Damien Hirst Sunday #10

It's been a long time since I've had one of these. And it's a shame, too, because there's been a huge development in the world of Damien Hirst. He has recently announced that no more animals will die so that he can sell their formaldehyde pickled remains for millions of dollars. And not only that, he's also going to phase out the ridiculous dot paintings and spin paintings that have made him so ridiculously wealthy. Good for the art world and the world of good taste in general, right?

Well... there's more. Hirst has resolved to become a real painter. No, really, a good, talented, bodaciously brilliant painter who the world will remember for centuries as one who made historical advances in the use of light and shadow. One who will display a complete knowledge of classical iconography in his timeless works. One of the great prophets of civilization, in fact! Woohoo!

It will probably be more efficacious just to quote Hirst himself. He has recently said, "Anyone can be like Rembrandt. I don't think a painter like Rembrandt is a genius. It's about freedom and guts. It's about looking. It can be learnt. That's the great thing about art. Anybody can do it if you just believe. With practice you can make great paintings."

In case you were raised by scientists in an isolation booth, this is what a Rembrandt looks like. Can you tell where the light is coming from? Left? Right? Behind? Don't wear yourself out- it's one of the mysteries of the ages.

Another amazing thing about the greatest Northern European painter of all time was the way he painted women. While large bellies and thighs have not always been considered undesirable in a woman, the same cannot be said for cellulite and varicose veins. But Rembrandt van Rijn didn't give a shit. And have you ever seen an Artemis quite like this one?

According to Damien Hirst, anyone can paint like this- including you and, of course, he. And for what is possibly the first time in his career he plans on working hard not at aggressively marketing himself but at becoming a better artist. He is even approaching the endeavor with a slight dose of humility, admitting that "I definitely think it's early days for me painting. I don't think I've arrived."

I have to admit that I sort of admire this position that he is taking. Hell, if he really says he thinks he can, why not give him a chance? Let's not forget that before his days of producing bad art and good self-promotion he was a classically trained painter who attended both the Leeds College of Art and Design and Goldsmiths College. But what is this self-help crap about how "anybody can do it if you just believe"? Yes, there are certain obstacles that can be overcome. I like to think of myself as living proof that high-functioning autism isn't necessarily a death sentence for a normal life. But if you're a midget with spina bifida and an IQ of 70 then no matter how hard you believe in yourself you'll never become President of the United States. Sorry. And if you naturally suck as a painter then you'll never be able to paint like Rembrandt. Back in art school I knew several students who were determined to be painters. And those students worked harder than anyone else up to the day they flunked out because they just weren't good enough. The same goes for those who are just born to be engineers in spite of being pretty bad at math and science.

Others in the field agree. Dr. Julian Stallabrass of the Courtauld Institute cited Cézanne as an example of an artist whose work improved vastly over several decades, but also noted that "If you spend a lot of time drawing you will certainly improve. But that does not necessarily mean you'll succeed. There have always been many more artists than famous artists, and this is true all the more these days. There are a lot of art students working very hard, but not many of them will became well known." Amen.

Last October Hirst gave us a taste of what was to come with No Love Lost, an exhibition of twenty-five paintings at the Wallace Collection in London. Here are a few highlights:

Ooo, look at that wallpaper though! It was commissioned from Marie Antoinette's preferred manufacturers and paid for by Damien Hirst, who spent nearly a quarter of a million pounds from his own notoriously deep pockets getting the gallery ready for his big foray into serious painting.

Seriously, though, if these pictures were for a CD cover they wouldn't be bad. But they're not. They're somebody's first baby step towards becoming Rembrandt. And while my own opinion is probably too obvious to even mention, the critical reviews were atrocious. The London Times said this: "Hirst appears to hope that his heavy handed memento mori will make him part of the line-up of art historical tradition. But the artist who has made his reputation with shock now produces works that are shockingly bad." Yep.

But again, I say we should give him a chance. At the very least we'll have plenty more fodder for future Damien Hirst Sundays.

Kazimir Malevich

In the early twentieth century, the manifesto began to become very popular in organized art history movements. Manifestos were once the domain of philosophical and political movements, but now artists were writing 'em too. This heralded the birth of what we can call the "artist philosopher" (that's my own term), which is basically a painter whose work may be deep and meaningful but isn't something you'd want to hang on your wall.

