7. The "art" of travel

For this weeks blog we are meant to write about art---art that influences the city we are studying in; art that depicts the city; how art affects our perceptions of the place we now live. When I began writing this blog I had originally tried to think of one specific painting, drawing, photograph, sculpture or artifact that in my mind was the quintessential ideal vision of London, but I drew a complete blank. Out of the many museums and galleries that I had visited and the numerous upon numerous paintings and sculptures I had seen during my stay in London not one piece stood out against the others as something that solely associated itself with my idea of the city of London. When one travels to Italy Michelangelo and his work on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is difficult to ignore; when traveling to Paris one can't seem to forget da Vinci's Mona Lisa and her ever curious grin. These two cities are immersed in artistic excellence with their art defining the city itself. And yet here I was in London, a city filled with culture and history and life, and I could not find one piece of art that truly symbolized London on an artistic basis for me. So, out of dedication and stubbornness I took to the streets to find London's quintessential piece of art. 

Victoria & Albert Museum

On this journey to find London's singular symbolic piece of art I gracefully stumbled into the Victoria and Albert Museum, more commonly known as the V&A to us "true Londoners." This museum was sure to house that perfect piece I was looking for. After hours of searching, I was at a loss. No "perfect-piece-I-associate-with-London" was found. Needless to say, I became a bit distraught.

One of the curators, probably noticing that I was a bit puzzled, came over to me. Somehow, she began to discuss the history behind the V&A. It was in this speech and not through a specific piece of art that I found my blog topic. 

The curator began her lesson with a little history behind the building. "The V&A is home to the world's largest collection of decorative arts and designs. The permanent collection totals over 4.5 million objects and is comprised of 145 galleries. The official opening of the building was in 1857 by Queen Victoria herself and was named after her and her husband Albert."

(A little history behind Victoria and Albert: After Victoria and Albert were married, Albert helped the Queen find a love of the arts and the two wanted to do their best at trying to preserve them. Through their dedication to the importance of art, buildings have been named for them, such as the famous opera house The Royal Albert Hall.)

After hearing the history behind the museum and the other artistic buildings that lent their name to the royal couple, I couldn't help but think that maybe instead of London having just one specific piece of art that symbolized London's achievements in the artistic world it was instead a royal couple and their dedication to the preservation of art that London could be proud of.

After being away from the city for ten days—doing the kind of extreme traveling which made those ten days feel like ten weeks—I was feeling the need to repent for all that time in nature. Coming home I felt eager to exploit the rich Porteno culture that—in lieu of the daily grind, and my ravenous desire to travel—I had largely and sadly neglected. Though I returned from Patagonia under the illusion that I had been transformed into a naturalist (after my liberating hike, and one night of real camping) once in back the urban setting, all I really wanted was great food, a trip to the museo, and a desperately needed manicure. Unfortunately, as I had failed to accomplish even the slightest amount of work over the break, not only did I not see a restaurant, museum, or nail place over the next seven days, but I barely saw the light of day since I was inside working so much.

However, following a most grueling week of unburying myself from loads of truly professional procrastination, I eventually emerged—only slightly emotionally scarred—with no remaining commitments other than a leisurely weekend at the museos. Unable to convince anyone to accompany me on Friday to visit the modern art museum, MALBA (Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires), I put on my black tights and tight turtle neck and went alone.

The radio taxi dropped me off in front of the modern marble architectural facade. Artsy looking chicos sat around talking and smoking cigarettes on the black granite steps leading up to the MALBA. Though a 30 foot noise meter, reminiscent of a traffic light, flashed intermittently onto the esplanade, casting a neon glow of modernity on the loiterers below, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of nostalgia for the steps of the MET back home in New York.

The foyer contained some of MALBA’s most interesting pieces, and opened up onto the light, airy atrium above, where Pablo Reinoso’s spaghetti benches could be seen worming their way up the museum’s bleached white walls. I indulged myself in a tranquil and lengthy stroll—the kind that can only be accomplished whilst alone—through the fairly small museum, and three hours later left after having looked over several things twice, and sneaked into some kind of cartoon film series.

