Art That Changed Me: How Three Artworks Expanded My Consciousness
Art That Changed Me: How Three Artworks Expanded My Consciousness
How Art Transcends Violence, Madness and Mescaline
Visiting El Prado with my grandma was always an educational experience. But nothing prepared me for the quiet confrontation with Goya's "The Dog."
Grandma, with her firm Catholic roots, had always been a bit wary of Goya.
Between you and me, I think "La Maja Desnuda" and its boldness kind of threw her. And the "Black Paintings"? They were a bit too intense for her liking, though she couldn't help but acknowledge their artistic heft.
Yet, standing before "The Dog," something shifted. It wasn't just another painting; it was a moment. Here was a piece that bridged our differences—grandma's conservative views and my endless curiosity—without a word.
It was as if Goya had crafted a silent dialogue just for us, a shared experience in an unexpected place.
That day, Goya's genius wasn't just in his brushstrokes but in his ability to bring us together, offering a glimpse into how art transcends personal beliefs and time. And for a brief moment, "The Dog" wasn't just Goya's; it was ours.
Francisco de Goya and “The Dog”
Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes, born on March 30, 1746, in Fuendetodos, Aragón, Spain, stands as a monumental figure in the panorama of art, bridging the gap between the Old Masters and the modernists with unparalleled dexterity.
Labelled as the most crucial Spanish artist of the late 18th and early 19th centuries, Goya's work is a profound narrative of the human condition, set against the backdrop of major historical events.
Emerging from a middle-class family, Goya's artistic journey began under the tutelage of José Luzán y Martinez, propelling him into the orbit of the Spanish royalty as a court painter.
Despite the exalted position, Goya's canvas was never one to shy away from the stark realities of his time. His art evolved from the Rococo charm of the Spanish aristocracy to a dark, penetrating exploration of social, political, and personal tumult, especially after a severe illness in 1793 left him deaf.
Goya's work, from the unsettling 'Caprichos' series to the harrowing 'Disasters of War' and the haunting 'Black Paintings,' - of which 'The Dog' is part - looks closely at how people can be foolish and fierce.
His paintings and prints, replete with scenes of insanity, corruption, and the grotesque, were not mere artistic endeavors but a visual protest against the atrocities of war, the decadence of society, and the betrayal of political ideals.
Despite his escalating disillusionment, Goya's talent knew no bounds, covering vivid portraits that boldly showed his subjects' true nature, colorful tapestries, and wall paintings that decorated both religious and non-religious places.
His later art, made alone at Quinta del Sordo, shows his unique skill in blending imagination and reality, revealing deep insights into the human mind.
In 1824, seeking solace from a nation he could no longer reconcile with, Goya retreated to Bordeaux, where he continued to innovate until his demise on April 16, 1828.
Still, Francisco de Goya's legacy lives on, preserved in the world's top museums. His art deeply affects and engages anyone who takes a closer look.
Experiencing “The Dog”
"The Dog" is one of Goya's Black Paintings, a series he created directly on the walls of his house between 1819 and 1823. As mentioned above, these works, including "The Dog," were not intended for public exhibition and were only removed from the house 50 years after Goya's departure.
My recollection of my first time seeing this painting is a bit hazy on the exact age, but it's safe to say I was between 10 and 12 years old.
Describing my first emotions is challenging. What it stirred within me was profound; a blend of solitude and deep melancholy that seemed to linger endlessly; it felt as though any spark of hope I carried was snuffed out, as if a vibrant melody suddenly fell into silence, leaving a hollow echo in its wake.
Curiosity flooded my mind - “Why only the head? Why not the entire body?” I pondered the dog's name, its current whereabouts, and whether it was male or female.
A few years back, as an adult and revisiting the painting, I found myself drawn into the canvas's vast expanse of empty space, as if the space itself is a tangible presence - is there actually a figure faded in the background? or is it me hallucinating? - heavy with anticipation or the echo of something unseen. I almost felt I could peer over the earthy brown foreground and catch a glimpse of the dog's endeavors.
The colors feel like a quiet, an ethereal or dream-like quality in a cloudy day, blending together in a way that made me think of waiting for something unknown. The space around the small dog seems so big and overwhelming, as if it's lost in thought or hoping for a friend. It made me feel a bit lost too, like I'm reaching for something just out of grasp, and all around me, there's this heavy stillness that's hard to put into words.