For eight hundred years the Russians really didn't have anything to show us artwise except Candyland-looking basilicas and heavily gilded, sleepy-eyed icons. But that changed shortly before the Bolshevik Revolution with the coming of two new movements in Russian art, Suprematism and Constructivism. The lithographed red and black posters with lots of backwards "N"s and "R"s and the big solid statues of well-built women holding sickles that may come to your mind when you think of Soviet art belonged to the Constructivist movement. But its harbinger, Suprematism, was far less interesting. The movement's creator, Kazimir Malevich, is notable for his ability to crank out hundreds of paintings in a short period of time that basically all looked the same.

Kazimir Malevich, Red Square. 1915, oil on canvas.

Kazimir Malevich, Black Square. 1913, oil on canvas.

Kazimir Malevich, Suprematist Composition White on White. 1918, oil on canvas.

If you're somewhat afraid that you're missing something, or if you feel a tad ignorant because you just don't "get" it, never fear. Take the advice from someone who's more than a bit knowledgeable concerning this sort of thing and just don't read too much into it. They're squares. That's all. Just fucking squares. And if you ever got a chuckle from any of those eighties movies where some culture snob looks at a painting of a square and snobbishly remarks on how brilliant and thrilling it is while all the cool kids laugh about how he's really just an idiot, you have Malevich to thank.

But just for the sake of it, let's get to the topic of Malevich as a philosopher. To really strip it down to the bones, here's what a Suprematist thinks:

1. Nothing is more important (or "supreme") than feeling.
2. You cannot use art to produce feelings if your art is actually of something that exists in real life. Only master forms can produce feeling.
3. The square is the ultimate master form.

See, that's pretty simple, huh? What sort of "feelings" do Malevich's paintings invoke for you? Yep, I'm drawing a blank too.

All of this talk about art producing "feelings" and how you can't paint a rose or a bunch of guys in a boat and produce these "feelings" because only lines and squiggles can do that may remind you of the artistic philosophy of another artist, who was also a Russian by birth (but a German by all other definitions).

Wassily Kandinsky, Composition VII. 1913, oil on canvas.

Now THIS is what a non-objective painting should look like. Not only did it probably take more than fifteen minutes to complete, but it really does invoke feelings in the viewer. I feel a surge of creativity and inspiration when I look at it, but you may feel frustration, anger or indignation. That's the idea, y'know?

In my humble opinion (and that's the only one that matters here), we shouldn't even compare this Malevich dumbass to the Bauhaus color theorist and legendary art educator Josef Albers, who painted a whole series of "homages to the square."

Josef Albers, Homage to the Square. 1965, acrylic on canvas.

This may be an homage to the ultimate master form, yes, but it's all about color, not form. And yes, you could go to Michael's and buy a pre-stretched canvas and a few fifty cent bottles of Delta Ceramcoat acrylic and do one of these yourself- but depending on your decor it might look quite striking over your sofa.

Although he usually chose not to, Malevich could actually paint quite well. He painted many very good portraits and objective paintings before and after he founded the Suprematist movement. Of course, as far as the "after" part goes he really didn't have much choice; the Stalinist regime forbid all forms of nonrepresentational art, arguing that they were bourgeois. But he signed all of these paintings with a black square. And when he died in Leningrad in 1935 his body was displayed beneath his beloved black square. (Hmph... now I feel a little guilty for slagging him so badly. He must have really loved his squares.)

Felicien Rops

If it weren't for this magnificent website I might have never heard of the Belgian Symbolist Felicien Rops. (Oh, and if it's not too late, don't click on that unless you appreciate both tastelessness AND extreme stupidity, as I occasionally do.) The Rops lithograph featured on this site is obviously too banal for this blog, as I do set limits on human decency here, but it does currently have a place on my monitor's wallpaper.

Rops was both a Symbolist and a member of the Decadent movement, which also claimed artists such as Gustave Moreau and Aubrey Beardsley, as well as writers like Oscar Wilde and Charles Baudelaire. And to see some of his work there is no better term to describe it.

