The image of Ms Peabody at the top of the staircase, only her head and arms visible, turns to highlight how similar the two women are, the effect of the accoutrements on each. More than that, her posture emulates the typical sight lines of each portrait. A scene of Fay trying to pry off the boot of a huntress, for example, has her almost horizontal, parallel to the woman’s leg.

The collection also includes several cartoons by Mary Pettys husband, Alan Dunn. These share a certain comedic sensibility with Petty, an amusement at the domestic, 5th avenue upperclass scene. The cartoon form, however, is different from the cover, less involved in detail and more focused on a singular, often captioned, punchline. Dunn has done his homework however, and his time in the American Institute at Rome and elsewhere overseas  helps him infuse scenes of tourism and the art world with little particularities that help the wit sparkle.

As I mentioned before, I am overjoyed that the gallery is filled with so much delight, both in the covers and in the viewer. I’ll admit, I had some initial skepticism about this exhibit, but it has won me over after the last couple weeks. I will be sorry to see Ms Petty make an exit from the gallery and I strongly advise those of you who have not gotten the chance to see her work to make it in to the gallery before its gone!

– Chance Hogan (A20)

We thank the following for their continuous funding and support: Annapolis Subaru, Anne Arundel County, the Arts Council of Anne Arundel County, Chesapeake Medical Imaging and Mark Baganz and Laura Salladin, the City of Annapolis, Thomas P. Gohagan & Company, The Helena Foundation, the Maryland State Arts Council, the Estate of Elizabeth Myers Mitchell, the Mitchell Gallery Board of Advisors, Members of the Mitchell Gallery, Mrs. Ruth Mitchell, the John and Hilda Moore Fund, the Lillian Vanous Nutt Mitchell Gallery Endowment, Rex and Katharine Pingle and the Clare Eddy and Eugene V. Thaw Fine Arts Fund.

Gifts in-kind: Kathleen McSherry, Merrifeld Graphics and Publishing Service and Up.St.ART

Annapolis. 

The Mitchell Gallery is open Tuesday through Sunday from noon to 5.00 pm
In addition,

theGallery is open 6:45 to 7:45 on Fridays, before the college’s weekly lecture.

Docent tours are available from noon to 3 pm on Thursdays.

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  Charles H. Davis, A Clearing in June, oil on canvas. Huntington Museum of Art, Photo Credit: John Spurlock.     The season has found all of us slipping into, and out of, habits, new and old. Fall at St. John’s is always a transitional time, as students return to the weathered chairs and look […]

Childhood

Felicia Bond If you give a Mouse-10 copy

Felicia Bond, The Portrait, from: “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” series. Colored pens on paper. Courtesy of Art Kandy.

My boss showed me the exhibition before it opened, before all the works had been hung. I took only a polite interest in the pieces, recognizing many from what I had read when young, but recognizing the works [as types of distant styles existing in the back of my memory.] Perhaps as it is a habit shared by more than just me, these were for children, primary lessons and as such only small spoons preceding the pleasures of the feast to come. One piece was on the floor: a large piece of a mouse in overalls holding a cookie. Though I think I had only read If You Give A Mouse a Cookie once, when I saw the image the whole book came back to me clearly. It was a more vivd impression than any other work had on me.

Children’s books really began flourishing at the turning of the nineteenth century into the twentieth. They arose out of an already existing literature of primary readers, small books for children to help them to learn to read (think of something along the lines of Dick & Jane). Out of this literature there came, over a long period of time, books we know such as Where the Wild Things Are, and Winnie-The-Pooh. These set illustrations with text, so that both may educate and delight children.

It seems that we never are able to truly catch the origin and genesis of our taste, it is always slipping back away from us. Why did I ever come to immediately like Matisse? When I saw that painting of the mouse, I remembered as a child being struck by the palette at work in the book. It has no real similarity I can think of to that of Matisse, yet I was still fascinated by the combination of the red and blue in that book. How much of this influenced my own taste I can’t say exactly. Yet that it did I am certain of, if only for that small flash of immediate remembering. It’s this flash which the show provides for us. It is why I think it has been so popular, and so loved by visitors. (I can vouch for both of these as a Gallery Guard). The flashes of images from our own childhood are such a great pleasure and step towards understanding ourselves that we shouldn’t pass by on those spaces which give rise to these pictures.

—Will Harrington, A20

The Skeleton in the Closet

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Not Preparing for Death, Albrecht Dürer, Woodblock Print on Paper, 1492

There is a lot to be said about Albrecht Dürer as an artist and a printmaker, and how he brought those two titles together. However, I’m not going to say any of that right now. I’d like to talk not about the artist, but the art, and more importantly, art in general. This Fall marks the beginning of my fourth year working at the Mitchell Gallery, and I have grown to know and love every inch of it, from it’s beautiful high ceilings to it’s one creaky floorboard. Yet I see one thing again and again that makes me very sad, and I’ve seen it often this exhibit. Visitors often come into the gallery, spend a very long time reading each and every plaque, but only glance at the actual piece of artwork for a few seconds before moving on. I understand this impulse. The world of art seems dense and impenetrable, full of technical terms and categorized by specific movements. We look to plaques and brochures and audio tours and docents as a resource, as fearless guides through the winding forest of art history. These resources are invaluable, but it breaks my heart when I hear people say that they lean on these things because they “don’t get art” without them. But here is a secret- the only thing you need to “get” art is a bit of patience and a soul. Anyone can gain something just from looking at art.

