Final Entry: A Summary of the Semester

What an odd, exciting, confusing, bitterwseet and dare I say colorful journey this has been. Throughout my course, and through the entries in this blog, I have gained a host of valuable knowledge about Western art that has only enticed my desire to learn a lot more. Though it is next to impossible to sum up centuries worth of art and an entire semester's worth of knowledge in one journal entry, I will at least attempt to summarize my own persepctives with one question: What isn't art?

Sure the question seems like philosophical tripe to some, but to me it is the single most important thing I have learned through this course. Everything in our world, everything in our lives and in our consciousness is art. From the role models we look up to, to the monuments we build, in the characters we paint on easels and through the songs that we sing, our whole life is just one big sculpture that we never stop constructing. The meaning of art has changed over time; from the first statue of David to the Colloseum in Rome, from the Pillars of Madrid to the Louvre in Paris, art has been transient in reflecting the values and ideologies of different people from different places in different times. But if there is one truly miraculous thing art does, it is that it unites us  by allowing us to share with the world everything we are feeling without using a single word. A newborn baby cannot distinguish one person from another but he/she can respond to colors and sounds. Little children in pre-school learn to finger paint before they have learned their alphabet. From the moment we enter the world to the moment we leave, we are using the artist within us to paint our own unique picture of the world. Art allows people to build cities through aqueducts, it allows people to commemorate god through the pillars in a cathedral, it allows the artists to express a hundred different ideas, thoughts and emotions on one sole easel or through one lone structure. Art is what allows us to understand the spiritual essence of our ancestors long after they have gone. No one can define what is the "right" type of art. No one can put a stamp on what an individual feels about the world. One man's Dali is another person's Monet; they may not have the same techniques or the same ideologies, but they are both considered artists. To some people art may speak volumes, to others it is devoid of meaning. But neither matters, because art is inherently a trade which does not need labels to justify itself. Because it has no borders, art has no limits.

If I were to sum the essence of art in one sentence, I would use the words of one Oscar Wilde, who said:      "Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand  different ways."

Journal Entry for the Week of March 21 to March 25

By all intents and purposes he was just another man who met a grissly end in a period when this was not unheard of. In 12th century England, Saint Thomas Becket was a religious bishop, a close friend of Henry II, and the spiritual leader of the Canterbury Cathedral, then the powerhouse of the English Church with alliegance to the pope. But events unforeseen would soon take this ordinary man and turn him into one nof the most revered martyrs of Christian antiquity, a symbol of unity amongst dispersed citizens and a source of artistic inspiration for centuries to come. He would also become an early manifestation of the notion that the martyrdom of one man could be a source of comfort for an entire nation, that grief could become peace, that from the gruesome remains of a corpse a society could unearth redemption and miracles.In many ways, Becket was to middle age art what Jesus Christ has always been to Christianity; a constant source of hope and redemption, a figure who symbolically rallied an entire nation during a period of turmoil and grief. In many ways, this cathedral was also a reminder of the absolute power that a figurehead can have over a population. Indeed, the enormity of building the cathedral and the reverence and worship Becket enjoyed as a martyr was evidence that power was not linked to life, but to need. After his gruesome murder the entire populace was in turmoil; by commemorating Becket his community allowed themselves a medium to heal and rendered Becket a most powerful figure. And similar to Christ, he did not have to be alive to excercise control and power over his followers.

In many ways the cathedral and the way it was constructed also helped us understand the psychological tendencies of this middle age society. The entire cathedral was adorned in hues of pink and white, symbolizing Becket's blood and brains and creating an eerie sense of reliving the horror of his murder everytime one visited the cathedral. On the other hand, the cathedral was constructed with windows upon windows on the walls, letting pure light in from all angles and bathing the shrine in literal and symbolic purity, with the light allowing worshippers to bask in the radiance of god himself. This almost seamless blend of bloodshed and beauty reflected a society that was willing to embrace both the horrors and the beauty of the past. Indeed, they were simultaneously cleansing themselves spiritually and giving penance for the crimes that had been committed against their revered martyr. It is both strange and humbling to look at how intimately this society was linked to their past, to the point that they would not dare disrespect their own histories by attempting to cover up or "prettify" the macabre reality of what Becket suffered. Instead, they used the grissly details as a constant reminder lest they forget, and immortalized Becket in such a manner that--as the documentary states--he achieved in death what he could not in life.