Felicien Rops, The Temptation of St. Anthony. 1878, etching and aquatint. Well, the temptations faced by St. Anthony Abbot in the desert of Egypt have been prominent fodder for art since the German Renaissance, but Schongauer, Grunewald and even Bosch didn't go this far. While I'm not sure, this is more than likely an illustration for Gustave Flaubert's book of the same name, which was published only a few years earlier. I have never read that book but from what I understand Anthony does face the supernatural trials of lust and death. Which might make this print a little more academic than one might initially think- and reiterates the Symbolist theme of the woman as the personification of evil, as does most of Rops's other work.

But, uh, I'm sorry. Skill level aside, the subject matter brings to mind something a freshman art school student might throw together to shock his professor. "Come on, I'm just trying to show my views on religion!" "And what are those?" "Uh, that it's, uh, pretty stupid!" I can't even count the number of dominatrix/crucifix combos I saw as an art student, all done by freshmen, of course. Nowadays the nameplate over Jesus' head reads "FUCK" rather than "EROS." (If the same kid does end up with a BFA without getting discouraged over having no talent and dropping out of school he'll usually look over his early work and say, "Whew, what was I thinking?") But you sure have to hand it to Felicien Rops- those little skeleton cherubim in the top left corner add the perfect touch.

Felicien Rops, Woman On a Rocking Horse. 1870, etching and aquatint. Although Rops liked blasphemy and Satanic references as much as the next guy, he appreciated plain ol' soft porn also. Eroticizing childhood is no new invention. (It may surprise some people that American women didn't shave their underarms until after World War I, when American doughboys returned with a taste for the prepubescence employed by French whores and insisted that we adopt it as well. Makes you want to put the razor away, huh?)

Felicien Rops, Pornocrates. 1896, etching and aquatint. This was probably Rops's best known etching; in it he embodied his views of the modern woman. And as Damien Hirst once said, "That is as far as the metaphor should go." Yep.

Epic Michelangelo-Destroying Fail

A word to the wise: If you plan on doing something extremely stupid, and you want to have a good insanity case when you make it to court, just scream "I AM JESUS CHRIST!" while you're doing it.

Michelangelo Buonarroti, La Pietà. 1499, marble.

Pietà is a generic term for a Madonna holding and weeping over her deceased son. Rogier Van Der Weyden, El Greco, and others have also painted and sculpted this scene. In fact, it forms the thirteenth Station of the Cross. But much like almost every other common subject Michelangelo has ever taken on, his is the most recognizable. It even has the distinction of being the only piece of his that was signed; he later regretted the pride involved in carving "Michelangelo Buonarroti, Florentine, made it" across her sash. While we know that Michelangelo made this one, there are seven authorized replicas out there, including two in the United States (in Saint Louis and Spring Lake, Michigan).

This hasn't been the luckiest sculpture; in 1736 four of the Virgin's fingers were restored after being broken off in a move. But it met its most unfortunate moment in 1972, on Pentecost Sunday, when a Hungarian geologist named Lazlo Toth managed to sneak a sledgehammer into Saint Peter's. People who knew Toth described him as looking like a poet (longish hair, goatee, et al.), said that he was always reading his Bible, and claimed that the only reason why he was in Rome in the first place was to speak publicly about the secrets of the Fatima prophecy (the Pope had promised to reveal them that year, but did not).

Possessing delusions of grandeur as well as the most Hungarian name possible, the disturbed geologist went for her face and arm while screaming that he was indeed the deceased man in the sculpture, risen from the dead. Due to his apparent insanity, he was never charged with the crime, but his deed did earn him a couple of years in an Italian psychiatric hospital. After his stay he was deported to Australia, where he had been living before the attack. (The extensive time he had spent studying in the remote Australian Outback might have been a contributor to his obvious insanity.)

The Virgin's arm, eyelid and nose were chipped off with Toth's sledgehammer. Some unfamiliar with the details of the attack were under the impression that she had been completely destroyed, with little chance of being restored to her original beauty. Well, seeing that the picture above was taken in 2005, those reports were exaggerated. Of course, just for safety's sake, the Virgin and her Son can only be seen behind bullet-proof acrylic today. (If only they could employ some sort of security precaution involving hammers in Saint Peter's, eh?)

