idonthaveacoolname

I am visiting the National Gallery archive in a few weeks with some friends. We are going to see the sole Arshile Gorky at the Gallery—Charred Beloved II—and a few works from Kent Monkman. I have some familiarity with Gorky’s work but Monkman’s work is new to me. The internet to the rescue! I didn’t realize how similar the background themes were for both of these artists regardless of each artists technique or subject matter and want to share some reflections.

Kent Monkman (born 13 November 1965) and Arshile Gorky (born Vostanik Manoug Adoian April 15, 1904 – July 21, 1948), though separated by time, geography, and cultural context, share a profound engagement with themes of identity, displacement, and transformation. Both artists confront the complexities of navigating fluid identities shaped by historical trauma, whether through colonialism or forced exile. Their work reflects the tensions inherent in lives lived between worlds—Indigenous and settler for Monkman, Armenian and American for Gorky—and offers compelling visual narratives of becoming, rather than being.

Monkman, a Cree artist from Canada, uses his alter ego, Miss Chief Eagle Testickle, to explore the fluidity of gender, sexuality, and history. Miss Chief, a two-spirit trickster figure, appears in Monkman’s work to challenge Western depictions of Indigenous peoples, particularly those shaped by colonialism. Through Miss Chief, Monkman reclaims historical narratives that have often erased or misrepresented Indigenous identities. His paintings and installations engage with both contemporary and historical contexts, showing how Indigenous people have continuously negotiated their identities in a world that seeks to confine them to fixed roles. By positioning his work within the framework of Indigenous boundary identities, Monkman highlights a central theme in his art: identity as a constant process of transformation.

In The Talented Mr. Ripley (see my other post on this), Tom Ripley’s constant reinvention of his identity parallels the artistic practices of Kent Monkman and Arshile Gorky. Just as Ripley fluidly morphs his persona to navigate and manipulate his world, Monkman and Gorky use their art to reflect an ever-evolving sense of self. Ripley’s relentless transformation highlights a broader theme shared with these artists: identity as a dynamic, ongoing process rather than a fixed state, illustrating how personal and artistic reinvention serves as a powerful response to external pressures and internal desires.

Vostanik Manoug Adoian, who became Arshile Gorky, was an Armenian-born artist whose flight from the Armenian Genocide and subsequent reinvention as a Russian identity, including claims of working with Wassily Kandinsky, highlights his constant state of becoming. Gorky’s artistic evolution—from European modernism to abstract expressionism—mirrors his personal transformation as a refugee grappling with displacement and identity. His paintings, reflecting trauma and survival, reveal a fragmented self where the tension between his Armenian past and American present plays out, illustrating his ongoing journey of self-reconstruction and adaptation.

Both Monkman and Gorky create works that embody the complexities of identity in flux. For Monkman, this flux is shaped by colonial legacies and Indigenous resilience, while for Gorky, it stems from the trauma of exile and the search for belonging in a new land. Despite their differing contexts, both artists reject the notion of identity as fixed, instead embracing a state of becoming where transformation, adaptation, and resilience are central themes. Their work serves as a testament to the power of art to navigate, reshape, and redefine the boundaries of self in the face of external pressures.

The concept of “boundary identities” reflects the fluid and dynamic nature of identity in contexts of displacement, marginalization, and historical oppression. Rather than adhering to rigid, predefined roles, boundary identities exist in a state of flux—continually transforming in response to external forces. In the work of artists like Kent Monkman and Arshile Gorky, identity is not a static or monolithic experience; instead, it is an ongoing process of negotiation, adaptation, and redefinition. This state of becoming—where identity evolves in response to cultural, historical, and personal challenges—stands in stark contrast to the idea of identity as a stable and fixed state of being.

Monkman’s exploration of boundary identities is grounded in his engagement with Indigenous traditions and colonial histories. His alter ego, Miss Chief Eagle Testickle, blurs boundaries of gender, sexuality, and historical narrative. By positioning Miss Chief within both Indigenous and colonial contexts, Monkman challenges the rigid definitions imposed by settler society on Indigenous peoples. His art suggests that Indigenous identity, far from being fixed or singular, is in constant motion—a process of becoming that involves resilience, resistance, and adaptation to ongoing colonial structures. Through this lens, Monkman reclaims Indigenous histories, presenting identity as something that shifts and grows, resisting the colonizer’s attempts to define it.

Similarly, Gorky’s experience as a refugee profoundly shaped his exploration of boundary identities. Displaced by the Armenian Genocide and navigating life as an outsider in America, Gorky’s sense of self was in constant flux. His work captures this fragmented identity, marked by trauma and exile, where past and present intertwine. Gorky’s integration of elements from Armenian manuscript traditions—such as intricate patterns and vibrant colors—into his evolving modernist style underscores his negotiation between the loss of his homeland and his adopted American identity. This fusion of traditional Armenian visual culture with abstraction and figuration reflects his dynamic process of becoming. Like Monkman, Gorky’s art does not present a fixed identity but rather engages with the ongoing transformation of boundary identities on his canvases.

