The Rise of the Good-Enough

A Meditation on the Drawing as a Work of Art

Page II

The first two drawings of the exhibition share a similar subject: the Christian God. The exhibition is entered through a large door, and immediately you are given the choice to turn left or right and look at the wall in which the door is set. To the left of the door is a Pietro, to the right is a Campi. If these two drawings are to converse, they’ll have to do it across the expanse of the entryway, and they’ll be interrupted by a stream of patrons throughout their discussion.

Pietro’s Nativity in an Initial H, 1430/40 and Campi’s God the Father (1567/70) are two of the commonest readymades: the nativity and the godhead of the holy trinity. The Pietro is Late High Gothic and the Campi is Italian Renaissance. The first has the appearance of a large miniature cut out of an illuminated manuscript. The colors are bold and striking, without much variation. The florals framing the right side of the drawing are ponderous with a slow, downward grace. The figures are stocky gnomes whose robes are as graceless as the expressions on their faces. What little perspective there is is restricted to whatever is being drawn at the moment, with no regard for the whole. The receding distance is depicted as a flat expanse similar to a puppet-show backdrop. Serenity pervades the nativity scene. The care with which the background is colored is surprising given the limited color palette employed. The flow of motion from the right-hand floral continues into the swirling dirt beneath the Holy Family’s feet and rises around their forms into the deep background. To our modern eyes, it seems that the glum figures lack the essence of sanctity expected in a nativity; yet sanctity suffuses the drawing to such an extent that the peaceful whole seems right and good. However, because of its association with a general Late Medieval Period style, the modern viewer will remain somewhat disconnected, and the dialogue which is about to ensue with the counterpoint Campi is tainted.

The Pietro is a somber piece. We expect more of the same from catalog number 2 as we cross the entryway to where it hangs by the doorframe. Bernardino Campi (1522-1591) has given us a chalk cartoon titled God the Father, 1567/70, who is either blessing or creating or conducting the passage of time. Even without color, the drawing bursts onto our senses. Out of nowhere, in only the second drawing of the exhibition, we have an excitement that we weren’t expecting after the Pietro. The Campi clearly shows us Renaissance values in all their strength. It displays all the marvels of that “return to antiquity” that we have come to expect from the formless term “Renaissance.” A careful drawing of a foreshortened torso and head, it revels in the care of its refined technique. The palms of God the Father are rendered very subtly with black chalk, and reach to either side of the drawing, book-ending himself. The highlights on the backs of his hands, cast by his own brow, are white gouache laid down in high contrast to the dark palms. The sheer physicality of his body is present beneath the folds of his garment. We know his hands are not detached from the rest of the body (a trait of the Pietro), and as he looks below, we know his eyes are beholding marvels below the frame, for they have a focus. The head is foreshortened with the greatest skill, a difficult aspect to reproduce for artists of any period. The middle-ground tonality provided by the paper on which the figure is drawn gives the whole a diffused consistency which makes it feel complete.

These two drawings are perfect examples of readymade art featuring related subjects. They are given to one another in conversation because of God the Father (whom we can assume is theoretically watching over the birth of his son in the nativity scene) and because Fate decreed that they were the earliest dated works in the collection. Regarding the “dialogue,” if you will indulge me to honor the metaphor, the One says to the Other, “You are a showboating exhibitionist.” The other replies, “I don’t see a problem here, return to your dust.” For the person engaging the artworks, there is little reason to actively compare the style of either one to the other except as exemplum. Both are extraordinary specimens of their respective milieux; both graciously give the Person an engagement with art. But to assume that either one has anything to “say” to the other in some sort of “dialogue” is bold and, I believe, in error. They cannot engage one another: they can only infect each other in the mind of the Person simultaneously engaging them.

