Everyone else is asleep, and -- true to form-- I cannot.
Today Bagel and I went to the National Gallery. They had a terrific exposition on Picasso's relationship with the art before him. I'm not the best art student, but my impression was that he had always been an iconoclast with distaste for his forebears. The exhibit we saw was all about how he was actually a fine-tuned classicist who through his exploration of new delivery methods, interpolated and reconfigured his biggest influences. There was several rooms of Picasso reworking Poussin and Delacroix and Van Gogh-- all in ways that were unmistakably Picasso, but still reminiscent of the original.
So there were works that showed the very best of Picasso: cubist grey portraits, intricate still life, grotesque female nudes. But each of the pieces was given context by accompanying paintings made by the masters Picasso studied. The last few rooms were the artist "covering" (so to speak) those same masters.
There are a lot of ways to think about this. The first that occurred to me was that Picasso was such a technical wizard that he had to blaze new trails, and then he had to circle back to make sure others followed along. A child of the avant garde may be comforted by spurning the past, but he can only be vindicated by showing others _how_ he did it. Even that explanation isn't really sufficient though. Picasso was a lover of those artists, and there's a noticeable presence of reverence and tribute in what he is doing. So you could say that as the man reached the end of his own life he became fixated on his legacy; tying himself to the heroes of his time as a student is a great way to cement your legend. I don't know about that one either.
I'm a plebian. I don't know fine art as well as I should have-- and definitely not as well as my mother or Bagel or my namesake uncle. I know music though. I understand the craft and art of music better than I do anything else, so that's where my brain kept going when I was reading and appreciating this. I kept thinking of Jeff Tweedy.
The Wilco guy started off in an "alternative country" act called Uncle Tupelo, doing middle of the road rock tunes with a very strong nostalgic Americana twinge. When he put his own act together, they continued in largely the same vein, but eventually he began developing a more confident authorial voice. His blues-based country songs or Guthrie-esque folk-rockers began incorporating exotic instrumentation and challenging compositional cues. It was still easily recognizable pop music, just a more interesting breed of it. But at a some point Jeff Tweedy transformed into an auteur musician, and that probably happened in 2001 with the release of _Yankee Hotel Foxtrot_,
YHF is still a simple album about yearning and estrangement and America, but it's also a singular statement of pop music that has become dissociated from its own artifice. A three-chord shuffle in most hands would become a serviceable love song, but Tweedy uses word salad and deconstructed arrangements to create a listening experience that is twice as potent and half as familiar. Tweedy will drops out the drums and replace a guitar solo with white noise while he sings abstract couplets ostensibly about self-identity or the passage of time. But it's still a 3-minute pop song.
I can't help but think cubism is the same thing. Picasso knew the boundaries and structures of classical formal art so well that he could transcend them easily. Just like how children learn vocabulary for concepts they are already understand and thereby lose some of the poetry and magic that comes with pre-vocal knowledge, Picasso learned how to put down that learned vocabulary, but he did not forget it. That set of rules, the cultural edifice bound to all media, is just a consensual invention of its followers. By creating art of a similar pattern to something seen before, an artist is engaging a context that makes his message (usually "don't be a dick") easier to absorb. Problem is that those rules quickly become dogma. When the punks said they had enough with overblown guitar solos and slick production, they were saying that the rules of music had become too strict. Idiots that they were, they didn't notice that they had created a system much more restrictive to take its place The excitement in art is the defiance of expectation-- because that is when the artist and audience are most engaged. Hell, that is the definition of irony.
Cubism is a new set of rules for art to replace the ones before it. Picasso said enough creating an idealized world on the canvas, using pigment and perspective and tone to represent the real space we live in. Cubism was a subjective view of an objective world. Each object in frame has facets, and each can be made available to the audience, even if that were impossible in real 2-D space. The artist empowers and trusts the audience to interpret a figure correctly: "this is a human"; "this is a violin". The delivery has changed dramatically, and that creates a jarring but not unpleasant viewing experience. It's invigorating, but it's not difficult. Picasso's work reminds us of those who came before him because he adopted their sensibilities, just not their formality.
A cubist nude, all her planes collapsed into one, is a nude nonetheless and worthy of appreciation. A love song with a 13-minute feedback loop tagged on at the end is still another song about a girl.
I don't think Jeff Tweedy is Picasso, but I do think I see the threads between the two. And I'd love to pull that same thread closer to my own work. The nice thing about making music with Christian is that we have no formal education. We learned by imitation and without discussion-- aping what we heard until we did it right. So we know all the rules for the music we make, but we don't have many words to describe them. We count time by sense of smell. If the idiom is true that a jazz musician must learn all the rules and then ignore them, what do you do if the rules are all you know?
And on that note, I should turn this off and go to bed. Forgive me for blabbing on about this. Suffice it to say that I thought the Picasso exhibit was fantastic, and Bagel fell asleep before I could ramble on to her about it.
Man, I wish I had a guitar here.