Igor Siwanowicz’s photography gets intimately close with creatures such as crabs, chameleons, and crested geckos, revealing the true artistry of their various forms, textures, and colors. He treats them like fashion celebrities, bringing out every feature through perfect lighting, sharpness, and composition. Every vividly green scale of a chameleon is rendered in crisp detail, the rocky face of the horned lizard resounds with an authority greater than that of many kings, and reptilian eyes reveal the intricacy of small-scale design.

Piero di Cosimo’s Portrait of Simonetta Vespucci depicts the Florentine noblewoman and mistress of one of the Medicis in the characteristic early-Renaissance style. Emulating Roman aesthetics was an integral part of the intellectual and visual Renaissance world, evident in the elaborate hairstyle and associations with Cleopatra. The intricate braiding and delicate strands of pearls was an elaboration on the already individualistic and decorative styles of Roman times. Botticelli, on the other hand, applies the same dynamic quality to his hair as he does to his flesh and flowing outlines. Nowhere is this more apparent than in his depiction of the three Graces in Primavera, where the fluidity of the gestures, folds of transparent cloth, and long locks of golden hair all create a vivid harmony.

Italian Renaissance aesthetics influenced their northern neighbors, although there is a still a distinct Flemish flavor to St. Cecilia by the circle of Ambrosius Benson. The patron saint of music looks rather reserved, as the pallor of her face and black background highlight the sumptuous red hat, ordered rows of pearls and ruffles, and perfectly formed flaxen ringlets.

Velasquez’s portrait of Maria Teresa, an infanta of Spain, reflects a restrained ambiguity that he applied to his depictions of royal personages, as the court was slowly crumbling in its own decadence. The girl’s indecipherable face is surrounded by hair that is twice the size, decorated with translucent silver fans, as the creamy brushstrokes are illuminated against a dark background.

The risque locks of Courbet’s Woman with a Parrot were more provocative than the 19th century French audience was used to, as her languished pose sinks into the folds of sheets that flow into messy strands of curls.

On the other hand, George Romney’s Portrait of Lady Elizabeth Hamilton falls into the more gentile Georgian portraiture phase of English painting. He was known for his classical references in particular, and worked with a romanticized sensibility that was popular at the time, as her hair is swept up almost carelessly to fit with her pensive expression.

There seems to be an erotic quality associated with depictions of women combing their hair, bathing, etc. across cultures and time periods that involves an idealization of the female form. The simple outlines of Kitawana Utamaro’s woodblock print Bijin Combing Her Hair is reminder of how these mass-produced prints that became so popular in the west were often depictions of famous local beauties from Edo. Titian’s Young Woman Combing her Hair is suggestive in a different way, as the blouse slightly slipping off her shoulder might indicate, revealing the particularly fleshy form that Titian was known for.

After examining more modern aspects of Japanese art to begin to understand the dynamic between western influence and native culture, looking into ikebana seemed like a good change of perspective, as it is a visual display of ideals that have been integral to the Japanese aesthetic for hundreds of years. The introduction of Buddhism is said to have sparked the development of ikebana, but it has evolved to represent a uniquely Japanese outlook that focuses on subtlety, attention to detail, and connection with nature. The complexity of the thought process involved reflects the organization of ikebana schools, each with their own philosophy and methods of teaching. Just as with Zen painting, the initial structures of temples and patronage gave rise to an art and way of thinking that was visually free from this involvement. This is significantly different from Western patterns, where a flourishing Flemish art market would have influenced intricate and realistic brushstrokes. Still lives were a comparatively late addition to the Western painting repertoire, and, even so, they were more of a representation of secular ideals than an identification with nature.

In that respect, it is difficult to think of Japanese aesthetics from a Western perspective, because while we might treat a flower arrangement or an oil painting as separate visual achievements, ikebana, for instance, has a much richer web of associations that span multiple layers of perception. There is also a perfect balance between the organic form and the control of it with a sort of effortlessness and humility that is lacking in the Western tradition in quite the same way. Appreciating the beauty of nature is a complicated affair, and perhaps the mastery of ikebana is the ability to display this appreciation in a seemingly simple and minimalist way.