In both Monkman and Gorky’s work, boundary identities embody an art of becoming rather than being. Their work resists the notion of fixed, singular identities, embracing instead a vision of identity as fluid, evolving, and responsive to the complexities of displacement and historical trauma. By placing these boundary identities at the centre of their artistic practice, both artists underscore the idea that identity is not something one simply is—it is something one continually becomes.

Kent Monkman and Arshile Gorky, while emerging from distinct historical and cultural contexts, converge in their exploration of identity as a fluid and evolving construct shaped by external pressures. Monkman, a Cree artist from Canada, and Gorky, an Armenian refugee in America, both address how their respective experiences with colonialism and displacement influence their artistic representations of self. Despite their different backgrounds, their work illustrates a shared thematic concern: the negotiation of identity in a world that imposes rigid boundaries and definitions.

Monkman’s art navigates the complexities of Indigenous identity under colonial oppression. Through his alter ego, Miss Chief Eagle Testickle, Monkman creates a powerful commentary on the fluidity of gender and historical narratives. Miss Chief’s role in Monkman’s work—often as a trickster figure—serves to challenge and subvert colonial narratives that seek to confine Indigenous identities within fixed categories. For instance, in The Triumph of Mischief (2007), Miss Chief confronts the colonial forces with a mixture of audacity and resilience, reflecting an Indigenous identity that resists simplification and maintains its dynamism despite centuries of oppression. Monkman’s art reveals a constant process of becoming, where Indigenous identity is shaped by ongoing interactions with and resistances against colonial structures.

In contrast, Gorky’s experience of displacement due to the Armenian Genocide and his subsequent forced emigration positioned him in a state of perpetual transformation. His work reflects the trauma and fragmentation of identity that accompanies forced exile. For Gorky, the process of becoming is intimately tied to his experiences of loss and adaptation. In The Artist and His Mother (1926–1942), Gorky channels his memories of Armenia into a fragmented, abstracted form that conveys a sense of identity in flux—caught between the past and present, between the familiar and the foreign. His art illustrates how the refugee experience necessitates a continuous redefinition of self, shaped by the interplay between his Armenian heritage and his American context.

Despite their different contexts—colonialism for Monkman and displacement for Gorky—both artists explore how external pressures shape and redefine identity. Monkman’s portrayal of Indigenous identities as dynamic and resistant parallels Gorky’s representation of identity as fragmented and evolving through the lens of exile. Both artists reject static definitions of self, embracing instead a vision of identity as something that is perpetually in the process of becoming. This shared thematic exploration underscores the universality of their experiences: both are engaged in a continual negotiation of identity in response to the forces that seek to define or constrain it.

Thus, Monkman and Gorky, through their respective contexts, highlight the fluid nature of identity shaped by historical and personal challenges. Their work provides a compelling narrative of becoming—a reminder that identity is not a fixed entity but a dynamic and evolving process, deeply influenced by the contexts of colonialism and displacement.

“After a lifetime, I still have never been able to escape my family…. It is still a struggle to be hidden and feel strange—my favorite mood.” Philip Guston

In the latter part of Philip Goldstein’s career (he changed his name to Guston evidently due to his fear that his Jewish last name would affect his relationship with his future wife Musa’s Catholic parents), his work underwent a dramatic transformation, marked by a shift from abstract to figurative painting. This transition, initially met with skepticism and insult, reveals a profound engagement with asemic expression—a mode of art that communicates beyond the constraints of language. Guston’s late paintings, exemplified in the Marlborough Gallery show in 1970, provide a compelling example of how asemic art can serve as an intensely personal and symbolic language.

Asemic art describe works that function as a form of visual writing without specific semantic content, plays a crucial role in Guston’s late career. His paintings from this period do not follow a clear narrative or linguistic structure but instead use cartoon-like forms and symbols to evoke emotional and intellectual responses. This approach allows Guston to engage with complex personal and universal themes in a way that transcends conventional language.

Guston’s late canvases are rich with personal symbolism and emotional depth, reflecting his life experiences and inner turmoil. They are portraits of his life. Archie Rand once wrote that: Philip adopted Italian culture … actually thought of himself as someone in the tradition of those people who learned the visual language that meant to be Italian, and basically, what it meant to be Catholic. Certain rules of veneration, which Judaism not only doesn’t share, but rejects. The notion of authoritative leadership was rejected by someone who was reclaiming his identity. Guston had this conundrum: he had to transfer that reverence to himself and his experience.

This period of his work can be viewed through the lens of asemic expression, where the visual elements of the paintings operate like a silent text, conveying complex layers of meaning without relying on explicit narrative or linguistic content. His use of crude, cartoonish figures and mundane objects becomes a form of asemic writing, evoking personal and universal themes in a manner that transcends verbal description.