Enredamaderas: spaghetti benches (Pablo Reinoso, MALBA)

Saturday, I was still committed to urban relaxation, and was curious about this Museo de Artes Plasticas, which I thought my senora had recommended to me. (Later she said she’d never heard of the place—though neither of us was surprised by the miscommunication.) After two taxi drivers let me out of their cabs because they had never heard of the museum either, the third taxista drove me off with a dubious confidence. Minutes later we arrived at a museum that I’d been to before—El Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. I was irate, to say the least, but I decided that rather than lucklessly continue my quest, I might as well go inside.

What the Museo Nacional De Bellas Artes lacks in aesthetics it makes up for with a glorious and extensive collection. I had been to the museum the previous month, but walking through the long corridors for a second time I discovered so many things I hadn’t seen before, and felt an excitement towards the pieces I remembered particularly well—like with a lost friend, or when rediscovering an old book.

One floor of the museum, is completely dedicated to Argentine artists, and boasts one of the wackiest modern art wings I’ve ever seen. Walking through the modernist, fauvist, surrealist, abstract zone, of bold, elaborate colors, thick paint, grotesque sculptures, and absurd installations, I felt like an ant lost in wonderland, scaled down by the massive works. Occasionally another museum-goer would turn a corner and reassure me that I wasn’t actually lost in this giant space, where for the most-part the only voice that was heard was the bellowing automated response when someone got to close to a painting.

After having my morale boosted by my lovely second date with myself, I decided to persevere on in pursuit of this mystery museum, El Museo de Arte Plasticas. After several ill-fated attempts, I finally arrived at the entrance to the Bosque Palermo, the exact Argentine version of Central Park. Sprawling lawns with people trying to catch the tail end of summer, fathers and daughters rollerblading, friends ridding their bikes, people jogging, horse drawn carriages trotting around a muddy lake filled with paddle-boaters. All so familiar, and yet so distinctly Argentine. In the place of pretzel and hotdog vendors, are churipan, and churro vendedoras, and the colonial bridges and buildings of the Bosque could not be more different to the cement jungle which encloses central park.

At the center of all this was a beautiful building, which contained a very modern gallery in the first floor—El Museo de Arte Plasticas. A friend was already waiting for me outside. The two of us went in, perused the gallery devoted to mostly Argentine art from the 20th’ century to the present—which was interesting, and at times provocative and comical—and had lunch in the museum café, surrounded by garden installations and low hanging trees.

Next weekend, al museo por favor....

Since studying at Prague, I’ve been exposed to a wide range of art- from gothic cathedrals to cubist buildings. However, my favorite artist and most appealing art to me is by Alphonse Mucha. His work is characterized by colorful palettes, beautiful women, and long long hair. As an amateur painter myself, I’ve always been attracted to really bold and colorful paintings. My favorite artist being Henri Matisse. Similar to Matisse, Mucha elongates and purposely disproportions his subjects.
I’ve yet to go to the Mucha Museum, but already I am in love with his art-nouveau style. Its interesting to see Mucha’s influence across the world: from Paris, the US, to Prague. His life is a success story, where once a struggling artist he became famous overnight by doing posters for a Parisian actress Sarah Bernhardt. Traveling across to world, he finally settled back in his home town to paint more about his hometown. Last week I went to the St. Vitus cathedral where one of the stained glass windows was done by Mucha. It was easy to pick him out by his use of various colors. He used bright greens and oranges, in comparison to more subtle and limited colors done by other artists.

When I first saw his work, I would have never guessed that it was by a Czech artist. It was, in my opinion, untimely of his era to create such light-hearted and relaxed portrayals of women.

Today, when walking around Prague, I am overwhelmed by the wide range of styles present. I am struck by gothic architecture everywhere, yet artists like Mucha appear as accents around the city. I remember first arriving in Prague, seeing only the more stiff and dark side of Prague. But today, I see a completely different side of Prague I would have never imagined.

