Volume 17; Number I ART C.RIT1C1SM Art Criticism vol. 17, no. 1 Art Department State University of New York at Stony Brook Stony Brook, NY 11794-5400 The editor wishes to thank Art and Peace, The Stony Brook Founda­ tion, President Shirley Strumm Kenny, Provost Robert L. McGrath, and the Acting Dean of The College of Arts and Sciences, Robert Lieberman, for their gracious support. Copyright 1001 State University of New York at Stony Brook ISSN: 0195-4148 ( 2 Art Criticism Founding Co-Editors Lawrence Alloway Donald B. Kuspit Editor Donald B. Kuspit Advisors lames Rubin Mel Pekarsky Managing Editor Craig Peariso Business Editor Meredith Moody Art Criticism is published by: Department of Art State University of New York at Stony Brook Stony Brook, NY 11794-5400 Prospective contributors are asked to send abstracts. However, if . a manuscript is submitted, please include a self-addressed stamped envelope for its return. Manuscripts accepted for publication must be submitted on a PC computer disk. Please contact the managing editor for a style sheet. Subscriptions are $20 per volume (two issues) forinstitutions and $ 15 per volume for individuals in the continental United States ($20 outside the continental U.S.). Back issues are available at the rate of $10 per issue. vol. 17, no. 1 3 4 Art Criticism Table of Contents Breaking the Picture Plane: Reflections on Painting . John Hultberg 6 The Femme Fatale as Seen in the work of J.K. Huysmans, Feliden Rops and Aubrey Beardsley Sarah Bielski 46 GuiltBy Association: Gustave Moreau, The Unwilling Decadent Mary Cullinane 55 Degeneration in World War IT Germany Kempton Mooney 73 From Diagnoses to Decadence: A Brief History of Hysteria Kristen Oelrich 86 Recasting the Art History Survey: Ethics and Truth in the Oassroom Community Michael Schwartz 104 vol. 17, no. 1 5 Breaking the Picture Plane: Reflections on Painting John Hultberg IN1RODUCTION: TI-lOUGH I SPEAK AND HAVE NOT CLARITY I have written this rather ornate apologia without knowing who my audience is and therefore am uncertain of my tone of voice. It was obviously motivated by a certain bitterness for the neglect from art critics that has come my way recently in my painting career. In the isolated moments when the self­ search I had undertaken (to find out how much of the blame was mine) was not interrupted by addictively refreshing jeremiads against established critics, deal­ ers, collectors, etc., I came to the conclusion that my work had been weakened by useless detail. This had come into being when I was no longer sure of my once ingenuous impetuosity. I doubt, therefore I embellish; I doubt, therefore I explain. Being isolated from the avant garde climate by my fall from mild suc­ cess led me into an insight about the rest of the culture. Folk art, usually considered simple in mind and heart, is in reality too rich in timorous complexi­ ties to be communicated effectively. Widely used slang fads are usually disfig­ ured by arcane affectations some lost purpose of secrecy. This seems to be a symptom of a loss of self-respect and of ambivalence toward moral values no longer operative in practical zones. I wondered if I could redeem in myself my unquestioning love of the paint magic by seeking carefully in my depths the sources of the rapturous abandon I admired most in the kind of painting I felt would overwhelm the majority of people who were free of prejudices. This made me want to revitalize a shabby myth of thoughtless nineteenth century romanticism, its politically radical generosity and bravery; and to wonder whether, if illustrated, it would produce a hypnotic surrealism without malice. If there is little documentation here, that is because I have been un­ able to find any, and least of all in my own work. I thought this folk-ferment would be poiarized out of the inchoate glossalalia of abstract expressionism's atomizations, but that will not happen as long as we are distracted from the central yearning by irrelevant data, expected by historians to change hearts that must be moved first by religion. Perhaps my way is futile, but in my desperation I must have faith that a ritual of words will make my brush less dry. I want art to be more than an ambivalent euphoril>, piercing accidentally the 6 Art Criticism depressions of our entropy. I want it to change the cosmos that spawns such despair. This is the theme that is expanded and modified in the following passacaglia variations. 