The influence of historical artists, particularly Piero della Francesca and his iconic portraits, provides a valuable context for understanding Guston’s late work. Piero’s portraits of Federico da Montefeltro and his wife are renowned for their meticulous detail and compositional precision. In these portraits, the chariots on the obverse of the canvas—can be seen as symbolic elements that resonate with Guston’s late work. Guston’s cars, depicted with a similar sense of mechanical and symbolic weight, echo the chariots of Piero’s portraits. This connection underscores a thematic continuity between Guston’s personal symbols and historical references.

Philip Guston held a deep admiration for the work of Piero della Francesca, whose innovative approach to form, perspective, and symbolism resonated with Guston’s own artistic pursuits. Francesca’s mastery of these elements not only influenced Guston’s early development but also eased the stylistic changes in the late stages of his career. As Guston began to reintegrate recognizable forms into his paintings, he drew upon the techniques and innovations of Francesca, whose work provided a foundational understanding that supported Guston’s exploration of narrative and symbolic content in his late, figurative works.

It is true that Guston’s early life in California was menaced by organizational violence and racism. Guston’s 1930s art initially shocked audiences with its unflinching critique of its subjects. Conspirators, for instance, was created in the same bold style as a piece commissioned by the John Reed Club, a Communist Party-affiliated group, which had asked Guston to address the plight of the “American Negro.” This work centers on the Scottsboro Boys—nine Black teenagers wrongfully accused of raping two white women in Alabama in 1931. In one of Guston’s panels, a Klansman is depicted whipping a nearly nude figure bound to a stake resembling the Washington Monument.

However, the hoods in Guston’s late paintings take on a deeper, asemic significance when viewed through the lens of Piero’s portraits of his patron, the Duke of Montefeltro. The hoods’ shape and form can be seen as mimicking the noses of Federico da Montefeltro and his wife, creating a subtle yet profound dialogue between Guston’s personal imagery and historical iconography. This resemblance suggests that the hoods may function not just as symbols of societal and racial violence but also as personal emblems, representing Guston and his wife, Musa. In this interpretation, the hoods become a form of asemic portraiture, an intimate representation of the artist’s relationship and personal life.

Guston’s late paintings can be seen as asemic love poems to his wife and daughter, both named Musa. Much like Piero della Francesca’s reversible diptych of the Duke and his wife, which creates a dual narrative through its composition, Guston’s work offers a visual language that invites multiple interpretations. The cars, feet, and hooded figures contribute to a deeply personal, emotional narrative that defies straightforward explanation. Instead, they encourage viewers to engage intuitively and emotionally, drawing connections based on their own experiences and perceptions. On one level, Guston’s work reflects a commentary on societal and racial violence, echoing themes from his earlier work. On another, it functions as personal symbology, representing Guston’s own experiences and relationships. Through asemic phenomenology, Guston creates a visual ontology that transcends conventional representation, exploring themes of identity, memory, and personal trauma in a way that is aesthetically and profoundly intimate.

By employing asemic forms, Guston crafts a dialogue between the viewer and the canvas that is open to personal interpretation – freedom from the constraints of explicit meaning. This approach invites the audience to confront their own memories and emotions, forging a connection that is deeply personal and subjective. Guston’s asemic writing and imagery encourages an exploration of the self, where viewers can project their own experiences and feelings onto the artwork. In doing so, Guston not only reflects his own inner world but also provides a space for others to engage in their own introspective journeys, making the artwork a shared yet uniquely individual experience.

Philip Guston’s 1970 painting Flatlands can also be intriguingly compared to Roman decorative art forms, despite its modern reinterpretation. The painting features a flat, expansive surface populated with distorted figures, cartoon forms, and mundane objects, which serve as focal points similar to the “tabulae” or plaques in Roman villas. These elements, though not literal medallions, act as central motifs that draw the viewer’s attention and contribute to the composition’s rhythm. Guston’s use of circular forms and motifs in Flatlands evokes the essence of “medallions,” while the placement of figures and objects within the canvas creates a spatial organization reminiscent of “niches” found in Roman decoration. The tactile quality of Guston’s brushstrokes and layering adds a sculptural dimension to the painting, paralleling the “reliefs” of Roman art. In this way, Flatlands engages with classical principles of decoration by incorporating central motifs, spatial depth, and a textured approach, inviting viewers to explore its rich visual and symbolic layers.

Philip Guston first went to Rome in 1948 after winning the Prix de Rome, an award that allowed him to study and work in Italy. During this initial visit, Guston immersed himself in the study of Italian Renaissance art, particularly the works of Piero della Francesca, which profoundly influenced his sense of form and composition. He returned to Rome multiple times throughout his life, including significant stays in the late 1960s and early 1970s, including right after the opening of the Marlborough show. These later visits came during a period of intense personal and artistic transition, as he moved away from abstraction toward a more figurative style. Italy’s rich artistic heritage, combined with its historical and cultural layers, became a wellspring of inspiration, shaping the symbolic and narrative elements that would define his late work. This includes not only visual arts but also puppetry, poetry and theatre.