Journal Entry for the Week of March 14 to March 18

During a particularly stressful time in our lives, or as a student approaching the final exam period, we have all experienced the intense desire to have someplace to escape to for a short period of time. Whether it is a cottage by the lake, a favourite book in a cozy corner of the library, or just the sanctuary of our dreams while we're sleeping, we've all felt the urge to leave the "real world" behind for a bit and abandon our senses. This experience was in many ways one of the founding principles of the Church of San Vitale in Ravenna, Italy. A beacon on the frontier borders of Byzantium, it was a classical attempt to implant a Greek heritage in the West; everything in the church was imported from foreign places: the marble, the colours, even the workers themselves. Certainly this alone created an atmosphere of mystique within the church, the almost overwhelming exposure to elements that were not a part of local life. But it was the artistic wonderland within the structure of the church itself that truly made this an escapist adventure. Everything in the church, from the stone and glass tesseraes to the vibrant frescoes adorning the walls, was meant to provide visitors with a surreal sense of mysticism. The images on the walls were a hazy middle ground between the earthly and divine worlds. Whether it was the images of Christ and his apostles, or similar images of an Emperor amongst his loyal servants, every element of the church was meant to convey an atmosphere physically and spiritually removed from the world outside the church doors.

What was particularly intriguing to me was the concept of the Emperor presenting himself as a divine being, one removed from but always watching over his people. Similar to the frescoes themselves, here again we had the ever blurring lines between humanity and divinity. They not only penetrated art, but also shaped a ruler's vision of what he saw himself representing; in this case, he was literally god's presence on earth. Modesty and humbleness aside, this slow progression away from humanity and towards divinity paralleled another important aspect of this time period: the experience of religion as an otherworldly phenomenon. Indeed, the frescoes in San Vitale were not of the human Christ performing miracles on earth or being tortured on the cross; they were images of him in the heavens, no longer a miraculous human being but a heavenly guardian far removed from simple human presence. It may have seemed like the natural course of things to present Christ in this new image, but it also spoke of an intentional effort on part of rulers to take the earthly, human elements out of religion. Whatever the positive or sinister implications of this phenomenon were, it was obvious that religion was shifting away from being a horizontal network to a more hierarchical structure. Indeed, by removing Christ from earth or presenting the emperor as god on earth, mere mortals in the Western world were no longer equal participants in religion; almost subliminally, they were slowly evolving to become subjects of religion, inheritors of a divine world that they could be taught but one they could no longer interpret for themselves. The mystical experience of being removed from the outside world within San Vitale was not limited just to the art or Italy itself. It penetrated the very core of western religious consciousness, a phenomenon that is hard to appreciate unless one looks at the church from the outside; steps back into the real world, so to speak.

Journal Entry for the Week of March 7 to March 11

Unless we're artistically trained to do so, rarely do we go into a building and appreciate the magnitude of the work that goes into making paper plans and sketches into a living entity. Whether it is St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, the Greek Parthenon, or Istanbul's Hagia Sophia, it is astonishing to study the details of the procedures and labour that make these monuments possible, the exhaustive trial and error, the constant reinvention to suit both the changing times and the changing temperaments of the rulers running an empire. In the case of emperor Justinian and the Hagia Sophia, envisioned as a monument to his triumphant legacy, the margin for error was very small; rulers like Justinian were not revered for their kindness towards those who did not follow through with their expectations. Of course, for emperors who dreamt of such grandiose projects, the construction of that building was intimately linked to their own reputations and immortality. Even after they died, these great buildings would be a symbolic representation of these emperors, forever imprinted on the landscape of history and human consciousness. These buildings were a way for these emperors to convey both their artistic vision and extend their influence to all corners of the world. Of course, a more Freudian analysis might also suggest that these great pillars and erect structures were the emperors' none-too-subtle way of compensating for defects of a more physical nature. But I digress.