My suggestion for overcoming this fear of art for arts sake? When you look at art, start with just the title and the medium and then look back to the art itself. Find things you think are beautiful or unsightly, think about the subject, and if there’s a clear “message” the work is trying to portray. Just experience the visual, either for a minute or five or ten. Then, if you’re still curious, read the plaque to gain more information – but don’t use it as your starting point.

To prove this method will give anyone something valuable, I’ve done the same thing with a work that is in the Mitchell Gallery right now which I have not read the plaque for, “Not Preparing for Death.” It’s an almost comical image. The man seems a little scared, but mostly annoyed by the skeleton hassling him. The skeleton is surprisingly expressive, both patience and persistence on his face. The background is also detailed, there are even little buildings on the hill in the background. The metaphor in the print is clear but layered – this man is too busy to die. He refuses to prepare and is instead hustling away to go on with his life. Yet there’s the other layer, that of course we will all die one day, that you can’t run away from death. The small size and detail of the lines add to the sense of catching a snippet of someone else’s life.

All of that, and no biographical information, no technical knowledge, no familiarity with art movements necessary. Anyone can look at art and see something valuable, and walk away richer for the experience. Galleries should be places for all people to see the beauty of art, and to feel connected to it. Next time you are in our gallery, or any museum, take a moment to ignore the plaques and experience the art for yourself. You might learn more than you would expect.

 

—Kelsey Cumiskey, SJC Student, A19

 

Albrecht Dürer: Master Prints is organized by the Reading Public Museum, Reading, Pennsylvania. Exhibition support provided by Rex and Katharine Pingle, Cynthia and Ed Shumaker, and Joan Vinson.
 
Gifts in kind: Art Things, Inc., Graul’s Market, Kathleen McSherry, Up.St.ART, and Merrifield Graphics and Publishing Service.

How many lines are in a good face?

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Albrecht Dürer, (German, 1471 – 1528), Christ Shown to the People from the Large Passion, c. 1497-1500. Woodblock print. Museum Purchase.  Reading Public Museum, Reading, Pennsylvania.

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Albrecht Dürer, (German, 1471 – 1528), Portrait of Philipp Melanchton, 1526. Engraving. Gift, Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Goodman, Reading Public Museum, Reading, Pennsylvania.

figuration/representation: Two words tangled in common speech, how to untangle them? How to find the proper scope for each? Perhaps through one question: how many lines make up a face?

Dürer, as master printmaker and master sellout, is the image of the master functional artist. The product of this genus of artist is always “the art for” something. The art which supplements, or is necessary for, some other activity: the icon for worship, the illustration in the didactic book. The first view is to look for what forms are best for what: more figuration when illustration, more representative accuracy in portraiture. Then the anxiety: if we call the artist sellout (and Dürer was certainly working for money), is it right to take pleasure in these functional artworks? Let’s not answer the question directly, but find the pleasure in faces, (perhaps) negating the question.

How many faces are in the work? The tapestry of many faces, a scene, may work for what might be called figuration. Figuration being only (so to speak) the art working within a stock of images (gestures, expressions, etc.). What matters is that relationship, the play, between the one “person” and the other. The man on Christ’s left gestures to the crowd, Jesus looks downsadly, and the people look up to him with angry faces. There’s no need here for a “dense” face containing many lines. What is satisfactory in the form is the few certain lines, outlining emotion.

Now look on a portrait. It has the function of dedication, preserving, and “capturing” (“representing”) likeness. For Dürer this is the face of the heavy series of lines, creating the contours of the face, the physical realism of a moment which is both empty and, classically, the best way to capture the likeness of the body. This is the pleasure of meaning (in the most philosophical sense) in art. The answer in painting to the what/who is… question.

—Will Harrington, SJC Student (A, 20)

Albrecht Dürer: Master Prints is organized by the Reading Public Museum, Reading, Pennsylvania. Exhibition support provided by Rex and Katharine Pingle, Cynthia and Ed Shumaker, and Joan Vinson.
 
Gifts in kind: Art Things, Inc., Graul’s Market, Kathleen McSherry, Up.St.ART, and Merrifield Graphics and Publishing Service.

Realism in Allegory

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Pietro da Cortona, Allegory of Divine Providence and Barberini Power, Fresco, 1639; Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica, Rome, Italy

 

Realism in allegory, looking up from the floor of the Palazzo Barberini— No form is more helpful to those who want to place truth in art, than the allegorical artwork. On timelines we place abstracted allegory at the beginning of history of art, as the origins of art—such as finding the foundation of Homer in myths which belonged to all Greeks, or the illustrations in Egyptian works which preserves that culture’s vision of the afterlife. These early works are so closely connected to language that the image of some thing—such as some animal—becomes a kind of stand-in for just one word: the lion is strength. From this origin arises a system of speaking about art on a historical timeline, standing in which, artworks, as they exist historically, are seen as playing with representations of some phrase. This ceiling from the Palazzo Barberini may be summarized as: The Barberini pope has been (or, was) crowned in a perfect moment presided over and ordained by divine providence.

Who are the Barberini to the person standing on the floor of the palazzo they used to own and looking up at this ceiling? I am too far removed from the language of this painting; but the realism in this piece is an interaction beyond that language. This Barberini family (no longer existent among the powers of Italy, Europe, or the World, and almost totally unfamiliar to most people) is, to the one standing, today, under the ceiling, a glorified symbol out of the past. A glorious family in this painting, one honored by the painter and the people. For, in the painting, the family is crowned in a frozen moment. It is the smallest of moments: the lighting is present among all the other characters, but even those characters are in a moment of frozen motion in which we can see the figures of the painting have aligned. For our day and view, this is still only historical for we have lost the language so present to the day this was painted.

 

—Will Harrington, SJC Student in Rome