Tudor ramblings

I popped into the National Portrait Gallery yesterday after a job interview in London. (I had stashed a change of clothes in the museum's cloakroom prior to my interview which was just down the street so that I could spend the rest of my day out in London NOT in heels and a wool suit.)

As its name suggests, the museum is devoted exclusively to portraits. The oldest works in its collection are of the Tudor family, begining in the 1400s and including some Hans Holbein works--exactly the kind of thing I'm a sucker for. Floor map in hand, I headed directly for the Tudor gallery.

* * *

Elderly British woman 1: Ahh, this one is Catherine of Aragon.

Elderly British woman 2 (hobbling over with two canes, stopping to adjust bifocals): Yes, she was married to Henry VIII. Their marriage was to form an alliance between England and Spain. Henry cast her aside when she got old so that he could marry a younger woman, Anne Boleyn. He didn't cut her head off, but I think she spent the rest of her days in seclusion, at a nunnery or some sort.

EBW 1 (studying portrait more closely): Hmm. Is that right?

EBW2: You know, I really admire her. It couldn't have been easy, giving him all those years only to be disposed of. She was a virtuous woman.

[thoughtful pause]

My, how pale she looked--and from sunny Spain. Not much sun for her here, was there?

EBW 1: Which one was she? Was she his third wife?

EBW2: I'm not sure. Let's read the card.

Young American woman (aka me): She was his first.

EBW2 (smiling): Ah, yes. I get them all confused.

* * *

I don't know if you appreciate how much restraint it took for me not to say more, with Tudor History Geek Thrill pulsing through me. I didn't want to intrude, but did they realize that Henry's maneuvering to rid himself of Catherine is one of history's most exciting stories with no shortage of sordid details and political intrigue?

Catherine was originally intended as a bride for Henry's older brother, Arthur. They married in 1501, but six months into the marriage Arthur died suddenly. When Henry assumed the throne several years later, he married Catherine (historians generally agree that they were in love).

Catherine maintained that her marriage to Arthur had never been consummated due to their tender age, and this paved the way for her union with Henry. But after 24 years of marriage, itching to move onto a younger woman who could give him an heir, Henry did an about face. He petitioned Rome for an annulment, claiming that Catherine had in fact slept with Arthur, cementing Henry and Catherine's status as brother and sister and making their marriage incestuous and therefore illegal. To prove his point, he dug up stories of 14 year old Arthur bragging about his "sleepovers" with 15 year old Catherine to members of court. (Can you imagine?)

But Catherine did not go quietly. She refused to be supplanted by some upstart tramp. And she was protecting her daughter, Mary (if her marriage proved to be illegal, then Mary would be a bastard with grim future prospects). Conveniently, Catherine's nephew, Charles V, was Holy Roman Emperor and pressured (an understatement) the Pope not to grant Henry's wishes.

Nor did Anne Boleyn give up easily. She had Henry wrapped around her little finger and manipulated him artfully. For one, she didn't sleep with him as all his other mistresses had (including, previously, Anne's own sister). Yes, there was heavy petting--in one love letter Henry refers to her breasts, longingly, as "pritty duckys I trust shortly to kysse"-- but she held out going all the way with him--seven years--until it was certain Henry intended to leave Catherine.

Henry eventually broke from Rome and formed the Church of England, with himself as the head, in order to get his way. Catherine was banished, and Anne Boleyn took her place (though not for long).

Anne was fiery, opinionated, and a fervent supporter of the Reformation. It is thought that it was she who influenced Henry to establish a Protestant church in England, and after their marriage was very politically influential. But her political nature was regarded as inappropriate for a Queen, and she made many enemies within Henry's inner circle. These same advisors eventually turned Henry against her, fabricating evidence that Anne was carrying on several affairs, including with her own brother. She was convicted of treason and beheaded at the Tower of London.

Henry did not stop his philandering after marrying Anne, and some historians feel her failure to give him a son, and his infatuation with a new found marital prospect (one of Anne's ladies in waiting), contributed to Henry's willingness to plot against her.

Either way, eleven days after Anne's execution, Henry married wife number three, Jane Seymour.

Probably best I didn't lay the "pritty duckys" on those women, huh?

