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.

Damien Hirst Sunday #8

Now maybe you've been reading this blog from the get-go and you still need proof that quite literally anything can be considered art. Thou shalt need no longer.

Damien Hirst, My Way. 1989, pill bottles (that may or may not be empty) and a cupboard.

Wow, 1989... that was a long time ago. I was entering the fifth grade, some of my peers in college were just being born, and Damien Hirst was a relatively unknown artist. But Charles Saatchi could already see that the tripe he was producing would someday be uber-big. So he bought the object you see above for several thousand pounds. He got a bargain, as it sold for $354,500 at Christie's a mere ten years later.

Hirst elaborated on this theme rather extensively over the years; his fascination with prescription drugs led to the enormous installation Pharmacy. The Tate Gallery is the proud owner, having purchased it for about $20 million.

Well, here it is, folks. Kinda looks like a real pharmacy, huh? Actually, there are a few differences. See those neat-looking bottles of colored water sitting on top of the pharmacist's desk? Those are supposed to represent the Four Elementals- Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. The blue one's probably Water; I don't really know enough about pseudo-science to speculate on the others. Hirst probably doesn't either.

However, if you look further there's even more symbolism. This cool gadget- you might have one on your back porch- is the Insect-o-cutor. It kills insects in real life, but in the world of Damien Hirst it "symbolises some sort of god, something that kills without mercy, without emotion, without choice... visitors to the gallery act as flies, people as flies, like an overview of life without emotion, that is as far as the metaphor should go." Yep. I was thinking the same thing. Weren't you?

But wait... there's more! Those library-like swivel stools hold little bowls of honeycomb, which are supposed to attract flies, which can then be killed without mercy, emotion, or choice by the Divine Insect-o-cutor. (When this brilliant piece was originally displayed in New York holes were cut in the walls so that actual flies could enter for that very purpose. Cool, huh?) And there's more! The honey also symbolizes the world of medicine before the age of modern pharmaceuticals. Get it?

And, of course, this is also the piece that was vandalized by the great Cartrain, who stole the most valuable box of pencils in history last summer. Geez, if I was sixteen and had the chance to pilfer this I would have nicked a bottle of Xanax instead.

Now, here's the next question: How would you like to eat at a restaurant inspired by this piece? And not only that, but one that serves traditional English food? Well, you had your chance, but you missed it. A joint venture by Hirst and PR guru Matthew Freud, Pharmacy Restaurant opened in Notting Hill, London in 1997. Hirst held creative control over every aspect of the design; the medicine cabinet walls, the aspirin-shaped barstools, and the Prada-designed surgical coats worn by the waiters.

It gained publicity (and possibly business too) when the Royal Pharmaceutical Society expressed its qualms over how similar it was to a regular pharmacy (the concern was that it might confuse people). Its name also breached the 1968 Medicines Act, which puts restrictions on the very use of the word "pharmacy"; it changed its name to Army Chap. (Don't get it? Mix up the letters in "pharmacy.") When it closed its doors altogether without warning in 2003, Hirst came out better than anyone; the artwork and furniture that he designed went on to net him £11 million at auction.

But good grief... this guy pickles cows in formaldehyde. Why should he be running a restaurant? Gross. (But then again, English food is pretty bad.)

Epic Picasso-Selling Fail

(I will note here that in thirty posts I have not once used the term "epic fail." That pattern ends here.)

Pablo Picasso, Le Rêve (The Dream). 1932, oil on canvas.

You might have once displayed a print of this painting in your make-out van, or maybe it graces the cover of the catalog for the mail-order company that you buy your sex toys from. Either way, there is no denying its charged erotic undertones. Marie-Thérèse Walter, Picasso's half-his-age mistress of the time, is shown in slumber, her loose-fitting blouse revealing one of her breasts and her hands lying in her lap in a masturbatory fashion. Some people have been able to see a penis in the left side of her shadowed face. And some believe it's supposed to be Picasso's own penis. Those people really need to get their heads out of the gutter.

But it's a gorgeous painting, definitely one for the ages, and it might even be one of the few where a little Freudian analysis might be forgivable. Once the sixth most expensive painting ever sold, it came very close to making it to our current list. But a little ignorance kept that from happening.

It belongs to Steve Wynn, who also owns The Golden Nugget, The Mirage, Treasure Island, Encore, and a host of other Las Vegas casinos. While he has amassed a very impressive art collection (including paintings by Gauguin, Matisse, Manet, and a possibly authentic Vermeer), he considers Le Rêve to be its centerpiece, even considering naming one of his resorts after it. He nevertheless couldn't pass up the chance to sell it to Steven A. Cohen (remember him?) for $139 million in 2006, which would have made it the world's most expensive painting at the time.