David CernyDavid Cerny, 42 is one of Prague’s most famous and controversial artists. Most noted for his sculptures like “A tower baby” where giant sized black steal babies crawl up the television tower of Prague or “Statue of a man hanging by one hand” which hangs almost unnoticeable on a side street of Old Town Square, Cerny is a modern artist who is always trying to break social and artistic barriers. One, David was arrested for painting a Soviet Tank pink and later created a work called ‘Shark’, an image of Saddam Hussein in a tank of formaldehyde. The work was banned twice for fear that it would outrage Muslims in Eastern Europe. Though I was unable to attend his lecture at NYU, a friend told me that he came across as arrogant. She said that, “it was like he was trying to prove how much of a badass he was and swore a lot.” Other friends said they enjoyed seeing him regardless of the way he spoke. David rides around the city on a bicycle and old torn clothes despite his success in the world of art. His emanating “too cool for school” spirit has made him an international art icon. Most recently, David was commissioned by the Czech Republic to create a work that would symbolize Prague holding the presidency of the Council of the European Union. The work, entitled “Entopa” essentially satirizes the stereotypes of European Nations. David also failed to collaborate with other artists as the contract had defined. Despite the controversy he causes, I appreciate his work. Art is skeptic. That’s why it’s made in the first place. Since the Czech Republic has commissioned Cerny to make art for the city prior to “Entropa” (which is right now in Brussels), it surprises me it caused an upset. Afterall, this is the rich, rebellious David Cerny we’re discussing.

Argentine Buddy Bear and Fileteadores

Have you heard of the United Buddy Bears? Well, it's a traveling exhibition currently residing in the Plaza San Martin in the center of Retiro in the center of Buenos Aires, and it's exactly as ridiculous as it sounds. A collection of 140 life sized teddy bears, one for every country recognized by the UN, arms extended toward the sky, painted by an artist from each country to "spread a zest for life," (taken from http://www.buddy-baer.com/united-buddy-bears/idea/overview.html). The collection also includes three special bears: the Golden Rule Bear, the Einstein Bear, and the Respect for all Life Bear. It's starting to sound like beanie babies to me too.

The Argentina Buddy Bear was not painted by an individual artist. Rather, it is credited to a group of artists from Buenos Aires known as the Fileteadores de Buenos Aires, and they choose to make their bear a shrine to Carlos Gardel and tango. Fileteado is an art of embellishment, spirals, bright colors, fancy lettering, associated with tango and lunfargo (the slang associated with tango). A few things strike me about the Argentine Buddy Bear, 1) it's Buenos Aires-centric, 2) it's a shrine, 3) it is the only bear in the collection attributed to a collective rather than an individual.

I guess the first point shouldn't surprise me; Argentina is Buenos Aires-centric, and a third of the country's population lives in the city or the suburbs. The second point though, I've been muddling over for a while. Argentina is a culture of hero worship. Perón, his wife Evita, Maradona, Carlos Gardel, Che all have faces I would not have been able to point out before coming to Buenos Aires (with the exception of Che). Now, not only can I point out their faces, I can probably point them out in at least three different places on every block. They are graffitied on walls, framed and hanging in windows, painted on the inside and outside of buses. Celebrities here become gods. I can't explain why. In many ways, Argentina seems to have a culture carried on the backs of a few famous Argentines, and the Buddy Bear is a perfect example.

Finally, the group of painters. This seems to be the only almost false part about the bear. It feels like a front, projecting an all-inclusive image to the world, when Argentine history can be described as anything but. It's hard to believe that they only just emerged from their last violent dictatorship in 1983. Even the way they refer to the 30,000 people murdered for their politics as "les desaparecidos" (the disappeared) feels euphemistic. But then, they say that because they still don't know where their bodies lie.

Wow, this got heavy for a post initially about Buddy Bears.