And whatever happened to Lazlo Toth? Don Novello (best known for his portrayal of Father Guido on Saturday Night Live) published a book of bogus letters to celebrities and CEOs under the pseudonym Lazlo Toth. (It just sounds like a made-up name, doesn't it?) But the real Lazlo, who would be sixty-nine years old today if he is still alive, is believed to reside in Melbourne. One person who claims to have met him describes him as being very intelligent but was "a victim of knowledge and beliefs that he did not need" and says he lived like a hermit in the Bluemountains of New South Wales before suffering from a stroke that left him mostly paralyzed. No one knows for sure, of course, and that hasn't stopped dozens of Australians from facing accusations of being the real Lazlo Toth.

Grant Wood

Grant Wood, American Gothic. 1930, oil on board.

My fellow art history blogger N.C. recently wrote an excellent post on Grant Wood's ubiquitous American masterpiece. It inspired me to feature it myself.

This is probably the American Mona Lisa, or at the very least Edvard Munch's The Scream. You've seen this pose parodied in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, on Green Acres, and if you've ever been to Washington, DC on postcards featuring the President and First Lady (whomever they may be at the time). It's disgusting; wait about five hundred years and someone will take a print of American Gothic, draw a mustache on the wife and give it a catchy title that implies that the farmer has a hot ass. (If you're one of those smart alecks who's crying out "Hey, that's his daughter, not his wife!" then your concern will be addressed soon.)

Say what you like about Wood- he didn't care what anybody thought. Amidst the synchromism of Thomas Hart Benton and the shifty abstraction of Ben Shahn, he just painted the way he always had. But that's not to say that this painting is boring or prosaic- it's surprisingly complex and full of symbolism.

Where did he get the idea? Well, it all started with a small house in Eldon, Iowa built in the late nineteenth century North American style known as Carpenter Gothic, which was mainly characterized by its European Gothic-style windows. When Wood noticed it he decided to paint it, along with the kind of people he thought should live there. Here's the little white house that started it all (notice the dormer window).

So that's why it's called American GOTHIC then, even though you see no one wearing spikes or a dog collar. But Webster's gives a very interesting definition of the word "gothic" (well, five of them actually, but here's the interesting one): "Belong to or redolent of the Dark Ages: portentously gloomy or horrifying." Gloomy or horrifying... well, I think I can see it. That old farmer's looking at us with murder in his eyes. I wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of that pitchfork.

The models were Dr. Byron McKeeby, the Cedar Rapids dentist who cleaned Wood's teeth, and Wood's sister Nan, who was thirty three years Dr. McKeeby's junior. So yes, even though many scholars still see this as a matter of dispute, she is his daughter. Up until her death in 1990 Nan was devoted to dispelling the myth that she was supposed to be his wife; she found the idea that people thought she could be married to such an old man, and this one to boot, really gross. Grant, on the other hand, never commented on the issue.

And not unlike its viewers of today, art lovers of the 1930s assumed this painting was meant to be a parody of small-town life. It wasn't. In addition, Iowans were very upset about being generalized as pinched, grim-faced, puritanical Bible-thumpers. Good grief. Many people in my own state (that's Alabama) don't like the way we're depicted in art and media, but perhaps they could use a trip about fifty miles outside of the city limits for a dose of reality.

Ten Years Ago This Week

You might have missed it, but this week marks the ten year anniversary of one of the most important events in the history of bad art. Even if you don't keep up with the contemporary art world, you probably remember these events at least vaguely.

What happened this week in 1999? That was the week that the Sensation show opened in New York City at the Brooklyn Museum of Art. The show had originated in London, where it was fairly controversial (though for different reasons), but it was in the US where it really hit the fan. Quite literally! This was the show that integrated the words "elephant dung" into our vocabulary forever.

Everyone knew that a painting of the Virgin Mary that incorporated pachyderm waste had been displayed in New York, but most of these people had never actually seen it. Many were under the impression that this painting was smeared with the stuff, making it particularly sacrilegious. Of course, the very integrity of the medium makes that a little difficult- elephant dung is rather clumpy, and easier to simply paste onto a canvas than to smear. So if you're one of those who still hasn't seen the work that created all the fuss, here it is.

Chris Ofili, The Holy Virgin Mary. 1996. Oil, glitter, polyester resin, elephant dung, and decoupaged cutouts of genitalia and asses from pornographic magazines on linen.