1. PAINTINGS THAT "SPEAK IN TONGUES"-ABSlRACT EXPRESSIONlSM'S GLOSSALAUA When the people of the town of Frederickton, New Brunswick were allowed into the New Beaverbrook Museum, prior to the festivities for a 1963 exhibition of international modem art (a solemn affair) they were soon con­ vulsed with laughter, which offended the zealots who had arranged the show. But isn't this exactly the reaction of gaiety that most of the artists represented would have expected? Klee and Miro would have, I am sure, since theirs was a safety-valve art reflecting and mocking the insanity of the world since World War I. Though laughter may also have greeted the products of the repre­ sented abstract expressionists, this reaction was not the intention of these artists. Theirs was a vision beyond tragedy or farce, relating to the dispassion­ ate elan vital of nature, not human grotesquerie, ignoring the Zeitgeist. So stunned by the human condition were they that they had no strength to relieve it, wishing only to attempt a portrayal of the undecipherable energy behind all of life. Pain was subdued with paint. It was not usually a violent outpouring. When Sam Francis returned from Paris to New York in 1954 he said that what surprised him about the work of Jackson Pollock was its softness and delicacy. My first confrontation with his painting in 1950 had made me think of thoroughly bombed railroad tracks, but I felt no violence in the remains. At this time Francis told me he wanted his own pictures to be so boring that people would tum away from them and, finding the world even more boring, would return to the painting. Though some of us indulged in sullenness or outrage, I would venture that the dominant mood of this unusu­ ally informal school was lyrical, almost tender, a celebration of the seething forces behind manifest nature. Loud colors or bounding forms more often suggest exuberance than anger, an attempt to make the unnatural natural, inevitable, self-evident. "Self-evident" is not a term usually applied to painting, yet how few pictures are able to speak for themselves. In the past, the fables of religion or myth had to be known for complete understanding; now it pays to be a member of a religious cult, usually Eastern. Or, to "read" the work, you must know that the painter is trying to outdistance another artist in daring, complexity or "minimalism." Another block is when the painter is illustrating some family myth or in-joke, orre-confusing lines from Dylan Thomas or Melville's white vol. 17, no. 1 7 whale saga (more recently Hesse or Tolkien). Now if these new artists expected our weary eyes to follow the coastlines of their continents of paint with no aid from references to familiar objects, we must regard them as very serious moral­ ists, not out to merely delight us with felicitous discoveries, but to instruct us by metaphoric contours in a geography only a trusted faith tells us really exists. No wonder so many art patrons fell back into Matisse's welcoming armchair. (Perhaps the sparks emitted from the new painting had led them to fear they were being ushered to an electric chair.) Since paint can never equal the splendor of a sunset, does it follow that the painting must represent only itself? Without content it tends to become decoration. Those who say it must first be a decoration before it tells its story are the opposite of these artists who have no wish to sugarcoat any "literary" pill, who want the forms to be the whole story. The positive spirit in modern art, as opposed to the spirit of our times that seems unhealthy to us, is an open laying down of one's candid vitality, unfettered by sickness' emotion. As in Scriabin's'''Poem of Ecstasy" or "The Rites of Spring", this mindlessness overwhelms us with a force of sexuality that breaks all rules. Picasso's shock and delight are not poetic in the sense that surrealism is. We may feel ashamed of these excesses later, but while in their grip they were everything to us. Wasn't abstract expressionism a return to this intoxication after an era of furtive escape from superego influence? Although the artists who surfaced after World War II in New York have been called alcoholically subjective, autistically solipsistic and even "mar­ supial troglodytes" (J. Varda), their work, as compared with the morbidly sub­ jective Surrealism of Europe, seems simple-hearted, exuberant. Nor did they intend to abstract from Nature, deforming objects as did Picasso. They pre­ ferred to be called "non-objective", allying themselves with the Mondrianesque American pioneers of the Thirties. M. Rothko, in a lecture in San Francisco in 1948, said he would rather paint eyes on a rock than abstract from the human body. If they were seduced by the felicities of observed nature it was not evidenced directly in the painting. Instead of duplicating objects of contem­ plation, they wanted the canvas itself to be the object of contemplation. More­ over, the canvases were the record of a sort of dance the painter had executed with his loose paint, using when possible large free arm movements instead of hand finger dexterity necessary for verisimilitude.