BorgesI'm currently taking a class called "Critical Approaches: Reading, Writing and Textual Analysis" which basically requires us to read Spanish Literature and be able to dissect it given it's political or historical construct. We not too long ago had an assignment where we had to read a short story by Jorge Luis Borges ( a much celebrated Argentine writer) called "El Sur" or The South in English. In the story, a man of German descent born and raised in Buenos Aires and proud to be an Argentina national suffers from a head injury as he excitedly rushes home to open his copy of Arabian nights. He is then rushed to the hospital where the character describes a very violent scene of nurses strapping him to the bed and shaving his head. He describes his stay in the hospital as being in hell. He feels humiliated knowing he's going to die in such a manner. As he's drying he travels in his mind to the south of Argentina to the countryside. Though never having gone, it's apparent that the character feels that there is something in the south, not in Buenos Aires that he must experience before he dies. Borges paints a picture of lush greenery, tranquility and remoteness. A stark contrast from the scene in the city which was described as an inferno. The character goes to a bar where many gauchos ( one of the major symbols of Argentine culture) hang out and gets into a little tuff with one of them. The gaucho then challenges the character to a duel in which the character knows he will lose and die. He accepts the challenge, and dies a death he attributes to bravery instead of humiliation. He was able to successfully use travel as a mechanism of drifting between worlds and alternating his destiny. I saw the short story as its own piece of Argentine art by its way of providing a reflection and representation of Argentine. Borges is known for writing subtly about Argentine culture in his works and playing with ideologies of what it means (or thought to mean) to be Argentine. He uses the scene of the hospital as a metaphor for Buenos Aires and the scene of the south as a metaphor for the countryside and all things tranquil. It's interesting because Buenos Aires is scene as the cultural hub of Argentina, where all things civilized and cultured remain. Yet, the character finds it necessary to travel to the south where the gauchos are (where popular opinion was that gauchos and all things associated with them were uncultured and classless). The story serves as a reflection of how Argentines even view themselves. The character, an Argentine of German descent, carrying around his copy of a Weil edition of Arabian Nights shows that he's someone of a certain higher class and status which showed his capability of reading and understanding a European language which are all elements of what it means to be Argentine: identifying your European traits and attributing it to your being cultured while still maintaining your own identity of being Argentine. All of these things are described in his world of Buenos Aires. As he is dying, he escapes and travels by train to the south where the gauchos are who can give him back his honor he lost. You see, there was a time when the gauchos were considered to be the anti-thesis of Argentine culture, and now they are considered to be the pinnacle of Argentine culture. Borges connects the two using the train as a way to show that although they are completely opposite of one another, they still belong to the same history and culture.

Judith Slaying Holofernes: One of my favorite paintings in the Uffizi, a Baroque style painting by Artemesia Gentileschi.One of my biggest regrets about my experience has been my general lack of education about the art I have seen. I really wish I had chosen to take an art history class because visiting museums would be a much more enjoyable experience. A trip to the Uffizi is still enjoyable, yet extremely overwhelming. Even If I had taken an art history class, there is no way I could become familiar with all of the artwork in the Uffizi. A day waltzing around the museum is only going to break the surface, several day trips only getting you through certain styles and periods. In this way it is similar to the Met, a museum I lived closed to my entire life, and visited more times then can remember, but still couldn’t tell you about ¾ of the art inside. As I get into the last stretch of my trip, I am determined to step it up, and finally become familiar with some Florentine art. While I didn’t hesitate to visit two museums in Paris, and four in Amsterdam, I have spent far too little time in the museums in Florence. Since so much time could be spend in the Uffizi alone, I must now be willing to dedicate a large chunk of my time to visiting museums. In the wise words of my father, “There is no way you can leave Italy without visiting at least one piece of art from each Ninja Turtle.” In the last six weeks of my trip I am making it my personal goal to familiarize myself with the art of Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello and Raphael. Swinging by a Botticelli, a Caravaggio or a Gotti might also be a good idea. While it is impossible to leave Florence without regrets, I must make sure that I do not regret passing by the rich art of Florence and only enjoying the art in the cities I visit.

From the moment you arrive in Prague, you are exposed to the work of David Cerny, whether you know the name or not. Amid the harvest-colored rooftops, the futuristic Zizkov tower breaks the city skyline like an alien implant, demanding a double-take from all of those who have never laid eyes on it. On closer inspection, when you discover that those obscure black blobs on the tower are actually enormous, faceless babies, it becomes even more absurd.

But that’s Cerny for you. And I, for one, love it. It’s ludicrous, insane, provocative, and ballsy. I’m not here to carry on some debate about whether his works are art or not, whether it is appropriate and fitting. But what I like is that they all elicit some sort of reaction other than “Oh, that is so beautiful.” It shocks, strikes up laughter, or does both to the many observers, and there’s great fun to be found. The uptight may condemn the political incorrectness of it all, but I find the lack of propriety to be utterly refreshing. Entropa, Cerny’s latest in a long line of controversial pieces, represented the 27 nations of the European Union in each of their stereotypes. While Cerny came under fire for the creation and the Czech presidency had to endure the public embarrassment of having been duped (oh, it's all very sordid - google the story for the not-so-juicy details), Entropa and the discussions that followed it were far more intriguing than anything else that could have been commissioned.