In this light, Guston’s late work emerges as a deeply personal and symbolic exploration of love, loss, and memory. His asemic approach to art allows him to communicate complex emotional truths without relying on conventional forms of representation. The paintings become a form of visual poetry, capturing the essence of his personal experiences and relationships in a way that is both evocative and elusive. In this context, the act of painting itself becomes a ritual of sorts, where each stroke of the brush is imbued with a sense of the sacred. The abstract forms and symbols in Guston’s work function similarly to the Kabbalistic symbols, aiming to reveal hidden truths and connect with the divine. His paintings thus operate as a form of visual mysticism, inviting viewers to engage with the work on a deeper, more intuitive level.

His paintbrush assumes the role of an asemic wand, channeling an almost magical quality into his compositions. This transformation reflects Guston’s life long engagement with mystical Judaism, as the brush becomes a tool for unveiling hidden meanings and invoking the ineffable. “Our whole lives (since I can remember) are made up of the most extreme cruelties of holocausts. We are the witnesses of the hell,” he wrote his friend, the poet Bill Berkson. Much like a magician’s wand conjures unseen forces, Guston’s brushwork channels a visual language that transcends verbal articulation, embodying the esoteric and the mysterious. His paintings, infused with symbols and sometimes recognizable forms, resonate with the rich traditions of Kabbalistic thought, where the act of creation itself becomes a form of mystical revelation, a revelation of what Walter Benjamin calls an aura. Through an asemic approach, Guston’s art transcends conventional symbolism, engaging with a deeper, spiritual dimension that speaks to the unseen and the sacred.

In Guston’s late work, shadows are not merely decorative elements but integral components that sculpt the space within the canvas. Unlike traditional applications where shadows serve to replicate natural lighting or add realism, Guston’s shadows assume an almost sculptural presence. They create a dynamic interplay between light and dark, visible and hidden, that enhances the emotional and symbolic content of his paintings.

In this reimagined use of shadows, Guston moves beyond mere chiaroscuro to engage with shadows as a form of emotional and psychological articulation. The heavy, often exaggerated shadows do not simply create depth but rather become an active force in the composition, reflecting the Kabbalistic concept of Sitra Achra—the “Other Side” or realm of darkness and concealment that contrasts with divine light. In Kabbalah, darkness represents hidden knowledge and existential challenge, themes that resonate deeply in Guston’s work. The shadows often envelop or distort figures and objects, emphasizing the tension between visibility and obscurity, clarity and ambiguity. This technique deepens the viewer’s engagement with the painting, as the shadows themselves become a language of their own, articulating the unsaid and the unseeable aspects of Guston’s personal and artistic journey.

Piero della Francesca’s was exposed to Eastern Orthodox concepts of divine light and darkness during the Council of Florence and they could have profoundly impacted his artistic approach. His precise use of mathematical perspective and light not only demonstrates his commitment to geometric principles but also can be seen to align with Orthodox theology’s mystical qualities, where divine light symbolizes spiritual illumination and shadows represent the struggle against spiritual darkness. Similarly, Philip Guston’s late work integrates Kabbalistic ideas, where shadows and asemic forms become vehicles for exploring personal trauma and existential reflection. Just as Piero’s mathematical rigour and theological depth blend to create a nuanced visual language, Guston’s incorporation of Kabbalistic darkness and abstract symbols enriches his work with a profound exploration of identity and emotion.

Guston’s approach to shadows often involves bold, contrasting areas of darkness that define and isolate forms. This technique not only contributes to the visual impact of his work but also plays a crucial role in shaping the viewer’s perception of the narrative and symbolic layers. The shadows in Guston’s paintings can be seen as an extension of his abstract language, providing a visual rhythm that resonates with the thematic concerns of his late work, such as personal trauma and existential reflection.

To fully appreciate the significance of Guston’s use of shadows, it is crucial to understand the techniques employed by Piero della Francesca, a master of Renaissance art renowned for his meticulous manipulation of light and shadow. Piero della Francesca identified primarily as a painter and mathematician. His writings, including De Prospectiva Pingendi (On Perspective in Painting), reflect his commitment to the study of geometry and perspective, which he integrated into his art. Piero’s paintings exemplify his sophisticated approach to creating depth and dimensionality through subtle gradations of tone. Although the term ‘chiaroscuro’—derived from the Italian words ‘chiaro’ (light) and ‘scuro’ (dark)—was not used in his time, his work illustrates the technique’s essence by using strong contrasts to enhance volume and spatial perception. In the Renaissance, shadows were essential for constructing perspective and form, similar to how a golem is animated into being.

In Jewish folklore, a golem is an anthropomorphic creature made from inanimate matter, often clay or mud, brought to life through mystical or divine means – a creative act. The golem is typically animated by inscribing sacred words or symbols on its body or placing a written charm, such as the Hebrew word “emet” (truth), on its forehead. By removing or altering this inscription (a form of erasure), the golem can be deactivated or rendered lifeless. This process of animating a golem symbolizes the transformation of the inanimate into the animate through the power of words or divine intervention. Similarly, in Renaissance art, shadows were used to transform flat, two-dimensional surfaces into lifelike, three-dimensional forms. Shadows added depth and perspective to paintings, giving them a sense of realism and volume, almost as if the painter had breathed life – an aura, into the static image through the manipulation of light and dark, colour and composition.

