Hyperinflation

What Amedeo Modigliani is to necks, Fernando Botero is to bodies. Born April 19, 1932, Botero inflates his figures with the same freedom with which Modigliani elongated esophagi. Modigliani drew his inspiration from African tribal art, but Botero took his inspiration from the Baroque style of the Catholic churches of his native Columbia. The religious fervor of almost Medieval Catholicism still active in twentieth century South America not only preserved a macabre, bizarre style but also fostered in Botero a love of manipulating the human body for ends both serious and humorous. Botero’s The Musicians (above, from 1991) shows how he puffs up his people almost into cartoon characters. By inflating them this way, Botero deflates any sense of self-importance in the figure. He pokes fun at authority with every balloon-like visage. Critics try to burst Botero’s balloon with accusations that he’s not a “serious” artist, in every sense of the word. Such critics, however, willfully ignore Botero’s great range of comedy to tragedy that mirrors the double-sided coin of Columbia itself with its long, colorful history and sad, violent, drug-dealing present.

Perhaps art critics and historians take aim at Botero because he takes aim at them first, specifically by poking fun at great artists of the past. Botero’s blown up Mona Lisa is a laugh riot, a visual embodiment of the overblown hype surrounding the original. Botero’s Mademoiselle Riviere, after Ingres (above, from 2002) is a send up of the super-serious Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, one of the most humorless artists of all time, at least to me. Ingres’ original belongs with his many other portraits of super-self-important people posing without an ounce of humility or restraint. Ingres painted Napoleon on his throne, but Botero wants to knock the emperor and his image-maker off it. Of course, Botero studied all of these great artists obsessively during his youthful studies and travels in Europe. His attacks are more affectionate than iconoclastic. By showing these works of art puffed up, Botero tries to restore the humanity hidden by the hype of art history. Botero wants comrades rather than deities, and pulls them down to his level—in a good way.

Like any great comedian, Botero is also a great social commentator. When other artists shied away from the idea of painting the atrocities of Abu Ghraib, Botero made use of the notorious photographs almost immediately. His painting above (from 2003) belongs to a suite of works that document the atrocities in almost too graphic detail. Botero’s use of his signature inflated figure style helps soften the cruelty somewhat but also harks back to the bloody side of his Baroque Catholic upbringing. The victims of these abuses become bubble-faced Christs tortured on a modern cross equivalents. Botero took a great deal of heat for painting these works and actually had much difficulty finding venues in America to display them. The political climate couldn’t (and still can’t) fully come to grips with the implications of those images, especially interpreted through the penetrating eye of an artist with Botero’s sense of both dark humor and social justice. Perhaps as time passes these images will find a place in the museums and, eventually, the art history canon as the twenty-first century’s version of Goya’s Disasters of War. Whether Botero would allow himself to become part of history unremarked remains a different story.

Graveyard Shift

Marlene Dumas, Measuring Your Own Grave, 2003, oil on canvas, 55 1/8 x 55 1/8 in., private collection, © 2008 Marlene Dumas, photo by Andy Keate

“It is the best definition I can find/ for what an artist does when making art/ and how a figure in a painting makes its mark,” writes Marlene Dumas in the poem that accompanies her painting Measuring Your Own Grave (above), which provides the title for the Menil Collection’s exhibition surveying Dumas’ unique figurative approach to art and the modern world of images. “An artist for more than thirty years, Dumas has only recently begun to articulate her practice as a visual accounting of our time through the representation of individuals or, rather, as bodies and souls as they move through the incidents of life, politics, and art,” writes Cornelia Butler, the organizer of the exhibition and the catalogue, in her essay “Painter as Witness.” Dumas bears witness to the modern world by taking photographs from the mainstream and creating a parallel flow of art that accentuates aspects of the images all around us that may be too subtle or too buried by familiarity for us to realize. “Dumas seeks to recuperate in her viewer, in the public,” Butler continues, “a sense of the raw violence and physicality of bodily existence, the nakedness of life, sex, birth, and death.” In a world that seems as emotionally flat and two-dimensional as a snapshot, Dumas introduces a third dimension of feeling and weight that reawakens us to reality.

