While Eldon's cartoons themselves easily rank a 5 out of 5 stars, I was somewhat disappointed in this book's lack of focus on the man himself, rather While Eldon's cartoons themselves easily rank a 5 out of 5 stars, I was somewhat disappointed in this book's lack of focus on the man himself, rather than the cartoons. Only perhaps 10 of the 220 pages are devoted to biography...the rest is all cartoons. I should add that I'm reading only the book (the accompanying CD is vanished) and that it's possible this lack is fleshed out on the disc, but I'm more of a book person than a cd person anyway...if I'd wanted to watch a CD I would have bought a movie. I like my books to be books.
And, back to the book, I was also bothered by how Dedini's cartoons were gathered into themes. I wish cartoon editors would cease that annoying system of compilation. If I'm reading a themed section of cartoons entitled, "Parents and Offspring" then I know that, without doubt, the next page will hold a cartoon of that theme. And that robs cartoons / gags/ jokes of their spontaneity. Humor is largely based on catching you off guard, twisting expectations, and any attempt to categorize humor necessarily robs a reader of that element.
While it's nice to peruse a compendium of my favorite artist's work, there were two major problems with this work.
The first is unfortunately inherentWhile it's nice to peruse a compendium of my favorite artist's work, there were two major problems with this work.
The first is unfortunately inherent in van Gogh's work, and that is how printed facsimiles of his paintings never come close to the full register of color and sheer power of the originals. I was again and again taken by how his paintings, in this book, fail to really move me, while those same paintings in real life cause my breath to quicken and my heart to beat stronger, and I honestly feel better about humanity as a whole after seeing Vincent's work. But, on these pages? Ehhh.
Still, that's not a reason to dock stars from the rating. I can hardly expect Taschen to include an original Van Gogh painting with each book, and even if they did it would probably put the retail price a biiiiiiiiit out of my range.
My real problem with the book itself is another inherent problem, this one inherent to art books as a whole. I am simply bored to death of people telling me what Vincent van Gogh (or any other artist) was trying to achieve.
This is an example of the interior writing, with the author here speaking of van Gogh's cornfield paintings.
"It was in order to offer the cornfield as a source of strength, as consolation in the despondency that inevitably accompanies suffering, that van Gogh painted his enclosed fields. For the time being, the dark horizon of sorrow is lost to view. The field and the horizon as metaphors of the simultaneity of comfort and grief as (when incorporated into paintings) central motifs in the pictures where van Gogh went furthest in locating paradox in spatial principles."
Wha?
There is only one type of artist who would ever step back from a canvas and, with an air of satisfaction, pronounce, "This painting is where I've gone the furthest in locating paradox in spatial principles." That type of artist is known, to me, as, "An Artist Who Needs A Smacking."
And yet the above example is but a small snippet, chosen at random. Such writing permeates the book, and is the chief reason why, about 20% of the way into the book, I began to skip large passages. Then, about 60% of the way into the book, I began to leap even larger passages. By the end of the book I was merely flipping through the pages, looking at the pretty pictures.
But, for all that, the picture sure are pretty. ...more
First off, I know this book is volume one and covers the artistic life of Krigstein from the early years to the end of his work in comics---BUT---the First off, I know this book is volume one and covers the artistic life of Krigstein from the early years to the end of his work in comics---BUT---the ending was far too abrupt. I was reading along, enjoying myself, amazed at Krigstein's prowess at pissing off editors, and then, with 50 pages still to go in the book, came a sentence of, "His days in comics were numbered."
And that was it. Finito. The rest of the book being only art reproductions and indexes. Left me high and dry.
Beyond that, my only frustrations with the book were not the author's fault. It was Krigstein and his constantly unbending desire to piss people off. Look, I work in the comics industry, and I too yearn to do glorious work that will shatter the foundations of literature, but I know when to back off. I currently work in the "Marvel Adventures" line, and my comics have to be done-in-one plots. Fine, I work within those boundaries. No matter how much I would like to have them give me five issues to tell a story, or have my one single issue balloon to three times normal size, there are very solid reasons that can't happen. And NONE of those reasons are that my editors are being unreasonable assholes (which they aren't---they're very nice people). It's just the way page counts work. Yet, Krigstein, again and again, would transform 5 pages of solicited artwork into 7 pages or more, all the while demanding he get even more pages, then getting frustrated and/or angry with the editors for their obstinate refusals. Damn Bernie, they CAN'T give it to you. They'd like to, but they CAN'T.