Pondering Modern Art

I popped into the Tate Modern today after a job interview in London and was delighted by an installation called "Test Site" by sculptor Carsten Höller. It's a series of steep, space-agey curving tubes that span several stories situated in the main gallery of the museum. And, best part, (in fact, the whole point) you can slide down them!

According to the program, the artist is fascinated by "the visual spectacle of watching people sliding and the 'inner spectacle' experienced by the sliders themselves, the state of simultaneous delight and anxiety that you enter as you descend."

I spent about ten minutes at the bottom watching people of all ages, sizes and demeanors shoot out of the tubes with silly grins on their faces. Unfortunately, I did not get to experience the 'inner spectacle' because I was wearing my interview suit (which is the most expensive item of clothing I've ever owned) and all I could envision was a trip through the slide causing a nasty tear in the lovely plaid wool. Bummer, I know. But I'm going to go back in more casual clothes and give it a whirl very soon.

***

Over the last year my interest has veered so far away from things "modern" -- all the history I've read, the art, architecture, and historical sites I've gone to see, even the things I've sought out while on vacation. So it was interesting to spend an afternoon with such modern stuff. And you know what? I hated almost all of it.

Maybe I just wasn't in the mood for it. Maybe it was too abrupt a change of pace. But after immersing myself in the way painters like Hans Holbein lovingly rendered hawk feathers and ermine collars and luxurious brocades:

or sculptors like Bernini transformed cold marble into sensuous, living flesh:

I felt empty, cheated, even outright angry looking at so much of the Tate Modern's collection. I was surprised by how strongly the irritation welled up in me as I moved from room to room. I know that sounds ridiculously closed minded and unimaginative. And of course there were exceptions; I found several pieces genuinely moving/inspiring/engaging: a group of Cindy Sherman photos, graceful Calder mobiles, an entrancing Mark Rothko painting:

















and a sublime and satisfying sculpture by Anish Kapoor, which from one side is a pregnant, weighty egg, expanding like bread dough into the gallery, and from the other is as empty, weightless and cold as outer space.
















But I couldn't shake the feeling that other works were outright fraudulent. Take this piece by Man Ray (L'Enigme d'Isidore Ducasse -- a sewing machine wrapped in burlap and tied with twine):













I spent more time pondering the explanatory note than I did looking at the piece:

"The title of this work, which can be translated as ‘The Enigma of Isidore Ducasse’, refers to a nineteenth-century author better known by his pseudonym, the Comte de Lautréamont. The work was inspired by Ducasse’s famous phrase ‘Beautiful as the chance meeting, on a dissecting table, of a sewing machine and an umbrella’. The Surrealists saw this simile, describing the surprising conjunction of disparate elements, as a model for Surrealist images in art and poetry."

My immediate thought: Oh, get off it!

***

There was a certain lazy slob in my first year printmaking class in college. We lived in the same dorm and, for some reason God only knows, he was popular with the ladies. More than a few times I caught him strolling, stoned and towel-clad at midnight, from the bathroom back to his fetid love nest, presumably for a few more rounds with some stupid girl willing to overlook the fact that his mother forgot to pack him toenail clippers at the semester's start.

I have no doubt that these frequent nocturnal love-a-thons contributed to his general ill-preparedness for critiques. On those days, one by one, we'd tack our work up at the front of the studio to receive constructive feedback from our peers. His stuff was always ill conceived and poorly executed. But could he talk, and his ego was royal. He'd go on and on about some piece of shit intaglio proof that he'd done at 4 am that morning, telling us what it was supposed to evoke for us.

My feeling was then, and still is, if you have to explain it, intellectualize it, then you've failed as an artist. I should be able to walk up to any piece of art and have my own experience with it. Yes, having context about the piece can often enhance the viewing experience. And I like learning about the artist's thoughts on his/her own work. But it's gotta do something to me before I even read the label.

So that's why, upon seeing the Man Ray piece, all I could think about was this guy in my printmaking class. I tried to picture Man Ray in his studio when he put this thing together. Did he do sketches beforehand? Did he spend a day or two shopping for just the right burlap? Did he re-tie the twine a few times before he got it right? How could anyone take this seriously???