Marlene Dumas, The Blindfolded Man, 2007, oil on canvas, 39 3/8 x 35 7/16 in., The Rachofsky Collection, Promised gift to the Dallas Museum of Art

Like Fernando Botero and others, Dumas finds the visual imagery of the Iraq War and the Abu Ghraib torture controversy endlessly fascinating. Dumas series titled Man Kind running from approximately 2002 through 2006 explores the meaning of these photographs. “Since 9/11,” Butler writes, “very few aesthetic statements have gone so far in penetrating the scope and dramatic impact of monumental violence, loss, and fear.” Dumas’ The Blindfolded Man (above) forces us to look closely at the humanity of the prisoner and, thus, at our own humanity (or inhumanity). “The ‘other’ is also a mirror image of ourselves!” Dumas says. “Look in the mirror and talk to Al Qaeda.” Such games with knowledge and self-knowledge unsettle and unnerve unprepared viewers. In an essay titled “Less Dead,” Richard Shiff speaks of how Dumas “knows that the viewer of an image brings his or her cultural indoctrination and personal history to bear on the perception of meaning, that differing cultures and histories generate a conflict of interpretations, that competing ideological structures lead individuals deep into moral confusion.” Dumas’ focus on the human body, the one “given” across all cultures, strips away all the viewer’s personal baggage and tries to resolve the “moral confusion” of the war on terror and other conflicts. For Dumas, “A” is never A. “A” is always A with complications added. Dumas honestly admits her manipulation of source photographs while trying to make us see the manipulations behind the original image.

Marlene Dumas, The Kiss, 2003, oil on canvas, 15 3/4 x 19 11/16 in., courtesy of the artist and Frith Street Gallery, London, © 2008 Marlene Dumas

Dumas works exclusively from photographs and film stills. The catalogue includes many sources for her work, allowing us a glimpse at the creative process from origin to finished concept. Like Francis Bacon, Dumas enlivens photographic images of the dead and suffering and gives the subjects new life in art—a posthumous immortality. Also like Bacon, Dumas sees the erotic aspects of death and dying, but with the significant difference of a heterosexual woman’s viewpoint rather than that of a homosexual man. The Kiss (above) originated from a film still from Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho in which the just-murdered Janet Leigh’s dead, yet open-eyed character “kisses” the bathroom tile. Closing the eyes and turning the head slightly, Dumas accentuates the “kiss” of death found in the original. Such manipulation reveals how Dumas imaginatively reaches into a source image and physically moves things around to suit her needs. “There is a crisis with regard to representation,” Dumas believes. “They are looking for meaning as if it was a thing. As if it was a girl, required to take her panty off.” Dumas paints whole series of near-pornographic images of women in highly revealing poses that play off of these concept of the striptease of meaning. Shiff emphasizes the power of empathy in Dumas’ work. When we look at these people, we feel for them as much as the artist did. “When we attend to a Dumas painting,” Shiff writes, “it is as if human will were acknowledging a certain necessity: it must yield to human sensation as well as to the sentience of other bodies, including other material things.” Dumas makes us engage with the other. If bodies in Bacon’s paintings are means towards the end of aesthetic and/or sexual pleasure, bodies in Dumas are never a means to anything but are instead the end itself.

Marlene Dumas, The Woman of Algiers, 2001, oil on canvas, 78 3/4 x 39 3/8 in., The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, and The Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University, Durham, partial and promised gift of Blake Byrne, © 2008 Marlene Dumas