Although the differences between ikebana schools vary subtly in the use of plants, composition, and intent, there seems to be a general goal to bring out the shussho, or the innate character of each plant, in every design. It is not an individual’s manipulation of the plants to fit their own vision, but rather an elaboration of qualities that are already present. It is interesting to note how this idea has followed the history of ikebana from its ancient origins to modern offshoots, and how the definition of intuitive input has changed according to the mood of the time. There might be strict rules for how certain elements have to be put together, or there might be no rules at all, but every style of arrangement is appreciated, pointing to a universality in visual thought that still has endless possible manifestations.

The pomegranate has a certain elusive allure, whether it’s the deep-red color or maze-like interior, and it has found its way into works of art throughout the centuries. Perhaps one of the earliest is Lorenzo di Credi’s Madonna and Child with a Pomegranate, and, like in many Renaissance works, it’s safe to say that the seemingly insignificant objects will have a symbolic meaning, as the pomegranate represents resurrection in this instance. The painting was done in the style of Verrocchio, the then-deceased teacher of Credi, with an attempt to draw inspiration from da Vinci, a fellow student who, comparatively, has a more subtle sense of color and realism.

Jan de Heem’s still-life is very much part of the age of northern European still-life painting, and the pomegranate here is given an unreachable level of lusciousness, as it is depicted meticulously among an equally vivid bouquet. At first glance, it might seem ready to eat, but such perfect paintings have a sense of theatricality about them, as if to remind us of the illusion of such luxury.

Courbet’s Still Life with Apples and Pomegranate seems too meek for an artist of his perspective, but the loose, mesmerizing brushstrokes give the painting Courbet’s signature effect. Chardin, on the other hand, depicts the pomegranate half open, and he shows his skill in portraying almost a reverence for the fruit.

Cezanne is on another level of perception, of course, as he is not concerned with the sensual qualities of pomegranate, but rather evokes something that goes far beyond the physical or familiar. That being said, nothing compares with a eating bowl of pomegranate seeds, and here is the easiest way to deal with such a complicated fruit: submerge it in a bowl of water, separate seeds from flesh, and all of the seeds will sink to the bottom.

See also:

Secret Underwater Pomegranate Trick

Two Luscious Recipes with Intoxicating Pomegranate Glaze!

Bulgur, Celery and Pomegranate Salad Recipe

Recipes With Pomegranate Punch

Pomegranate-glazed salmon with baby arugula salad

A pot of paint has been flung in the face of the public!

— Camille Mauclair at the first Fauvist exhibition

Here I’m supposed to mention how the Fauves were, in fact, revolutionary and high-minded artists, and provide a detailed psychological analysis of the nuanced relationship between paint and ideas in their work. After much mind-numbing, self-satisfying confusion, however, I will probably still think of their work as a pot of paint flung in my face. I most certainly mean that in the best way possible, because not only did the Fauves open up a new perspective of looking at art, but it would also be incredibly enjoyable to throw paint onto someone’s face.

So, enjoy the last of the fall colors, and experimental brushstrokes of the Fauves.

Late 19th century Japanese art sought to find its place among the influx of Western ideas and a growing sense of nationalism, where the definition of art in a social and historical context was more ambiguous than ever before. There were suddenly two terms for art itself - yoga and nihonga - that needed to anchor their identities, just as Japan had to find a balance between accepting foreign influence and strengthening their position in a global context. It was harder to determine the value of Western influence during the period of cultural nationalism, because the political relationship between Japan and Europe was not quite certain. They did not entirely look upon the West as a cultural model they had done for China, because now there was a sense of competition, and establishing a national identity would begin to secure their standing in the eyes of foreign nations. Thus, blindly emulating Western styles of painting could pose a problem in terms of distinguishing the difference between influence and gradual subservience. Yoga and nihonga schools could not exist as completely separate entities, just as Japan could not remain isolated and open to outside influence at the same time.