THE ACHILLES HEEL IS ON THE SHEET

Following the Renaissance, the artist was posed with a unique problem. Throughout history, every age has defined itself according to how far it could distance itself from the previous age. It sets its artistic values against prior artistic values, and the greater the contrast or improvement, the greater the divide between the two. It can be seen in how the artists of the Renaissance viewed the artists of the Middle Ages (see above dialogue), it can be seen in how the artists of the “Baroque” viewed the “Renaissance,” and so on. During the 18th century, the readymade was under attack, but only nominally. Artists began to explore a new subject: the Self. The Subject-Self was fascinating to the artist, for within the Subject-Self were Thought and Idea, pure abstractions which were difficult to explore through the previous millennia’s readymades. Likewise, standards such as perfection or beauty had very little relevance to the depiction of the Subject-Self, for where does one find the perfect forms on which to model them? The artist can only turn to other drawings, and in the 18th century, drawings were plentiful. The collectors market had opened up to drawings for a variety of reasons, and enterprising artists could sell their drawings as specimens of their unique style and craft. But the sale and collection of drawings can put the artist in an embarrassing position: others can see his work and critique what never should have been seen by the public. Worse, young artists can view his experiments and, instead of learning, can quickly copy without understanding and develop their abilities only as far as their eyes see the masters’ development.

For the experienced draughtsman, every line drawn is a decision made and executed; every erasure is another decisive moment of rethinking. Areas of a picture which puzzled the artist are occasionally evident, while others give the impression that the artist was in such control of his powers that he was able to accomplish the effect in mere seconds. Neither scenario is an instance of pride or shame, but the effect of the whole may be. Even as he is cutting a detail out of the sheet, he is immediately aware of how this affects all areas of the picture, for the finished drawing will be an entire piece. If the drawing is a sketch, it ends up as a map of fossilized thought. The only value in the drawing worth considering is in the finished piece.

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The exhibition offers ample evidence of artists experimenting with their style or mastering a particular problem. Alessandro Magnasco’s Study Sheet with Seated Figures, 1705/15 (cat. 34) shows variation studies on a seated stoop-back theme (its partner in dialogue is Pier Leone Ghezzi’s Father Pepe Preaching to Sailors, c. 1740 (cat. 33), the apparent link between the two consists of spinal similarities and “spirit”). Francesco Guardi’s A Capriccio with a Ruined Gothic Arch (recto), (1770/89) (cat. 36) is a stunning array of forms washing over a landscape with ruins and silhouetted figures, yet never resolving itself into line. Each drawing has the quality of an instant: the artist was assured in his brush strokes, and the subject yielded quickly to his exertions.

Not so with Guardi’s fellow drawing by Piazzeta. Catalog number 35 is the Giambattista Piazzetta drawing A Young Boy Wearing a Plumed Hat and a Young Girl, c. 1735/40. It is a striking example of both precise thought and lurking puzzlement. Watch how the darkest shadows on the boy’s left hand define the bones beneath the skin. The graceful terminating curve of the girl’s face (her left cheek) produces three shades against the background, each of which praises the delicate highlight on her cheek, which in its own way draws attention to the lash-line of the closed eye. The cheek highlight is present in the opposite cheek with the same degree of luminance, except that the surrounding cheek accepts the light more gracefully, as it should. The darkness at the bottom of her right eye, the darkness in the corner of her mouth, the shadow on her neck: this girl is very delicately modeled out of the blue tone of the paper. The boy is likewise carefully drawn, but his left eye troubled the artist. The problem begins with the shadow just beneath the eyebrow. In place of a cast shadow from the orbit of the brow, the artist dropped in a highlight accompanied by a deep quick shadow atop the upper lid. The iris is cloudy and larger than its complement, which brings it closer to the picture plane than the other. The shadow cast by the bridge of the nose is frustrating, and there is virtually no indication of the lower puffiness caused by the natural bag of the eye. When compared to the other three eyes in the drawing, this eye is poorly drawn. One might claim that the faults lie with the sitter. Perhaps he had a deformation or some injury which caused the artist to choose to draw the features thus.

While that may be the case, I would argue that if it were so, the injuries or deformities could either be softened or more accurately portrayed as such.