In “The Binding Factor: The Maternal Gaze of Marlene Dumas,” Lisa Gabrielle Mark analyzes how Dumas takes this empathetic approach and applies it to the conflicted reality of motherhood. For Mark, Dumas dares “to evoke the erotic flush and existential terror of motherhood, a trajectory that begins with the warmth and intimacy of sexual desire and eventually meets the cold indifference of the outside world.” Dumas, a mother herself, knows “the profound ‘otherness’ that lies at the heart of maternity: for the mother, the child is of her but not her,” Mark continues. The Woman of Algiers (above) belongs to the images of torture and pain in Dumas’ oeuvre, but it also shows that world from the perspective of a woman who may know the pain of childbirth and the separation anxiety of sending that child into the world. Dumas’ portraits of her daughter Helena and other children reminded me in their alien-ness of the descriptions of the Creature in the novel Frankenstein, in which Mary Shelley worked out her own personal childbirth demons. Whether it is race, gender, violence, sexuality, or the nature of reality itself, Dumas paints how these forces embed themselves into the photographic world surrounding us and confronts us with the things that we neglect or, more likely, refuse to see.

Marlene Dumas, Dead Marilyn, 2008, oil on canvas, 15 3/4 x 19 11/16 in., Private Collection, New York, © 2008 Marlene Dumas

“Painting is more about one’s own death than about other people’s death,” Dumas once remarked. Dead Marilyn (above) shows Dumas’ take on the infamous autopsy photographs of film star Marilyn Monroe. Without make-up and marred by bruises, the sex goddess’ “true” face comments not only on the falseness of the Hollywood persona but also on the underlying vulnerability that is infinitely more interesting and attractive. Dumas truly, as Butler puts it, “mines the images that have informed a collective understanding of our era” with “a restless, generous, and heartily discursive spirit.” The graphic sexuality and violence of much of her work will likely turn away some viewers, but it is that honest appraisal of the images of modern life that make such “offensive” material vitally essential. Dumas refuses to sanitize or filter out any aspect of life. She sifts out the convenient explanations and denials that make modern imagery palatable and hands us nuggets of truth. Whether we can swallow those nuggets or continue to choke on them is up to us. Measuring Your Own Grave takes the measure of man and womankind and holds up a disconcerting, disturbing, yet always fascinating and ultimately empathetic mirror to our lives, asking us only to look and consider, perhaps for the first time, what we see.

[Many thanks to the Menil Collection for providing me with a review copy of Marlene Dumas: Measuring Your Own Grave and for the images above from the exhibition.]

A Well-Rounded Artist

Fernando Botero (Colombian, b. 1932). The First Lady, 1989. Oil on canvas, 80 x 72 ¾ in. (203.2 x 184.785 cm)

Growing up in Medellin, Columbia, Fernando Botero’s earliest visual influences were the Catholic churches and chapels around him, full of the weird and wonderful world of the baroque. “Baroque art in Latin America expressed religious and political power, in images that were at once dramatic, rich, and convincing,” John Sillevis writes in the catalogue to the exhibit The Baroque World of Fernando Botero at the Oklahoma City Museum of Art. “The drama of the baroque style was not aimed at aesthetic enjoyment, but at a religious experience that would have a lasting impact on the beholder.” Botero would later travel to Europe and experience more of the Western tradition, embracing that influence into his scope, but it is this baroque foundation that lies behind Botero’s own “lasting impact on the beholder.” Through works such as The First Lady (above), Botero invents his own world of Latin American power “with all the baroque splendor and terribilità” of the real thing. Sillevis likens Botero’s South American paintings to “the lyrics of a bolero–they may sound idyllic, but they are profoundly melancholy, and full of the vicissitudes of fate.” This exhibit and catalogue round out Botero’s often-caracatured art, showing how his distorted proportions represent the distorted proportions of joy and suffering that are part of not just his native culture but all modern existence.