In Piero della Francesca’s work, shadows are meticulously crafted to enhance realism and serve a compositional role, defining the contours of figures and guiding the viewer’s eye to contribute to the harmony of the composition. This technique reflects the physical properties of light while adding symbolic depth, emphasizing the spiritual and psychological aspects of the subjects. Albrecht Dürer, in contrast, employed shadows with scientific precision to achieve intricate detail and texture, as seen in works like Melencolia I (a favourite of Guston’s). His shadows enhance depth and volume but focus more on detailed observation and intellectual engagement with the subject matter.

Guston’s shadows often assume an abstract quality, shaping forms to underscore their symbolic and emotional resonance rather than adhering to physical realism. For example, in Guston’s The Studio, shadows play a crucial role in transforming ordinary objects and figures into symbols that convey deeper psychological and existential themes. The interplay of light and shadow in The Studio creates an environment where the figures and objects are imbued with a sense of ambiguity and introspection. The shadows do not merely outline or define forms but rather contribute to a layered semiotic landscape that invites viewers to decode the personal and symbolic meanings embedded in the painting. This use of shadows diverges from Piero della Francesca’s more precise and measured chiaroscuro, which aims to achieve realistic volume and spatial depth. Instead, Guston’s approach reflects a modernist exploration of how shadows can serve as carriers of meaning, enhancing the emotional and symbolic complexity of his work.

Guston’s integrates non-semantic text-like forms into a deeply personal and introspective artistic practice. Guston’s use of asemic writing is not merely a visual experiment but a fundamental aspect of his phenomenological process, where the artist himself is the first and most critical audience. This approach reflects a profound engagement with his own emotional and existential experiences, as the asemic forms on the canvas become a medium through which he navigates and articulates his personal trauma. The abstract marks and fragmented text are not intended to convey explicit meaning but to resonate with Guston’s own sense of artistic satisfaction and knowledge formation. In this way, his work invites viewers to experience the artwork on a phenomenological level, reflecting the artist’s own process of exploring and understanding his inner world. Guston’s late paintings become a space where his self-reflective engagement with asemic writing transforms into a rich, sensory experience that is both introspective and emotionally resonant.

Philip Guston’s late paintings, as objects of profound knowledge formation, possess an aura akin to the golem. This aura, shaped by asemic phenomenology, conveys Guston’s emotional and existential state through abstract forms and asemic writing. Just as the golem is thought to embody hidden aspects of the creator and serve as vessels of personal and mystical insight, Guston’s works act as conduits for his inner reality. The sensory and emotional intensity of these paintings allows viewers to access Guston’s personal experiences and sense of self, transforming the artworks into a shared experience, a shared topography, where his intimate knowledge becomes vividly accessible.

On my current reading list: Postsensual Aesthetics: On the Logic of the Curatorial on the dialogue on the aesthetic dimensions of the exhibition form.

Philip Guston’s 1970 Marlborough exhibition included many paintings on show in London at the Tate Modern in 2023-24. The 1970 show offers a compelling case study in the interplay between sensory engagement, cognitive exploration, and spiritual introspection in contemporary art. As the art world continues to grapple with shifting paradigms—where conceptual rigour often eclipses immediate sensory experiences—Guston’s late works provide a critical counterpoint. His return to form underscores a nuanced dialogue between these dimensions, inviting viewers to reevaluate the intersections of sensuality, intellect, and mysticism in art.

In this context, Guston’s work serves as a crucial reference point for understanding the evolution of art exhibitions and their role in shaping contemporary aesthetic discourse. The Marlborough exhibition’s reintroduction of sensuality into the artistic conversation aligns with Voorhies’ vision of a post-sensual aesthetic, where the interaction between sensory immediacy and cognitive engagement defines the art of today.

In Guston’s Marlborough presentation, the artist’s signature late style—characterized by its raw, almost crude materiality—emerges as a profound statement on the sensual dimensions of art. Guston’s use of thick impasto, gritty textures, and a palette imbued with vibrant, often unsettling colours reinvigorates the sensual experience of painting. Not to mention the subject matter including his family and personal insights. This return to a more tactile, visceral approach contrasts sharply with the clean, cerebral aesthetics that dominated much of the mid-20th century art scene. It certainly was a large departure from his abstract expressionist pedigree. 

The tactile quality of Guston’s work in this exhibition was not merely about surface texture but about creating an embodied sensual, perhaps visceral, experience. The rough brushstrokes and heavy application of paint confront the viewer, demanding a physical and emotional engagement that resists easy interpretation. Like Auerbach, his works are architectonic. This materiality recalls the sensory immediacy of earlier artistic traditions while simultaneously addressing the complexities of modern experience.