Both the Western and Japanese traditions had been irrevocably infused with each other’s ideologies and visual representations. As European artists questioned the meaning of the brush in relation to perception, Japanese artists debated the role of the individual artist’s vision. As Japanese painters strove to apply Western techniques and ideas to their own painting, the West was most fascinated by earlier styles that were uniquely Japanese, possibly overshadowing some of the artists working at the turn of the century.

There are hundreds of books on Edo prints and numerous examples online, but it is hard to find as much information about painters such as Kawai Gyokudō or Shimomura Kanzan, even though their art is equally interesting, if not more so. Their paintings are hard to pinpoint or identify with certain cultural or historic associations, as individual artistic vision became more accepted, but it is precisely the exchange of visuals and ideas that enriched both traditions. Both artists, like many of the time, were trained in Western techniques, but chose to reflect traditional Japanese style in their paintings, resulting in a broader, more ambiguous view of art.

In the highly specialized world of Dutch still-life painting, artists spent years perfecting the subtleties of depicting banquets and bouquets, responding to demands from a thriving merchant class. However, why were so many still-lifes hanging on the walls of 17th century Dutch middle-class homes, as skilled artists emerged with their own specialties and techniques? Describing them as signs of wealth would only be part of the story, because they also served as symbolic reminders of the ephemeral quality of luxury, an appropriate message for the time. The biblical origins of this idea would have been known at the time, and although it might seem contradictory to thing of such meticulously realistic paintings to have a moral agenda, it is important to remember that they are meant to be staged and artificial. Cheese is an interesting component of these still-lifes, because it has associations with both decay and luxury, part of an ambiguous world of paint and representation.

It’s safe to say that these cheeses were the real deal: raw, grass-fed, and the most flavorful. Here are some cheeses that I enjoy:
Meadow Stone Farm makes fantastic, raw cheese, always offering new varieties (call or email for more available selections).
Bobolink Dairy makes cheese that is available at the Union Square Farmer’s market.

Chardin was really the first to convey an intimate and unpretentious love for the still lifes he painted through his creamy brushstrokes and total attention to the objects themselves. We can not only distinguish him as an artist who adopted a style that was unique during his time, but one that gave new meaning to the still life genre in general.

The critic Norman Bryson suggests that the ease with which Chardin’s objects are presented comes from his detachment from conveying any sort of philosophical meaning, and “the hush of the Chardin interior, its informality and sense of ease, creates an equilibrium between attention and inattention that makes much of previous still life, both in Spain and in Holland, seem artificially stimulated and out of balance.” No longer were arrangements of fruit and flowers a way of criticizing the gluttony of the middle class or a rejection of worldly pleasures. By presenting layers of brushstrokes that stand free of association, he was moving in the direction of later painters such as Cezanne, where the quality of the paint and the way it was applied were the sole means of expression.

Like Cezanne, the placement of color is distributed throughout the painting, giving it a certain unspoken harmony. However, Chardin’s use of this technique further enhances the identity of the objects themselves instead of moving them into another plane of perception. The light that begins to hit the creamy-white teacup in Still Life with Brioche is absorbed by the two peaches that transition into the rosy-brown brioche as it slowly converges on the bleeding red cherries and bottle of liquor. This seemingly symmetrical composition is offset by the starkly green leaves with touches of white on top of the brioche. Chardin does not reveal his intentions outright, but teases us with his subtlety and acute awareness of all the elements of perception.

In his Water Glass and Jug, Chardin proves that his luscious brushstrokes do not depend on appetizing subjects. It’s as though he deliberately chooses the most unappealing objects to show us that the way he paints transcends the importance of real-life associations we make with the subject. The white glow of the onions reflects in the water as well as the bronze jug, as the composition comes together effortlessly yet allows his brushstrokes to almost breathe. In that sense, Chardin’s mastery of still life is his ability to give life to objects simply with layers of paint.