Fernando Botero (Colombian, b. 1932). Sunflowers, 1997. Oil on canvas, 71 ½ x 63 in. (181.61 x 160.02 cm)

In works such as Sunflowers (above), Botero consciously confronts the larger Western tradition by inviting comparison to Van Gogh and expands his art from the narrow confines of Latin America. “If I paint a picture that has the same theme as that used by a famous painter,” Botero once said, “I am part of that same tradition.” While traveling throughout Mexico, Botero learned from the art of Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, and David Alfaro Siqueiros, among others. Similarly, travels in Spain brought Picasso, Velazquez, and Goya into his circle of influences. Even the still lifes of Dutch artists of the 17th century leave their imprint on Botero’s modern interpretations, especially his unique take on the idea of memento mori. “Just like the French painter Edouard Manet, Fernando Botero makes art for museums,” Sillevis writes. “This is not because he needs affirmation that the quality of his works meets museum standards, but because he wishes to confirm his position in the tradition of the history of art.” In one essay in the catalogue, Edward J. Sullivan examines the history of critical strategies used to approach Botero’s work and its position in the art cannon. Sullivan sees Botero’s art as “an anomaly”—“loved by a wide public” yet ignored by art critics who echo Rosalind Krauss’ opinion that “Botero ha[s] little or nothing to do with contemporary art.” Botero’s baroque technique and inflated characters seems to invite the oversimplification of Botero as “non-committed, non-ideological.” Yet, as this exhibit hopes to prove, Botero “has indeed looked with a critical, if often subtly judicious eye at the realities of the world around him.”

Fernando Botero (Colombian, b. 1932). The Widow, 1997. Oil on canvas, 80 x 66 ½ in. (203 x 169 cm)

This “subtly judicious eye” appears in works such as The Widow (above), a subtle commentary on the violence and suffering of Botero’s native Columbia in the wake of that country’s political unrest and drug trade. In David Elliott’s essay, “A Painter of Lost and Angry Pictures,” he sees Botero practicing “colonialism in reverse” appropriating art history and reprocessing it for today, thus “[throwing] a firecracker into a party that most people thought was dead and finished long, long ago.” Botero’s political figures, such as The First Lady (top of post) float above the fray, while his religious figures seem unwilling to interfere or powerless to do anything if they were willing. The exhibit includes Botero’s controversial 2005 paintings examining the abuses of Iraqi prisoners by United States forces at Abu Ghraib. They are no less than the twentieth century’s answer to Goya’s The Disasters of War. In an essay in The Nation, Arthur C. Danto calls them “masterpieces of... disturbatory art--art whose point and purpose is to make vivid and objective our most frightening subjective thoughts. Botero's astonishing works make us realize this: We knew that Abu Ghraib's prisoners were suffering, but we did not feel that suffering as ours.” Botero’s “disturbatory art” disturbs even more through his ability to take such specific instances of human grief and to universalize them—The Widow could be from any conflict, the victims of torture beneath the hand of any oppressor. The comic or cartoonish misperception of Botero fades instantly before these images. In this field of oppressor and oppressed, Botero speaks most baroquely and most powerfully.

Fernando Botero (Colombian, b. 1932). Hand, 1985. Bronze, 102 ¼ x 55 x 69 in. (259.715 x 139.7 x 175.26 cm)

Because of his political message, better known in his native land than in the world at large, Botero cannot safely live in Columbia. Botero’s sculpture Bird, which he donated to his home town, was bombed by terrorists in 1995. Botero donated a new copy of the same sculpture to be placed next to the damaged version, testimony to the power to create, to destroy, and to create again, as hopeful as before. In his sculptures, such as Hand (above), Botero’s sensual appeal, sometimes lost in his paintings, truly takes center stage. “Form is exaltation of nature,” Botero says, “Exaltation of volume. Sexual exaltation.” Botero paints, draws, and sculpts excess in all its forms—sexual, visual, political, spiritual—leaving all the joy and the sadness in, editing out nothing in his brutal, baroque honesty.

The Oklahoma City Museum of Art should be commended for bringing this courageous artist to the American public, especially his views of Abu Ghraib, which will certainly stir political passions. Botero’s baroque world disturbingly reflects the real world, perhaps more now than ever before, and offers a vision of the depths to which humanity can descend and simultaneously, through art, points to the heights to which humanity can hopefully aspire.


[Many thanks to the Oklahoma City Museum of Art for providing me with a review copy of this catalogue and the images from the exhibition.]