The implication is that Piazzetta is an inferior draughtsman, especially in relation to his partner in dialogue, Guardi. It’s a rash assumption, which is excused only by the nature of the exhibition. It would require careful examination of all available specimens of both Piazzetta’s art and Guardi’s to make that statement. A more important issue than “who is the better draughtsman” is what it means to let one’s drawings enter the public sphere. It may take more than a struggle on paper to denigrate one’s ability as an artist (cover up the offending eye and it is clear how good Piazzetta was), but that the public should be given the opportunity to make the judgement in the first place is problematic. When a drawing is exhibited, the secret flaws of the artist are revealed. The artist is suddenly present, pencil or brush in hand, struggling with human limitations. The fact remains that within the borders of the Piazzetta drawing, there is a terribly drawn eye. The possibility that the original eye was damaged or rubbed away does not change the situation: the terrible eye remains. It will not go away no matter what the cause.

With the possibility of such a brute assessment of inability, it should come as no surprise that the artist began to leave the old, easily-critiqued readymade behind in order to create another whose limits were less easily espied. It would be difficult to subject the Subject-Self to such offensive assessments. With the Subject-Self, artists like George Romney (cat. 43) and William Blake (cat. 44) would be freed from the focused gaze of critical short-sightedness. However, even draughtsmen of the highly personalized Subject-Self created drawings in preparation for their finished works, and the threat still remains that discovery of their drawings can do more harm to their reputation when out amongst the unperceiving crowds.

An artist might keep his drawings as a record of his thought, be it the thought of his youth or the thoughts leading up to the perfection of an idea. Drawings are a repository of artistic fact, personalized through the act of drawing. Unlike writer’s diaries or journals, drawings are devoid of duplicity, arrogance or shame. A writer can edit a sentence until he has placed himself in the precise light he desires. But a draughtsman must hide his drawings if he wants his secrets to remain unseen. A writer can use the tools of psychology to mask or unmask his desires or fears. A draughtsman can only draw and redraw. His control is over his subject and over his craft, but not over himself. The writer controls everything. The draughtsman controls little except what he leaves behind: unpolished ideas which are usually insignificant and small.

The dangers that the draughtsman now faces are growing. Whereas before, it was merely imperfect execution of a readymade subject, it is now insignificant ideas born out of the Subject-Self, likewise imperfectly executed. The danger stems from this: the human mind is an idea machine, and the first idea is more often than not common to a great number of like-minded human beings; because the Subject-Self is rooted in an idea or perception, it is more susceptible to the danger of commonality in content (if not expression). It may be that the Subject-Self is more challenging than the dictates of either Antiquity or the Renaissance ever were. With the old readymade, there was no need to have a great idea: the idea was intrinsic to the subject, and variety was introduced by personality and genius. But drawings of the Subject-Self which were made early in the process of its development exhibit only mildly interesting ideas that often do not greatly expand on the initial idea or subject. As an artist wrangles with the idea, it is refined and strengthened, and there is a good chance that new thoughts will emerge from the process. But ideas are never born fully formed, and even if they arose out of an earlier idea, they too must be tended to with care. Like a newborn infant, an idea has very little in its features that set it apart from other ideas: eye color, hair color, complexion, body build, personality and temperament all need years of growth and influence before they can become identifying features. In the earliest stages, ideas are common and fragile, helpless and cute in an ugly way. If we claim them as our own, we will nurture them. Our preferences, our desires, our frustrations and our hopes will shape the idea, as will our talents, our tendencies, our skills and our goals. Given the fragile nature of ideas, then, the draughtsman must work an idea incessantly until it is ready—scattered behind him are all the imperfect drafts that he discarded as not nearly good enough. If he sells those imperfect drafts, he sells his mistakes, his accidents, his folly. If another sells them, it is to his discredit. This is fine for Piazzetta: the whole world has yet to hear his name and know it. But Vincent van Gogh is another story: he is the pinnacle of the Subject-Self, just before it is reborn as the new readymade.

The “imperfect draft” is a practical assessment of value made by the artist whose standards are both mercurial and strict. Dissatisfaction with a result is neither uncommon nor shameful—in fact, it is solely his right. It speaks of a judgement laid on a finished drawing by the artist himself, regardless of the value placed on it by the marketplace. To the artist, a drawing which is preparatory to a finished piece is potentially a traitor, for it gives away the secrets which lay hidden beneath the paint. If the “imperfect draft” preceded the final development of what eventually became a very strong idea, then it is even more of an embarrassment. If it reaches the marketplace, it can mislead. Catalog number 79 of the exhibition shows one of Van Gogh’s “imperfect drafts.”

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