Guston’s later works do engage with cognitive and conceptual concerns, though not in the abstract sense of his earlier work. Instead, these paintings offer a complex commentary on the personal and political dimensions of art. The Marlborough exhibition highlighted this cognitive dimension through Guston’s use of recurring motifs—such as hooded figures, allusions to early Tuscan art and ambiguous symbols—which invite viewers into the personal and socio-political narratives embedded within the works. This interplay between recognizable forms and abstracted meanings challenges viewers to engage in a process of negotiating between the immediacy of the sensory experience and the layers of cognitive interpretation.

Guston’s intellectual engagement also reflects his admiration for the Tuscan Renaissance, particularly the work of Piero della Francesca. This influence is evident in the geometric precision and compositional clarity found in his late works, not to mention deeper connections to the works for his patron, Federico da Montefeltro. Guston’s fascination with Piero’s use of space and perspective reveals a deep appreciation for the intellectual rigour and formal discipline of Renaissance art. The clarity and structure of Piero’s compositions echo in Guston’s own work, where the abstraction of form serves to underscore deeper conceptual themes.

Guston’s admiration for Renaissance masters like Piero della Francesca is also indicative of his spiritual and contemplative inclinations. The spiritual, serene, almost mystical quality of Piero’s work, with its emphasis on clarity and transcendence, mirrors Guston’s own quest for deeper meaning and introspection. The contemplative nature of Piero’s compositions—often imbued with a sense of timelessness and stillness—parallels the reflective quality found in Guston’s late paintings.

Philip Guston’s Marlborough exhibition exemplified a compelling synthesis of the sensory, cognitive, and spiritual dimensions of art. By returning to a more visceral and material approach while also reengaging with complex personal and political themes, Guston creates an experience that transcends simplistic categorizations. His late works challenged the dominant trends of conceptual abstraction and intellectualization, offering a richer, more nuanced engagement with art.

Guston’s return to figuration and raw, emotive styles in the Marlborough exhibition represented a dramatic departure from the intellectual rigors of Abstract Expressionism. Where his earlier work was characterized by abstract complexity and a focus on psychological and emotional depth, this exhibition reintroduced a visceral, tactile engagement with the viewer. The shift was not merely a stylistic change but a recalibration of art’s role in eliciting an immediate, sensory response—a move away from the cerebral and toward a more embodied, sensory experience.

This exhibition also underscored Guston’s deep intellectual engagement with historical art traditions, particularly his admiration for Renaissance masters like Piero della Francesca. His incorporation of these influences added a layer of cognitive depth to his work, enriching the dialogue between sensory immediacy and intellectual exploration.

Guston’s work invites us to explore the interplay between sensory experience, intellectual engagement, and spiritual reflection, reaffirming the capacity of art to engage with the full spectrum of human experience. In an era where the cognitive often overshadows the sensory, and where spiritual concerns are frequently sidelined, Guston’s return to form provided a vital and invigorating counterpoint that may be insightful when considering contemporary discussions of exhibitions.

In this light, Guston’s Marlborough exhibition can be seen as an early, intuitive exploration of Voorhies’ postsensual aesthetics. The exhibition’s emphasis on sensual engagement through expressive, figurative works aligns with Voorhies’ call for a renewed appreciation of sensory experience, even as it acknowledges the importance of cognitive and intellectual dimensions. Guston’s work reaffirms the necessity of engaging both the senses and the intellect, illustrating how art can bridge the gap between immediate sensory impact and deeper conceptual reflection.

Voorhies’ theoretical framework reframes aesthetic criteria to encompass both the immediate and cognitive dimensions of art, recognizing the significance of both sensual and intellectual engagements. Guston’s Marlborough show, with its return to a more visceral and immediate form of art, exemplifies this duality, highlighting the ongoing relevance of sensory experience within a broader, cognitively enriched aesthetic landscape.

A single story can evolve into multiple compelling narratives, each offering a unique lens on its themes and characters. I am compelled, after watching the 2024’s movie The Crow, to speak about why sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. I’ll compare this with the title character in Patricia Highsmith’s 1995 crime novel The Talented Mr. Ripley.

The Crow is a comic book character created in the late 1980s. It was made into an epic movie in 1994 starring Brandon Lee who tragically died while this was being filmed. I grew up watching Bruce Lee movies so while the younger wasn’t all that well known, his passing was monumental. And this was pre-social media!

The Crow (1994) is a hauntingly atmospheric film that weaves together themes of love, vengeance, and redemption within a gothic, urban landscape. Set in a decaying, rain-soaked city, the story follows Eric Draven, a musician who is brutally murdered alongside his fiancée on the eve of their wedding. One year later, Eric is resurrected by a mysterious crow, serving as a guide and symbol of his newfound power to seek vengeance against those who wronged him. The film’s aesthetic, characterized by its dark, brooding visuals and stylized violence, complements its exploration of grief and the supernatural. The relentless pursuit of justice by Eric, who teeters between life and death, creates a narrative that is both tragic and cathartic.