But the fates didn't have it in mind for Mr. Wynn; while showing it to some friends only days before the anticipated sale, he knocked it with his elbow and created a six inch gash right through Marie-Thérèse's left arm. Whew! That's some powerful elbow work there! Sounds a little more like how someone might behave at a UFC match than around a $139 million painting. After a repair job that racked up $90,000, Wynn decided to take this mishap as a sign that he should hold onto it for a while.

Steve Wynn's friends, including Nora Ephron, have defended him, citing a genetic degenerative eye condition that affects his peripheral vision and makes it difficult for him to determine distance. But maybe owning a Picasso is like having kids or driving a car- some people just shouldn't be allowed to do it.

What Are the World's Most Expensive Paintings... And Why?

Once in my younger years I recall looking through some old Look and Saturday Evening Post magazines that I had found in a trunk in my grandparents' basement. One article mentioned a painting by Diego Velázquez that had recently sold for $2.4 million. At the time (I believe this was the early 1970s) it was the most expensive painting ever purchased.

Today, that's laughable. Now don't get me wrong- I once rode high for a year after someone paid $600 for one of my own canvases- but even when adjusted for inflation $2.4 million for a great painting is a pittance. And a Velázquez to boot!

What makes determining the most valuable painting in the world difficult is that most extremely high-end paintings (such as the Old Masters' or icons such as Guernica) are not for sale. In 1962 The Mona Lisa was insured for $100 million, which with inflation figured in makes it worth about $670 million today. But no matter what you're willing to pay for it, it will probably never be yours.

But here are the ten most expensive paintings ever purchased by individuals or foundations at auctions or private sales- along with a brief explanation why each might have sold for so much. One thing that is interesting to note is that, although all prices are adjusted for inflation, nine of the ten were purchased in the past twenty years, with four (including all of the top three) purchased in 2006. This may insinuate that our appetites for spending have become a little less satiable in recent years (hey, look at the credit crisis!). I will also add that these figures are truthful as of September 16, 2009; while the number one spot on our list has retained its title for nearly three years, its predecessor kept it for only five months.

10. Vincent Van Gogh, Portrait de l'artiste sans barbe. 1889. Sold 1998, $94.6 million (adjusted, as are all prices here).

Why So Much? Well, it's a self-portrait by Van Gogh. And he doesn't have a beard. Come ON now.

In my personal opinion, Van Gogh's work is somewhat overrated. But this is one artist whose legend cannot be separated from his work. Whom else do you think of when you correlate the words "brilliant" and "tortured"? He went mad from eating chrome yellow paint. He cut off his earlobe (not his entire ear) and mailed it to a prostitute whom he was in love with (although he was also a closet homosexual... hmmm). He painted nearly eight hundred paintings in his lifetime and sold only one. He offed himself at the age of 37- about ten years before he would become one of the most influential artists of his time. Oh, what a sad man. And sad men are the ones who are often taken the most seriously as artists.

Van Gogh's self-portraits are rare- while he painted many, only a fraction survive- so they command a huge price. This one, however, has garnered the highest sum.

9. Vincent Van Gogh, Portrait of Joseph Roulin. 1889. Sold 1989, $100.8 million.

Why So Much? Generally a loner who didn't have very many friends, Van Gogh was very close to the Roulin family when he lived in Paris Arles (thank you Nico), painting dozens of portraits of Joseph (usually in his postmaster uniform), his wife, and their three children. This particular one was not among the most recognizable nor the most impressive (although that wallpaper sure is fancy). So let's just file this one under "who the hell knows."

8. Pablo Picasso, Dora Maar au Chat. 1941. Sold 2006, $101.8 million.

Why So Much? Picasso holds a Guinness Book record as the most prolific artist of all time; over his eight decade career he produced over a million works. Before you accuse me of shitting you, at least half of these were prints from editions; nonetheless, he was still known to produce as many as six paintings a day. So why would a painting by someone who obviously has so much work floating around be worth this much? Well, influence wise Picasso was the greatest artist of the twentieth century, and this is one of the paintings that make us see why.

It's a rare three quarter pose of Dora Maar (his most mysterious mistress; I have discussed her before) and it has a dramatic, almost sculptural quality in its line and shape. Even by Picasso's standards, this is simply a good painting. If Les Demoiselles d'Avignon showed us everything Cubism could be, this painting embodied what it became. (I'm sorry- but I like it.)

So who owns it? No one knows for sure- although rumor has it that it's Georgian mining magnate Boris Ivanishvili, who sold a bank that he owned in Moscow for about half a billion dollars a week before the auction and has since then sort of kept to himself.

7. Vincent Van Gogh, Irises. 1889. Sold 1987, $102.3 million.

Why So Much? It's quite possibly the most famous painting in the top ten; there's a good possibility that you've owned an umbrella or ceramic mug printed with it. And Van Gogh painted it while in an asylum, for crying out loud. He referred to this painting as "the lightning conductor for my illness," meaning that painting it was all that kept him from going insane.