Ofili, a British artist of Nigerian descent, first made a name for himself with glorious paintings such as 7 Bitches Tossed and The Legend of Captain Shit and the Black All-Stars (all of which also incorporate elephant dung), but it was the one above that won him the 1996 Turner Prize. He has explained that his use of his trademark material is reminiscent of animistic African religions, where it is used in ceremony. But many have explained it away as a modus operandi for illustrating the Virgin's humanity, much like how the artists of the High Renaissance attempted to do when making her into a modern, fashionable woman.

Fra Filippo Lippi, Madonna and Child with Angels. 1457, tempera on panel. Eh, I don't see much of a correlation. What many have forgotten through all of this heated controversy is that, unlike Fra Lippi, Ofili just doesn't know how to paint.

What is interesting is that in London this painting was barely a footnote. Marcus Harvey's Myra, a Chuck Close-style portrait of the child serial killer Myra Hindley made of children's handprints, was the piece that gallery officials had to seal behind plexiglas after it was vandalized in fury. But a 72 year old man was arrested in New York for smearing Ofili's Virgin with white paint, garnering it the same treatment for the remainder of the show. I don't see why it's worth getting arrested over- or why it deserves any virulent emotional reaction at all.

The controversy went even further. Mayor Rudolph Giuliani called it "sick stuff," stated that it "desecrated somebody's religion" (as if art hasn't been accused of doing the same thing for centuries), and famously exclaimed "There's nothing in the First Amendment that supports horrible and disgusting projects!" Whew. Ofili defended the work by saying, "Elephant dung is in itself quite a beautiful object."

After the US House of Representatives passed a non-binding resolution to end funding for the museum, Charles Saatchi, who owned all of the work in the exhibition, did get the publicity that he wanted- which was all that was important. I just wish that this sort of controversy could be created by a piece that's actually, well, good.

It never even occurred to anyone that there were a total of 110 pieces in this exhibition by 42 different artists, or that the show as a whole really wasn't all that bad.

Damien Hirst Sunday #9

While not for everybody, for some the best way to celebrate a twelve year recovery from testicular cancer spreading to the brain is to cross the finish line at the Tour de France on a bike with dead things glued to it.

Damien Hirst has finally officially branded himself- while we've already seen his skateboards, which with all honesty were pretty cool, we now have a hot pink bicycle covered in real butterfly wings. Sorry, little princesses- only one was made, and it was for Lance Armstrong to finish the 2009 Tour de France on.

Several artists, such as Shepard Fairey and Yosimoto Nara, designed bicycles to sell at auction for Armstrong's cancer charity. But this was the one he chose to ride. Armstrong usually rides a black and white TREK Madone bike with the yellow "Live Strong" logo, and most of the other artists used the same color scheme in their own bikes. But after he saw the TREK that Hirst had put his finishing touches on, he was "speechless."

So what went into this monstrosity? One top-of-the-line TREK Madone racing bicycle, hundreds of dead butterflies (including the Blue Morpho and yellow and black Buttercup), and well, that's about it. The butterflies shown here were raised in an unknown location, killed by unknown means, and had their wings torn off and laminated in an unappealing pattern on the frame of the bicycle. In Hirst's own words: "The technical problems were immense, as I wanted to use real butterflies and not just pictures of butterflies, because I wanted it to shimmer when the light catches it like only real butterflies do, and we were trying not to add any extra weight to the bike." I guess when you're dealing with something this extremely technical, even a billionth of an ounce could throw it off. However, I don't see the butterfly wings being any heavier than the ink that would have been used to print pictures of them. But I don't claim to know anything about process engineering so I won't comment any further on that.

A lot of people (well, I guess just PETA) didn't like this one bit. The animal rights group called this bicycle "barbaric and horrific" and accused it of "ruining the essence of this man's very spirit." While I agree with very little of what that group says, I think they do have a point. It probably is near to impossible to create a bicycle (or any other mass-produced product) that doesn't contain animal products of any kind. But when you've built your legacy on celebrating life, is it really that tasteful to advertise that living creatures died so that you could ride a particularly tacky bike? Perhaps it's an obtuse memento mori of sorts.

I have read enough issues of People in the dentist's office to know that Lance Armstrong isn't perfect in any way. But he never struck me as a person with particularly bad taste. So it is apparently time to rethink that notion. I have been looking at this and wondering if there's any way to make it look somewhat more aesthetically pleasing. Maybe change the hot pink color scheme to something less vulgar? Take the butterfly wings off the tires? Nope. It can't be done.