At the heart of The Crow is the enduring love between Eric and his fiancée, a love that transcends death and fuels his quest for retribution. Brandon Lee’s portrayal of Eric Draven is iconic, imbuing the character with a sense of both sorrow and resolve. The film’s atmosphere is enhanced by its moody soundtrack, featuring a mix of alternative rock and melancholic ballads that echo the film’s themes. Director Alex Proyas crafts a world that is both beautiful and menacing, where the lines between the living and the dead are blurred. The Crow remains a cult classic, not only for its compelling narrative and striking visuals but also for its meditation on loss and the desire for justice in a world overshadowed by darkness.

I’ll just say this: this new 2024 movie sucks. It got a 1/5 stars from The Guardian and I feel like writing a letter to the Editor asking if that is because they couldn’t give zero stars.

So why didn’t this remake work?

I felt like it was a series of visuals of the main tattooed character finding Matrix style leather jackets and then a set of stairs to walk either up in down in the pouring rain whilst a crow flies onto his shoulder. The characters were paper thin, much thinner than even those from the original comic book. None of the original panache was there and the love story was, well, insulting to Aphrodite. I mentioned to my friend on the way to the theatre that I hoped it wasn’t a remake where they take the story and add a bunch of computerized graphics in the hopes that this will distract the audience. It was the under-attention to the role of the characters that made this movie just not work.

So when does it work? It ironically works in movies when you focus on character, not just visuals.

Alain Delon passed away a few weeks ago. I had just watched him in Le samouraï from 1967 so when I read his obituary I also learned that he played Tom Ripley, the main protagonist of The Talented Mr. Ripley, the 1955 crime novel of the same name.

Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley is a masterful exploration of identity, deception, and the dark allure of ambition. The novel follows Tom Ripley, a young man with a murky past and a talent for mimicry, as he is sent to Europe by a wealthy businessman to retrieve his wayward son, Dickie Greenleaf. What begins as a seemingly straightforward task quickly unravels into a chilling tale of obsession and murder. Highsmith delves deep into Tom’s psyche, revealing his yearning for wealth and status, as well as his envy of Dickie’s carefree lifestyle. Tom’s desire to become someone else—someone better—drives the narrative forward, creating an atmosphere of escalating tension and moral ambiguity.

Highsmith’s portrayal of Tom Ripley is both unsettling and fascinating. She crafts a character who is simultaneously repulsive and sympathetic, a man who commits heinous acts yet remains strangely relatable. Tom’s ability to deceive those around him—and even himself—underscores the novel’s exploration of identity as a fluid and constructed concept. Highsmith skillfully blurs the lines between reality and illusion, drawing readers into Tom’s increasingly elaborate web of lies. The novel’s tension is heightened by the luxurious and picturesque settings of Italy, from the vibrant streets of Rome to the serene coastal towns, which contrast sharply with the dark and twisted inner world of its protagonist.

The novel’s enduring appeal lies in its exploration of the human capacity for self-reinvention and the lengths to which one might go to escape mediocrity. Highsmith raises questions about the nature of morality, the consequences of unchecked ambition, and the fragility of identity. The Talented Mr. Ripley is not just a psychological thriller; it is a profound commentary on the darker aspects of human nature. Through Tom Ripley’s journey, set against the backdrop of Italy’s sun-drenched landscapes and opulent villas, Highsmith invites readers to confront the unsettling reality that beneath the veneer of civility and success, there may lie a dangerous and insatiable hunger for more.

The Talented Mr. Ripley has inspired several adaptations, each offering a unique portrayal of the enigmatic Tom Ripley, whose character serves as the linchpin of the narrative. In the 1960 film Purple Noon (originally Plein Soleil), Alain Delon embodies Ripley with a magnetic charm and cold-blooded precision. Delon’s portrayal emphasizes Ripley’s calculated, almost detached nature, highlighting his ability to manipulate those around him with ease. The sun-drenched settings of Italy in Purple Noon contrast sharply with the darkness of Ripley’s intentions, creating a visual tension that mirrors the character’s inner turmoil. This adaptation captures the essence of Highsmith’s novel, with Delon’s Ripley as a smooth, enigmatic figure who navigates the line between ambition and amorality with chilling ease.

Purple Noon was directed by René Clément and released in 1960. It didn’t make Delon a Hollywood star but it did assure his career as a successful European star (I also enjoyed Delon in the 1973 film, No Way Out a.k.a Tony Arzenta. The final scene in No Way Out on the steps of the Noto Cathedral made me think that Coppola might have been channeling this scene in the finale of Godfather III on the steps of the Palermo Opera House.)

Anyway… Clément’s Purple Noon is lusciously shot across Italy and seeing this coastline and geography was eye opening compared to its (over) development today. I digress.

The 1999 adaptation, starring Matt Damon as Ripley, offers a different interpretation, focusing more on the psychological complexity of the character. Damon’s Ripley is portrayed as a more vulnerable and socially awkward figure, whose deep insecurities and desire for acceptance drive his descent into deception and murder. The film lingers into Ripley’s psyche, exploring his struggle with identity and the lengths he will go to in order to attain the life he covets. The Italian backdrop, while still picturesque, serves more as a reflection of Ripley’s inner world—beautiful yet fraught with tension. This version is more introspective, emphasizing Ripley’s internal conflicts and the tragic elements of his character.