Ahh, but he's a genius, so I'll forgive him, just as his editors did, as long as they were able.
The book left me chomping not only for more Krigstein, but also for his paintings. I've long known of his talent in the field of comic art (an original page of his, from his "Marco Polo" story, hangs on my wall) but I was unaware of how haunting his paintings could be. I'm very much looking forward to the 2nd volume, due out in August, which delves more into the painterly side of Krigstein. ...more
Often tries to be a little too insightful, leading to entire chapters speculating on things that MIGHT have influenced Herge's Tin Tin.
And the book dOften tries to be a little too insightful, leading to entire chapters speculating on things that MIGHT have influenced Herge's Tin Tin.
And the book does something I found extremely annoying---the captions under each photo or piece of art were exactly taken word for word from the text, so that as I read along, for instance, I'd look at a repo panel from Tintin and the Picaros with a caption of "In Tintin and the Picaros the streets of Tapiocapolis offer a setting for the sculpture of Marcel Arnould and---etc. etc. and then as I read the text for the page I'd run across the exact same passage. This would happen again and again.
Incidentally, the above example is from a chapter on Herge's passion for art, and it was a sad chapter in my mind. Herge had abysmal taste in art, falling in for the whole Warhol crowd, and "artists" like Lucio Fontana and Serge Poliakoff. Herge yearned to be as "important" as their like, which is so amazing to me, as the man (Herge) had more artistic talent in his nose hairs than the whole Warhol crowd had in their total possession.
Actually, I should back away from that. Warhol did have talent, as witnessed in his early illustration work, but he threw away Warhol the artist in order to become Warhol the Artiste. Shame, that.
Back on track, this book was middle of the road, often over-reaching into speculative boundaries, but when it stayed on track it was a worthy successor to Farr's more cohesive book, Tintin: The Complete Companion...more
It took me over a month to finish this book, slowly working my way, an essay or two at a time. For me, it was an interesting look at the Emperor's NewIt took me over a month to finish this book, slowly working my way, an essay or two at a time. For me, it was an interesting look at the Emperor's New Clothes school of art, art that exists only because we are told that it is art, and if we disagree we are not holding an opinion, but are simply uninformed enough to possess one. Bah! I spit on that! I am a spitter!
I was attracted to the book simply because of the John Currin cover. Currin is one of my favorite artists of the new generation, along with Lisa Yuskavage and Dave Cooper. Unfortunately, in the book I was bombarded by artists who hand out snowballs on the streets of New York, or put a candy bowl in a gallery, all as a way of expressing inter-societal relationships in the modern age. HA! Have I mentioned that I am a spitter? I spit again!
What's saddest of all is that Schjeldahl seems to be too educated to fall for this artistic tomfoolery. Yet the man can apparently look me in the face and tell me that Agnes Martin was a brilliant artist. Anyone who truly believes Agnes Martin was either brilliant OR an artist is suspect, and yet Schjeldahl believes both to be true. Sigh. Do we not notice the emperor's tallywacker flying free?
Here's an easy tip...if the artist HAS an artist's statement at all, then they probably suck. The only proper artist statement is, "I dunno. I do it because I have to."
My thoughts are that the problem with modern art is education itself. We're all afraid of looking dumb, and when members of academia tell us that such and such artist is brilliant, and that we're fools if we don't genuflect our agreement, then the vast majority of people tow the line. It takes the "uninformed hick" off the street to tell the honest truth...namely that, yes, your three year old child COULD do that.
So...one star for having a smattering of actual artists in the book, and one star out of sympathy for having to, in a regular New Yorker column, pick out talented artists from the current poser-heavy crop. With such a demanding and thankless task, I suppose I'd pick out a few zeros as well.