I think I will just stick to the yellow bracelet.

John Singer Sargent

John Singer Sargent, Self Portrait. 1906, oil on canvas.

I have been writing one of my papers on John Singer Sargent, and I have grown to really like him. Possibly the best portrait painter since Velázquez (whom he modeled himself after), Sargent painted over 900 portraits in his lifetime, including far and away the greatest official portrait of a United States President. (And what is very interesting is that, to put it short, he and Teddy did NOT get along.)

Sargent came from a very old American family- his ancestors were Puritans who arrived shortly after the Mayflower did, and his family was extremely proud of their heritage. While they were not hideously wealthy, his parents had the means to spend their lives roaming around Europe without having to worry about working. So Sargent was born in Florence, spent most of his childhood in Italy and France, and did not set foot on American soil until he was 21. As an adult his main base of operations was in London, though he spent ample time in Paris and Venice as well; in spite of having major commissions in Washington, DC and Boston, he never lived in the United States. But he never considered himself to be anything except an American. Toward the end of his life he even turned down the opportunity to be knighted, as that would have involved forgoing his American citizenship. An American spirit has no geographic boundaries.

Now the rant begins. Part of being an historian of any sort involves picking and poking at stuff that's really none of your business. Sargent never married, although as a man of high society he probably could have had his pick of the available dames. He also had no romantic relationships of note and was very private about his personal life. And even though he was a guy, he was not afraid to paint male nudes, some of which were rather sensuous.

John Singer Sargent, Portrait of Thomas E. McKellar. 1917, oil on canvas. This painting also has the distinction of being one of the very few nude paintings of a black man from this time period.

John Singer Sargent, Tommies Bathing. 1918, watercolor and graphite on paper.

For this reason plenty of scholars have pretty much assumed that he was a homosexual. No one seems to even notice that he painted similarly sensual female nudes:

John Singer Sargent, Egyptian Girl. 1917, oil on canvas.

The French painter Jacques-Émile Blanche once said about Sargent that his sex life was "notorious in Paris, and positively scandalous in Venice... he was a frenzied bugger." I'm no expert on antiquated dirty words, so I still haven't gotten the best handle on the meaning of the word "bugger." I am fairly certain that it involves anal sex, but whether it specifically denotes dude-on-dude action is unclear to me.

I don't think it's even worth mentioning that there's nothing wrong with being gay or that a large percentage of history's most brilliant artists were openly gay; everyone knows that. But whether Sargent was or wasn't was a matter that he apparently wished to take to the grave. It did not influence the majority of his work- so why do art historians seem to find any importance in it at all? Did Sargent speak with an effeminate voice? Did he buy matching wallets and belts? Did he wave his hand in a flippant gesture and refer to Teddy Roosevelt and his other sitters as "Miss Thang"? Who honestly gives a shit?

Disrespect for the dead is not acceptable in art history. Especially when it's a dead person who, as I have mentioned earlier, is someone I have really grown to like.

Jackson Pollock

It's always cool and refreshing when a long-dead artist makes big news in the current day. This week, Jackson Pollock did just that.

Jackson Pollock, Mural. 1943, oil on canvas. If you've seen the movie Pollock, then you probably remember this one as the huge commission given to him by Peggy Guggenheim. According to the film, he stood at the huge 8' by 20' canvas for months before he finally attacked it in an orgy of creative fury. Estimated to be worth $140 million (like the infamous No. 5, 1948), it has been owned by the University of Iowa since 1948. (And if you haven't seen Pollock, you should- great movie.)

But if you believe this is merely a work of pure abstraction, according to art historian Henry Adams and his very observant wife you are mistaken. In his article in October's Smithsonian, it was his wife who originally looked at the painting (doubtlessly not for the first time) and noticed that Pollock had embedded his own name within its spires and swirls.

Okay... before you look at the picture below (if you haven't already given this entry a read-through) be sure to look at the one above to see if you can find it yourself.

Alright, give up? Well, here's what you're supposed to see.

There it is, people. Sachcdon Pollouh! Why has it taken nearly seventy years for anyone to notice?