In the specific case of the Hagia Sophia, it was almost a comedy of errors that finally brought the project to fruition. By all reasonable means, the project should not have worked. Although the details are exhaustive, I can say the documentary we saw in class provides viewers with a solid idea of the endless engineering feats, innovations, and—dare I say—shortcuts that went into the construction of what was to become the greatest Christian church in the Byzantine Empire. There was a particularly amusing image in the documentary that spoke of the great unveiling of the finished church; we had Justinian entering the church with a magnificent procession, pomp and circumstance galore, while around him the weight of the dome was already causing the marble columns to flake. Perhaps Justinian and his emperors all overestimated the immortality of a building that had to go through a series of serious cutbacks and constant changes just to stand up. To serve his need for grandeur, Justinian overlooked more practical concerns such as his friendly neighbourhood earthquakes, which this region was particularly prone to. Indeed, a mere 20 years after its completion, Hagia Sophia's dome was shattered in an earthquake. Though the reliance on natural disasters to get us to change our ways is a little disheartening, at least Justinian and his minions learned their lessons the second time around. Better materials, sounder structures and in general more common sense allowed the Hagia Sophia to be rebuilt; it thereafter stood for 1400 years. It is ironic that with all the work that went into the building, it eventually became the emblem of another empire. The church envisioned as the crowning jewel of Christian Byzantine was eventually turned into an Islamic mosque when the Ottoman Turkish Empire took control of the region. Nevertheless, despite the ethnic and religious variation of its owners, Hagia Sophia remained a majestic symbol of power and glory for both empires. Perhaps it didn't happen in quite the way Justinian envisioned, but there is no doubt that Hagia Sophia has remained one of the glorious religious and artistic symbols of our antiquity.

Journal Entry for the Week of February 28 to March 4

I remember a conversation I had with my best friend a few months back that really got me thinking. We were discussing the beautiful architecture on our Bishop's campus; as the oldest building--McGreer Hall-- dates back to the 1840's, our campus is a visual treat for those who appreciate an era when architecture spoke volumes about the social and cultural values of a nation. The colour of a building, the floor layout, every window pane and brick arrangement was layed out with a precision and artistic dedication that could rival the vision of the Parthenon architects. Buildings such as McGreer symbolize not just an era that loved art, but one that immortalized it through brick and paint; they were constructing buildings as monuments to the future, much like painters designing elaborate frescoes in ancient Mycenae, or the architects painstakingly developing the Coliseum in Rome. McGreer is a visual treat for the artist's eyes, and a cultural treat for the historian's heart. It speaks of grandeur, great past academic figures, columns and high-ceilinged rooms that are inspired by their European ancestors.

It was precisely this beauty on our campus that got us thinking about why we chose to come to a small school, when so many huge campuses were located much closer to our homes. A major factor in our decision was disillusionment with what architecture has become in our modern times. Living in an urban city is like seeing an absolute reversal of the colourful beauty and visual spectacle that architecture once was. Cookie cutter houses, houses that look so functional and identical that they may well have been produced out of a photocopier, are in many senses an insult to the artistic legacy our ancestors left us. The houses we live in today tell us nothing about the culture of the people living inside the house; the paints and structures don't offer us volumes of information about the history of the humans who inhabit those spaces. When a house was constructed to be unique, when endless months of preparation and care went into the construction, the end result was not just a house but a gift. The house became a source of immense pride, a sacred shrine that reflected the values of those living inside it; it was not just a home but a sanctuary, a place you could truly call your own. Nowadays, our houses reflect nothing but a culture so hollow and functional that they are just looking for a place to stay, not a place to be a part of. Our houses are just boxes with rooms, similar to our culture which prides itself on building as much as possible in as little time as possible, sacrificing the integrity and personal intimacy that was such a deep-rooted part of architecture once. Can we truly call the houses we live in today legacies? Can we leave them to future generations in our will and be satisfied that through our functional, cookie-cutter house we are transmitting our heritage and values? The houses we live in today are the absolute antithesis of what humans are, of what society is. Society is a complex, multi-coloured, interconnected web of pasts and presents, of the old and the young, of our cultures, religions and our heritage. Humans by their very essence are unique individuals, each with their own values and hopes and dreams. It seems almost prudent to call houses today a form of mass artistic slaughter. We live in a society that celebrates individual achievement, yet prides itself on being doppelgangers of one another when it comes to our living spaces. When we ourselves are not mere photocopies of one another, why should our houses be?

Journal Entry for the Week of February 21 to February 25

If there is one thing that can be said with certainty about art, it is that death is certainly not the limit of it. In fact, when one studies the Roman catacombs, death only accentuates the mystique and allure of the artwork that adorns these dank and dreary caverns. If one ever gets the chance to venture down these historic sites, an artistic utopia awaits those curious about life in Roman antiquity and beyond. The paintings of The Good Shepherd as a metaphor for Christ, or the Virgin Birth as depicted in the image above, all speak of a society that underwent a religious revolution that permeated their consciousness well beyond the grave. Catacombs were not just cemeteries for ordinary people but the resting places of Saints and other revered men and women. For this reason amongst others, it was vital that the paintings on these tombs accurately reflected not only the social climate of ancient Rome, but also significant details about the people that were buried herein. Just like the skeletons in Pompeii alluded to the status and health of a person, the amount of detail and intricacy that went into a tomb's decor reflected wealth and a fancy for posthumous grandeur. Certainly, if a tomb were made of carved marble one could safely assume that it was home to someone who was quite well-off. The artwork adorning these tombs would also tell the viewer a host of information such as a person's relationship to others, their profession, the number of children they had etc. Indeed, in many ways the catacombs and the art therein acted as a synthesis between life and death.