The girls are nicely real. The photography is competent, though not inspired. My main complaints are the fuzziness of many of the photos---yes, yes, IThe girls are nicely real. The photography is competent, though not inspired. My main complaints are the fuzziness of many of the photos---yes, yes, I know that's supposedly adding to the "voyeur" aspect, but I find such tricks to be just that---tricks---and I have little time for them, and I'm additionally bothered by how often the voyeur aspect, which is the book's stated them, is discarded. It happens when the girls are obviously aware of the camera, and it happens when the girls are obviously caught "unawares" in very posed fashion, and it happens when the photographs are taken from positions where the girls simply have to be aware of the camera.
That said, kudos to Kern for taking photographs of women. And I mean women, not just mascara-immersed fembots masquerading as women, but real and thoughtful individuals. ...more
I've been happy with the recent photographic trend (fostered by such as Richard Kern, the Suicide Girls, and amateur photography on the internet) in lI've been happy with the recent photographic trend (fostered by such as Richard Kern, the Suicide Girls, and amateur photography on the internet) in leaving behind the floating fantasy world of the female (and male) nude and depicting the (un)fair sex not only au natural within a believable environment---often, and in the case of this book, the woman's own apartment.
I picture this as an amazing leap forward, akin to when zoos went from holding animals in concrete enclosures to crafting complete environments in order to provide context for the creature's life in the wild. Suddenly a whole new appreciation for the subject matter arises. What was once alien now becomes approachable.
Of course, dash it, my whole analogy breaks down because I'm becoming ill-favored of zoos, but the point is that this new approach to nude photography is finally giving a dimension of individuality and personality to the nude photography subject. What was once depriving the female nude of her human side is now making her seem all the more so. When a woman is photographed in the nude, with the 1970's Penthouse fuzzy quality, seen in some splendid seraglio setting, or some nigh Disney-esque meadow, the woman became unapproachable, a foreign creature, unattainable, unknowable, a creature of a fantasy world.
But when a woman is photographed sans clothing in her own apartment, she becomes (I think gloriously) an everyday human being. Lounging naked amidst a mess she should have cleaned up, New Yorker magazines and well-worn shoes and with (I find this sexy) a bookshelf for a background, there's more of a human connection. I applaud that connection.
And that (lengthy preamble aside) is what drew me to peruse this book. And at its best, it does just that. Oddly, especially because what I've said above is the stated goal of this book, that individuality is often cast aside. The photographs are often drawn in so close on the woman that the apartment, the background, the human context, has little impact. Moreover, after letting the setting exist to make the women human, they are often posed in such coquettish positions that they, regardless of setting, transform into those 1970's Penthouse Pets, or even 1970's Hustler Playmates.
So, while I give the book's premise five stars, I can only give the book's execution, and the book itself, three stars. ...more
This has definitely made me a Yuskavage convert. (Hmmm, a Yuskavagite, or Yuskavagerian---what's the proper term). She has a caricaturist's ability toThis has definitely made me a Yuskavage convert. (Hmmm, a Yuskavagite, or Yuskavagerian---what's the proper term). She has a caricaturist's ability to strip women down to both their physical and mental minimums, and then stress those aspects into paintings that scream of the feminine.
And the reoccurring themes of her paintings are like a look into her own mind---like watching someone stumble over words, trying to perfect the perfect sentence. Or maybe she's wrestling an inner demon, an inner chaos of sexuality. Regardless, the process is interesting to watch.
I would have gone full-out and flat-out five stars on this, but one interesting thing I noted was that the paintings, which are grouped roughly chronologically in order, have declined in recent years as Lisa moved away from her own inner psychosis into simple Yuskavage versions of centerfolds from the 60's and 70's. These exercises allow little of her talent to burst through, and I'll be seeking out other books by her in order to see if this problem is only symptomatic of her smaller paintings, or the whole breadth of her talent.