In the 2024 Netflix miniseries, Andrew Scott takes on the role of Ripley, bringing a new dimension to the character. Scott’s portrayal is nuanced, blending the charm of Delon’s Ripley with the psychological depth of Damon’s interpretation. The miniseries format allows for a more extended exploration of Ripley’s character, offering a detailed look at his transformation from an unassuming underdog to a ruthless manipulator. Scott’s Ripley is both compelling and unsettling, with the series taking full advantage of the episodic structure to build a slow-burning tension around his character.

The Italian setting, once again, provides a backdrop that is both idyllic and deceptive, mirroring Ripley’s dual nature. Each adaptation of The Talented Mr. Ripley brings its own focus to the character, reflecting the different facets of Highsmith’s creation and the enduring intrigue of Tom Ripley. But even with these scenic vistas, they never overwhelm character.

In my recent lecture on Caravaggio, the visuals from the 2024 Netflix miniseries adaptation of The Talented Mr. Ripley provided a compelling context, as the series features Tom Ripley traveling through Italy to visit locations connected to the renowned artist. This cinematic journey not only enriched the discussion by illustrating the evocative landscapes and architectural settings of Caravaggio’s era but also highlighted how Ripley’s character navigates these spaces in search of identity and transformation. By incorporating these visuals, I tried to draw a parallel between Ripley’s pursuit of his own self-reinvention and Caravaggio’s profound influence on the visual culture of his time, thereby deepening the thematic exploration of both the miniseries and the artist’s work. Again, this focus on character wasn’t overtaken even in scenes with a Caravaggio in the background.

In contrast to the 2024 remake of The Crow, which faltered due to its emphasis on CGI overstory, the various adaptations of Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley have succeeded by prioritizing character depth and narrative nuance. Each film adaptation—whether featuring Alain Delon, Matt Damon, or Andrew Scott—has focused on the intricate psychological portrait of Tom Ripley, ensuring that the core themes of identity, deception, and moral ambiguity remain central to the story. By investigating Ripley’s complex character and maintaining a strong connection between narrative and character development, these adaptations have captured the essence of Highsmith’s novel, demonstrating that a compelling story and rich character exploration are crucial for a successful remake. This focus on substantive storytelling over visual effects has allowed each version to bring new dimensions to Ripley’s character while honouring the original narrative’s power.

The irony of incorporating extensive computer graphics into a film, which is inherently a visual medium, lies in the fact that such visual enhancements often detract from the core elements of character and narrative. While CGI can create striking imagery, it paradoxically undermines the film’s emotional and psychological depth by overshadowing the complexities of character development. This overemphasis on spectacle at the expense of storytelling results in a less compelling movie, revealing that the true power of cinema lies not just in its visuals but in the intricate portrayal of characters and the richness of the narrative.

This image was one of the first that I created in midJourney. I uploaded it to Luma and was able to quickly animate it. The rain was added as well in post-production.

I created a series of “Caravaggio” paintings in midJourney for my presentation at the Marconi Centre last week. Some came out rather well. I took those images and then animated them in both Pika and Runway. Not bad results although the interpolation is very “creamy” and human forms morph and degrade in some rather interesting ways.

I do note that while I can export from the RISE platform and upload to my own website, I cannot seem to get it to go fullscreen in the iframe.

Kiln, Palomar and Frog. I cannot really describe how good all the food that I ate was. From the fish and chips to the street Thai food, everything was so good. These are the highlights!

Kiln was so good. I was speaking with a couple out front before it opened and opted to sit kitchen side after hearing their recommendation. Someone else said eat the glass noodles and they were so good. The ox heart was surprisingly tasty and that kale disk had no right being as good as it was.

Palomar’s cuisine was also so good. Middle Eastern and the various dips, sauces, and vegetables were just so damn tasty. I savoured each and every bite. The kitchen was nothing but hot coals and clay pots. My mouth was on fire with the hot spices and I was there for it!

Frog was a spectacular experience! I was sitting kitchen side so it was great being served by chef. He explained each dish as he served and the storytelling was almost as good as the food. Almost. His philosophy of sustainability and how he wants to redefine food “waste” is intriguing to say the least. The whole experience was amazing and the attention to detail was exceptional. Down to the take away box of sweets.

I was spoiled for choice in London and I cannot wait to get back and enjoy more.

Today was Westminster Abbey and La Boheme! Westminster Abbey is a beautiful space! There was a cool augmented reality exhibition about the reconstruction of Notre Dame in Paris. You walked around with an iPad and used QR codes to visit information packages about the fire and the history of the church. La Boheme was fantastic. All three shows at the Royal Opera House were just incredible. The first few photos are from the window of my hotel room with the Shard in the distance.