Horses, Part 1

Marino Marini, L'angelo della Citta, 1948.

Marino Marini was a sculptor in Italy in the 20th century. This was the first work I ever saw by him, on the same influential day that I saw my favorite Kandinsky. You see, when you study Florentine Renaissance painting for four months, and then suddenly go to a modern/contemporary art gallery, you tend to get a little floored by what's there--not your typical Leonardo.

So this sculpture, for obvious reasons, floored me (insert penile pun here). It's really an amazing piece to stand in front of, and not just because we all like to see a few blatant phallic references now and then. Those stiff lines and strong curves create an incredible sense of energy that becomes almost overpowering when you see the work in person. And the juxtaposition of the wild-eyed horse with the self sacrifycing doll-like man draw the eye in a continual triangle so that your eye almost gains energy as it looks, darting from point to point.

Often in sculpture of bodies and horses, the musculature is what's of interest. Artists are studying the make-up of these bodies in order to recreate the same muscle shape, tension, and detail. Marini doesn't neglect musculature in this work, or in his others, but I think his interest in more in the shapes themselves and the way he can angle and turn bodies to get a different reaction from his viewer. Compare this to Degas, for example, who also created many works of horses. The scale Degas chooses (much smaller) and the medium (wax cast in bronze) allow-or enforce- his focus on muscle.

Here's another Marini sculpture, this one at his museum in Florence. This more abstracted work shows how far he takes his angular experimentation--and the works continue down this path of abstraction throughout his life.

Marino Marini, Cavaliere (Composizione), 1955-56.

School of the Lustful Monk

In the mid-15th century in Florence, there lived an interesting monk. Fra Fillipo Lippi was a man of the cloth, but he had a son. As rumors had it, his lover was a nun living in a convent neighboring his monastary. He was also an artist, and his son became his second-most famous student.

His most famous? None other than Botticelli.

The Lippi school produced some of the most whimsical paintings of it's time. Birth of Venus and Primavera are beautiful examples of the hand of the teacher, Lippi, in his students. The same lovely blond-haird women are seen in paintings from Lippi (the Friar/father) to Botticelli and son Fillipino.

Although the Lippi father and son are less well-known than many Renaissance painters, their influence is actually pretty strong throughout. I see the soft lines and inclination towards lovely blonde Madonnas in Raphael, even Leonardo. And their works crop up everywhere from museum to church to chapel in Florence and throughout Tuscany.

Kandinsky, with Red Spots

Standing in front of this Kandinsky painting, I was completely drawn in. Forget about analysis for a few minutes and just look. What do you feel? A sense of hope, of excitement? Maybe a feeling of joy? That's how I felt, in any case, the first time I saw it at the Guggenheim in Venice.

I like to think about how Kandinsky communicated this spirit--each sharply drawn diagonal line works with the color around it, and the color itself becomes line, to push all that energy from the artist, into the work, and into the viewer in turn. The red at the center of the work, in the three steep mountain peaks, draws the eye in and gives you a place to center your view.The yellow lines then draw you out and up, soaring through the painted sky, while the arc at the top of the work gives you a comfortable boundary and a smooth turn to look back at the rest of the work. The colorful blobs of blue and yellow and red, and the grouped shapes in the bottom half of the work are of interest, but they are always pushing you to look back up at that bright red center.

It's a beautiful work, and one that exemplifies true Abstract Expressionism--painting with feeling that needs no further explanation.