A friend’s recent visit pushed me to do all the tourist-y things that I had put off till now, like visiting Prague Castle and all the various museums that litter the city. After finally seeing the castle, we walked over to the Kafka Museum, where another Cerny masterpiece is displayed. Proudy shows two men urinating into a puddle shaped like the Czech Republic, swiveling their hips to spell out famous quotes. The sculpture is constantly surrounded by laughing visitors whipping out their cameras for a photo or two, and I admit I was one of them! It certainly isn’t your typical fountain display.

Notre Dame by Maurice UtrilloOne of my favorite paintings in Paris, and of Paris, is located downstairs at the museum of the Orangerie. The building was built to house a series of water lilies by Monet in two spectacular oval shaped rooms that he designed especially for the paintings. This is obviously the museum’s biggest selling point, but it would be shame to spend an afternoon there without drifting downstairs to where the rest of the private collection is displayed. It is small but impressive collection of art ranging from the impressionists, Renoir, Sisley, to more modern artists, such as Picasso. In the second to last room, I discovered a Parisian artist I had never heard of, and still know nothing about. In the several art history classes I have taken, two of them taught in Paris museums, the name Maurice Utrillo has never been mentioned. And yet, I found his paintings striking, pleasing, and completely relatable.
Utrillo has a way of painting Parisian landmarks and landscapes in outlandish colors and simplified geometric shapes while still maintaining the emotional essence of the city. Notre Dame painted in blue, yellow, red, and orange triangles, rectangles, and semi-circles, still feels like Notre Dame. Unfortunately, I can’t find a picture online of the actual painting from the Orangerie, this is a similar painting that I don’t like as much, but you can see the general impression. His funky, modern take on the classic, gothic Cathedral emblematic of France the world over, is just as light, uplifting, and powerful as the original. His views of Parisian streets and sidewalks follow the same pattern; the familiar Haussmannian facades are given new life in crayola-color, with the same spunk and energy I feel in the streets on a sunny day. I can’t wait to move back to New York and hang an Utrillo poster on the wall so I can take a mental stroll through Paris everyday.

Beijing Olympic StadiumIt was the quintessential symbol for the biggest event in sports and television history. Beijing National Stadium, known colloquially as the Bird's Nest, is an architectural milestone and a true work of art. Herzog & de Meuron won the bid for the design out of 13 finalists and it took 5 years and 17,000 workers to complete. This highly acclaimed Swiss architecture firm have designed some of the most widely regarded buildings today. The Tate Modern in London, Dominus Wineray in Napa Valley, California, and 40 Bond in New York have all been commissioned by Herzog and de Meuron.

NYU sponsored a free all-inclusive weekend trip to Beijing for students studying abroad in Shanghai. We visited the Great Wall the first day and were free to do any additional exploring the other two days. My two friends and I decided that visiting the Olympic Green was a necessity while we were in Beijing. Stepping out of the cab and looking at the Bird's Nest was awe inspiring. The scale of the buildings in the Olympic Green cannot be captured on film, with the Bird's Nest being the centerpiece. Beijing's Olympic Green, consisting of the Bird's Nest, the famous Water Cube, and numerous other buildings, is at a fraction of last summer's grandeur but still had hundreds of thousands of people lining up to see the architecture.

We purchased our tickets and waited in line, the first thing any of us wanted to do was lay down on the faux grass, look up at the blue sky, and and take in the moment. We then ran a short race, took photos in the stands, and paid 100 RMB to have our photos taken on Olympic podiums wearing Olympic gold medals. After the obligatory tourist activities we ventured away from the crowd and entered an unmarked tunnel. We found ourselves wandering through athlete warm-up stations, stadium control rooms, and a doping clearance station. It was surreal thinking just a number of months ago the world's greatest athletes, along with 12,000 opening ceremony performers, were walking where I was walking. After walking in sectioned off areas for a bit more a wandering security guard stopped us and began questioning us. We played the tourist trick and responded in English with confused looks on our faces. He called us “lao wai” (foreigners) and escorted us back to the main field.

Visiting Beijing National Stadium was a contrast to the Great Wall. My trip to Beijing really showed me two opposite ends of a spectrum.