A particular aspect of the catacombs that really stuck with me was how wealth would determine the beauty and allure of your tomb. This is something I have experienced in my own homeland, Pakistan. If you visit a local cemetery there it is not difficult to tell who was wealthy and who was just a person living on common means. Though not fantastically wealthy, my family in Pakistan enjoyed a certain amount of prosperity around the time when my grandfather passed away. His grave certainly reflects our status; compared to many of the plain and scattered grave plots around him, his grave is entombed within a roof with four white pillars and a set of steps leading up to it. It makes me marvel at the strange ways in which class differences follow us even into the afterlife. The wealthier Romans got the tombs made out of marble; my grandfather recieved a white chamber with pillars instead of a simple hole in the ground. Art and architecture in ancient times and in many ways even today, is utilized as yet another medium to establish a hierarchy between classes and generations. It certainly has interesting implications for some of the more romantic perceptions of art, especially for those who see art as the great liberator of the mind or a means through which to transcend the earthly world. Although art undoubtedly functions in these ways, in many ways I find it forces us to continue conforming to our earthly roles. Simply by studying the materials and details that are used in the construction of a grave or catacomb, we can label the tomb as belonging to a slave or a ruler, a commoner or a saint. The art in the catacombs strangely symbolizes how we can never truly escape who we are, even in death.

Journal Entry for the Week of February 14 to February 18

They say Rome wasn't built in a day. Watching the documentary "Rome: Engineering an Empire," I'm forced to accept that they were right. The documentary is an astonishing account of the centuries it took for Rome to become the architectural gem it is famously regarded as; and all this while the nation was under the guardianship of leader after leader, dictators and philanthropists, the bloodthirsty and the socially conscious, all part of a tangled legacy that belied the creation of Rome into an architectural utopia, a Mecca for lovers of art and architecture around the world.

It is awe-inspiring to say the least when one views the innovations that took birth in Rome, innovations that we take for granted as part of our technologically superior modern world. The first national highway—as sophisticated as the technology of the time allowed—was built in Rome in 312 B.C. and soon became a sophisticated and efficient navigational route. But for the Romans a road was never just a road; primarily under the meticulous rule of Augustus, these highways also functioned as a political statement. They made the Romans a cunning and formidable enemy to neighbouring nations, a people who used their physical achievements to solidify their socio-political prowess. Looking back on this innovation centuries later, I can almost feel the enemy’s hesitation when debating whether to penetrate Roman walls.

But by far the most incredible feat of Roman antiquity was the construction of the infamous Coliseum, begun under Emperor Vespasian. Vespasian, it was duly noted, was a practical leader who was averse to pretension and put his architects to work for the people. He certainly lived up to this characterization in the construction of the Coliseum. What I found particularly interesting— and admittedly disturbing—was the transformation of old lands into a gigantic entertainment amphitheatre symbolized both Rome’s admirable architectural talent and a more sinister underlying bloodlust in entertainment. Two theatres constructed back to back provided a panoramic 360° view that has been appropriated into immeasurable architectural innovations ever since. The numerous entryways both controlled and comforted the audience; when entering and exiting there was a lowered probability of being crushed to death; some might argue this is a good thing. The Roman architects were mindful of their audience and the weather as well; a retractable awning over the Coliseum provided shelter in the hot days, though this likely offered little comfort to the source of entertainment in Coliseum: the victims of vicious and bloody duels. Indeed, while it was an architectural innovation for the centuries, the Coliseum also underscored the more gruesome attributes of Roman antiquity. Amongst these was the pleasure derived from seeing gladiators being torn to shred by animals, or more excitingly by one another (re: is this craziness, brilliance or just sheer boredom?). A panoramic view certainly must have heightened the experience of bloodshed, as you could truly get a feel for a victim’s agony and a winner’s triumph literally from all angles. The Coliseum is quite a challenge to assess as a historian looking back centuries later. In retrospect, it served as an almost nauseating display of self-indulgence and sadistic entertainment; at the same time, I can’t help but admire the sheer magnitude of the achievement in building such a colossal theatre and the implications it had for Rome as an empire. If Rome is an art lover’s Mecca, then the Coliseum is where these travellers must kneel and worship.