William Butler Yeats

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Monday, March 3, 2008

In-Class Topic #2: Interpretations

Are there ever correct ways to interpret art?

Art, regardless of its medium, is the greatest espousal of human creation. It recreates; it distorts; it imagines. Imagination is not bounded by the laws of reality and gives birth to infinite possibilities. Even after creation when a possibility is finally chosen by the artist, the artwork is not bound by the possibility, because only the creator knows the reasons for the creation. To an observer, the artwork is reduced once again to the plane of infinite possibilities. Despite the fact that the artwork may have a very simple objective reality (i.e. Monet's Lilies), the feelings, ruminations, and actions which it inspires to the observer are endless. To me, the painting reminds me of my grandmother, whose favorite artist is Monet. It evokes pleasant memories of childhood and spending time with my grandmother. It reminds me of her happiness when I gave her this print, among many, as a gift a long time ago. Monet did not know Lilies would be associated with these thoughts and emotions when he painted Lilies. Nor do I know what thoughts and emotions it will evoke in others. That is the true beauty of art: even though the artist's life is finite, his artwork is eternal through its interpretations and effects.

Monet has long since died, the paint on his canvas has long since dried, and his reasons for creating Lilies, even if he expressed them in an interview, can never be completely captured. Yet, his work, even if the original and every print were destroyed, would remain eternal in the minds of others and its possibilities would be infinite as the creation becomes the creator. Just as Monet created Lilies, it itself has created memories for me, and these memories will most likely motivate me to create unknowns in the future, whether in thought or through action.

For those who read this, I want you to watch the video that I have attached: Breath by Samuel Beckett. Common sense leads a person to believe artwork is open to more interpretations when it is longer or more complicated; however, Samuel Beckett proved the converse. This play is only 25 seconds long. He stipulated only a few details: the length, the types of breaths, the lighting, that rubbish must litter the stage, and that the rubbish should not be stacked vertically, but rather strewn carelessly. Critics say that Beckett created it to personify his classical, existentialist theme: the relative shortness and pointlessness of life itself. Other critics view it as a joke. Again, the beauty is that no one will truly know what Beckett wanted people to feel or think. (Ironically, not knowing how to feel or think would most likely exemplify in his mind why human choice and life is pointless.) All of us have to decide what the message, meaning, and 'moral' is.

To me, it is the perfect depiction of Samuel Beckett's views on existence. To exist is tragic. Breath is the metaphor for our birth, life, and death in a world of filth, which lasts only a moment but extends infinitely around us, never rising higher than a pathetically thin film of decay. Although I don't agree with the meaning, this is the message which I receive, because I can put myself in his place since I'm an avid reader of existentialist literature. Similarly, since I admire Impressionism, I can understand the naturalistic, snapshot clarity of instantaneous experience which Monet desired in his paintings. Despite my knowledge of their motives and desires, though, I understand that their works are like meteors, flaring brilliantly long after the comet has departed and never showing the same shower twice.

What thoughts and feelings does this video interpretation evoke in you?

1 comment:

pantaleo said...

To me, the painting reminds me of my grandmother, whose favorite artist is Monet.

Oh man, my experience with Monet and Degas is so similar, that sentence sent chills down my spine. I have trillions of memories of my grandmother, now gone, that I cling to.

I discussed a similar point in my last post - that our interpretations and memories have certain emotions and experiences tied to them, therefore the possibilities for interpretation is endless.

Regarding the Beckett piece, I'm not an avid reader of existentialism or anything, but the piece to me represents the futility of the human effort to matter collectively and the ignorance of humans. In a pointless attempt to register as anything more than a blip in the broad spectrum of life and the universe, we've created our own hell that will bury us.