6. Pablo Picasso, Garçon à la Pipe. 1905. Sold 2004, $118.9 million.

Why So Much? This was one of the finest example of Picasso's Rose Period, which immediately preceded his invention of Cubism; but its sale at such a high price has still been a quandary to many. Said Picasso expert Pepe Karmel, "I'm stunned that a pleasant, minor painting could command a price appropriate to a real masterwork by Picasso. This just shows how much the marketplace is divorced from the true values of art." Uh... damn.

5. Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Bal du moulin de la Galette. 1876. Sold 1990, $128.8 million.

Why So Much? The oldest painting on the list, this rather well known and optimistic snapshot of Impressionist life was sold to Ryoei Saito, the honorary chairman of Japan's Daishowa Paper. And he must have been enamored with it- he announced that when he died he planned on being cremated along with it. After an enormous public outcry to this statement he claimed he was only joking. That was probably bullshit, but hopefully we'll never know, as when Saito experienced a little financial difficulty he had to hand it over to a Swiss bank as collateral on a loan.

4. Vincent Van Gogh, Portrait of Dr. Gachet. 1890. Sold 1990, $136.1 million.

Why So Much? What do we know about the subject of the painting? His name was Dr. Paul Gachet, he was a Parisian physician who worked with mental patients (including Van Gogh), and in Van Gogh's opinion he really wasn't that good at what he did. In fact, Vinnie once said of his doctor, "[He's] sicker than I am, I think, or shall we say just as much." It is interesting that Van Gogh painted his doctor in the same style as Delacroix's paintings of Torquato Tasso in the madhouse.

This painting passed hands with about eight owners, including Herman Goering (of course, in his case it was more along the lines of theft). Ultimately, this was another purchase by Ryoei Saito, which was also destined to join him in the crematorium before his creditors stepped in.

3. Gustav Klimt, Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I. 1907. Sold 2006, $144.4 million.

Why So Much? Now even for Klimt that is a lot of damn gold. He spent three years working on this piece, putting it amongst the finest of his oeuvre without a doubt. The wife of a wealthy Jewish industrialist, Adele left this painting and others that she had commissioned to the Austrian State Gallery in her will. They never made it there though; after the Nazi occupation of Austria, her family was forced to flee to Switzerland and their art collection was looted. After the war, a huge legal battle began between the Austrian government and Adele's nephews and nieces, including Maria Altmann. Many years and millions of dollars in court fees later, the painting was Altmann's, and she was free to sell it to cosmetics tycoon Ronald Lauder for an obscene amount of money.

Lauder bought it to display in his Neue Gallerie, though it made its debut in his ownership at MoMA, where visitors were charged $50 for tickets just to see it. It may sound exorbitant just to see one painting, but hey, I'd fork it out. Well, as long as I got to touch it. Look at all that gold. It's begging for my greasy fingerprints...

2. Willem de Kooning, Woman III. 1953. Sold 2006, $147 million.

Why So Much? It's super abstract, mildly misogynist, revolutionary for its time, and your kid could probably do it, right? There was a friendly battle going on for many years between de Kooning and Jasper Johns over who was going to be the world's most expensive living artist. In 1997 de Kooning had to bow out when he ceased to be a living artist.

Formerly in the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art in Iran, it was removed after the revolution; it wasn't to Khomeini's taste. It somehow ended up in David Geffen's ownership, who went on to sold it to hedge fund manager Steven A. Cohen, who's also the owner of history's most expensive dead shark (you know the one). Since Cohen apparently has little actual taste, his motive in spending so much on this piece was probably to show the world how rich he is.

And now for the most expensive painting of all time... by the artist who, according to de Kooning, "has broken the ice for us."

Ready?

Drumroll, please...

1. Jackson Pollock, No. 5, 1948. 1948. Sold 2006, $149.6 million.

Why So Much? Look kids, I know you're disappointed, and I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do about it; if I had about $150 million more than I have I'd go take Dora Maar au Chat off the hands of that Georgian guy. Then I wouldn't have to list this ketchup and mustard- looking thing as the most expensive painting in the world.

Okay, now to be a little more serious. Believe it or not, Jackson Pollock didn't paint that much. He died at the age of 44; his struggles with alcoholism and mental illness kept him from being as productive as he could have been. His trademark style of "action painting" accounted for a small percentage of his overall works- believe it or not, he couldn't whip out several of these a day. If you ever see a video of him painting (there's a good one here) then you will see that his work was not as random as you might think; every brush stroke was carefully thought. As few paintings as he actually did, even fewer are still around. Collectors expect his work to only rise in value as the years go by.

And after all, he was the one to break the ice.