One last note: art books always have introductory essays, bios, and so on, but with this book Tamara Jenkins does a top-notch job of bringing her own lively talent to the fore, so that the essay on art and Yuskavage was enjoyable in its own right---a pleasant surprise. ...more
Finding this book and this artist was a pleasant happenstance for me when I ran across several plates by Legrand while researching Felicien Rops, of wFinding this book and this artist was a pleasant happenstance for me when I ran across several plates by Legrand while researching Felicien Rops, of whom Legrand was a student.
I now consider Legrand to be the far better artist between the two. Legrand has a simpler majesty, for sure, and maybe not the creative visionary of Rops, but it may be that Legrand was only rather more interested in the human side of the sexuality he was depicting, while Rops went for lust and desire in their more iconic forms---reaching for shock value rather than a human connection. Austerity rather than warmth.
Legrand was a great illustrator of women, and while he explored many of the same themes as his contemporaries Edgar Degas (ballerinas ) and Jean Louis Forain (the men who, oh, "fancied" ballerinas and prostitutes) I'm seeing more joy and actual humanity in the art than either of the two mentioned artists. While Degas' ballerinas often seem like they're performing even in the art, in a manner that often leaves them coldly impersonal, Legrand's women seem to be alive, lustrous and full of the grandness of desiring to be desired. And unlike Forain's work, the prostitutes are willing participants in the game, as if life (and sex) is all a joke, but a good one.
So, a tip of the hat to Mr. Legrand, whose talent is able to reach out from over a century ago and give me a sense not only of the women as he saw them, but as they saw themselves. ...more
No more than just a superficial look at the dear Mr. Rops, which is hardly a damning comment, as that's exactly what the book is supposed to be---mereNo more than just a superficial look at the dear Mr. Rops, which is hardly a damning comment, as that's exactly what the book is supposed to be---merely a chapbook-like glimpse at the artist. I do wish the author would have gone a BIT more in depth, though, as each text page has an inordinate amount of slacking white space, and it would seem dutiful to use it in some manner, if not with some more art, than more words, more words, more life. Also, as with so many art books (why do the scoundrels do this?) much text is tossed away by explaining what I'm looking at in a piece of art. "Ahh, this panel, according to the text, has a devilish man soliciting a lady. Why, I never could have guessed that by merely looking at the painting! Bravo, dear Explainer!"
Criticisms aside, if you just need a quick Rops snack, this pops into your brain quite nicely. ...more
A curious read, in that the breath-taking amount of research actually takes away from the story. Every aspect of the painting's sale history meets up A curious read, in that the breath-taking amount of research actually takes away from the story. Every aspect of the painting's sale history meets up with a meticulous wall of research, so that while I feel I know the how's and why's of the paintings travels, I don't feel like I know its life.
Still, taken in small doses (the only way possible, because a wealth of details can never lead to a crescendo) this book does serve up some interest. Even though I know the painting still exists in today's world, I was horrified as it fell into the hands of Hermann Goring and the Nazi's as part of the "degenerate art" roundup.
The book does quite a fine job of using van Gogh's own words (via his letters) to describe himself, but doesn't by any means go over the top and let VThe book does quite a fine job of using van Gogh's own words (via his letters) to describe himself, but doesn't by any means go over the top and let Vincent tell his own story. That's good, because frankly the abundance of van Gogh's letters are boring...which isn't a damning statement, just a human one, as if you took hundreds of anyone's letters then there will necessarily be toss-off philosophies and long descriptions of inanimate objects.
An additional pleasant factor is how the author, at least for the most part, shies away from putting words in van Gogh's mouth...I so HATE authors who so adamantly believe their own philosophies that they concrete them upon the words and deeds of others. This has led to a seemingly overall belief that there are no crows in Vincent's paintings, only harbingers of van Gogh's violent outbursts, and analogies for twisted thoughts. Or...you know...it COULD just be a crow.
By backing off and simply telling the story in a well researched fashion, linking what Vincent was doing in his life with what he was painting at the time, and (via personal letters) what Vincent THOUGHT he was doing at any given time, this book provides the truest account of Vincent van Gogh that I've run across. Very enjoyable. ...more
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