Francis Bacon

Back in Ye Olde Days of youth subcultures, when "emo" and "goth" were two distinctly different concepts (I guess I'm really showing my wrinkles here), I kinda sorta fit into the goth category. Of course, I was far too cool to use that word. Labels are for poseurs, after all.

Even back then I loved art, and I tried to make it clear to everyone that I knew more than the next kid did about it. And there's an unwritten law that kids who are goths, artsy fartsies, AND nerds are required to love and cherish the works of Francis Bacon, who was clearly one of the darkest artists of the twentieth century. And so I did.

Francis Bacon, Pope Innocent X (Study after Velázquez). 1951, oil on linen. This is indeed a study of the rather innocuous portrait of the Pope that Diego Velázquez painted in 1650. Bacon was so drawn to it that he did many studies of it, but with the Pope screaming as if in extreme pain. What or whom is he screaming at? Or was Bacon merely fascinated with the concept of a Pope screaming? That's been a matter of dispute since 1951. This painting has become such an icon that, like "Whistler's Mother," it's become known to most people by a name other than its own (you might have heard it referred to as "The Screaming Pope"). As Life Magazine simply put it in their 1992 eulogy of Bacon, "He painted despair."

Francis Bacon, Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion. 1944, oil on board. It's interesting how these figures are at the base of a crucifixion, not the crucifixion. So don't misinterpret this as a religious work. In fact, Bacon based them on the Three Furies from Aeschylus's Oresteia.

Francis Bacon, Painting I. 1946, oil on linen. Some have considered this to be his uncontested masterpiece; after all, it includes everything his paintings were known for. Blood, meat, brutality, despair, mystery, the token figure in black, etc. What's weird about this painting is that it began as a painting of a chimpanzee hiding in the grass; Bacon took a few turns in his painting process, probably asked himself "Hmm, I wonder what would happen if I did this....", and voilá, a symphony of darkness and misery in oil paint.

Many people have argued that, even though this painting began as some sort of jungle scene, it's actually supposed to be about war. Hey, it was done right after a war, and it is pretty brutal, so why not? The only truly heated argument I have ever had with an art history professor was about this- she probably should have known better than to contend with a goth kid when it came to Francis Bacon. Obviously a member of the school of thought that believes any bleak painting done between 1935 and 1950 is about the horrors of war, she taught our class that "this is a painting about war." When I respectfully pointed out that Bacon could have painted a work such as this at any point in his career (without even mentioning the bit about the chimpanzee), she replied (with a stare that suggested daggers), "It's about WAR." And oddly enough, that became the only art history class that I ever made less than an A in. Not that Bacon had anything to do with it, of course.

But just because his paintings were depressing doesn't mean that he didn't know how to have a good time. Here are some fun facts about him:

• He was indeed a collateral descendant (super-great nephew) of the 16th century British philosopher and scientist who shares his name.
• As a boy he bought a medical book called Diseases of the Mouth. He read it until he had it memorized, and the appalling things one can have happen in their mouth became a great inspiration in his work. (This can be seen in the work above.)
• He once said that he wanted his figures' screams to look "like a sunset by Monet." Did he succeed? You decide.
• He wore dresses and heavy makeup in public at a time when such behavior was not accepted even in creative circles. I don't want to reinforce any stereotypes about guys who wear dresses and the types of artwork they should be producing, but, well, looking at the paintings above can't you say this surprises you maybe just a little bit?
• He was unfortunate enough to be born with sandy light brown hair (the poor man), so he dyed his hair using shoe polish. He also whitened his teeth using toilet cleaner.
• He was rather fond of alcohol, but his more unorthodox addictions included gambling and shellfish.
• One legend about him (that I hope is true, because it's a pretty good story): He supposedly caught a man trying to break into his studio to rob him. He gave him a choice concerning his immediate future- either Bacon could call the police and have him arrested, or the man could go to bed with him. It was the beginning of a relationship (of some sort) that lasted seven years.
• Last and least, Bacon is Damien Hirst's favorite artist; he owns one of the world's most venerable collections of Bacon's work. Hirst has even cited Bacon as a major influence, creating an installation consisting of an umbrella, some meat, and a few other items from Painting I all piled together in a vitrine. I just try to keep reminding myself that it's not Francis Bacon's fault. It's not Francis Bacon's fault.