It's like the feeling you get when you're not sure what comes next, but you keep looking and waiting, consuming my optimism, leaving me powerless against it.
Since our first meeting at El Prado, I've found myself drawn back time and again, each visit deepening my fascination with "The Dog."
Goya, with his profound insight into the human condition, has become a constant whisper in the background of my creative process, especially evident in my photography.
Below are a few snapshots where a hint of his influence might just catch your eye.
From a non-academic standpoint, I believe Goya prefigured modern composition and art itself with the Black Paintings and even prior. The groundwork he laid predated the evolution art would undergo, influencing the likes of Lautrecs and Picassos. These successors drew inspiration from a pioneering artist who redefined composition, satire, and social critique through his unparalleled artistry.
Nan one month after being battered
‘Nan one month after being battered‘, Nan Goldin, 1984 | Tate
I visited London in 2006, and when I travel, one of my rules to live by is that I would spend a large percentage of the time knowing the cultural hubs and museums of a given city. So, I couldn't not go to Tate.
During this visit, I found one of the most impactful photographic portraits I have ever seen: "Nan one month after being battered." But let's start from the beginning: Nan Goldin, the human.
The photographer, the human, the activist.
Nan Goldin, born on September 12, 1953, in Washington, D.C., emerges as a pioneering force in photography and activism, transforming personal and collective tragedies into a relentless quest for truth, connection, and justice.
Growing up amidst the tumult of a middle-class Jewish family in the suburbs of Boston, Goldin witnessed first-hand the destructive power of societal norms on individual freedom, particularly through the tragic suicide of her sister Barbara. The relationship with her parents profoundly shaped her understanding of sexuality, identity, and rebellion.
From her teenage years, Goldin's life took a path less travelled; leaving home early, she discovered solace and expression through the lens of her camera, introduced to her at sixteen.
Her early work, deeply influenced by the likes of Andy Warhol and Federico Fellini, she immersed herself into the lives of the LGBTQ+ community, capturing the raw, plain realities of love, gender, and sexuality.
Goldin's most celebrated work, "The Ballad of Sexual Dependency" (1986), stands as a testament to her determined eye, chronicling the vibrant yet vulnerable lives of her "tribe" against the backdrop of the post-Stonewall era, the HIV/AIDS crisis, and the opioid epidemic.
Her photographs, are acts of defiance and documentation, preserving the moments of intimacy and pain of those marginalized by society.
Goldin's activism, particularly through the founding of P.A.I.N. (Prescription Addiction Intervention Now), reveals her relentless pursuit to hold those accountable for the opioid crisis, balancing her artistic legacy with a fierce commitment to social justice.
Goldin's influence extends beyond the confines of personal galleries into the realms of fashion and commercial photography, yet her heart remains defined by activism, leading protests against the Sackler family and advocating for a more ethical intersection of art, funding, and morality.
Despite facing censorship and controversy, Goldin's work continues to challenge, confront, and inspire, marking her as a trailblazer who not only captured life but fiercely fought for the dignity of her subjects.
To me, Nan Goldin remains a beacon of resilience and creativity, a photographer who sees the world in all its complexity and chooses to engage it with empathy, courage, and an indomitable and free-of-fear spirit.
The Shock.
First of all, I admit, it takes little for me to break into tears, being that watching “Nemo” - I cry every time I watch it - reading “The Shining” - I had to close the book as it was becoming terrifying - or experiencing a “Pearl Jam” concert for the first time.
I few years back, I discovered there is a psychological reason for that behavior - getting emotional with art for example - categorizing me as neurodivergent.
A friend of mine, Paco, told me about this group of people that can be categorized as HSP (High Sensitive Person), they (we) make up to 20% of the population, believe it or not. This could explain my visceral reaction to the photograph at hand “Nan one month after being battered” when I first saw it.
My sensitivity to violence stems from enduring verbal and physical abuse from my family and a tough social environment for many years, with my father being a significant contributor.
As a result, I can't remain indifferent to artworks that mirror the inherent violence and rage embedded in humanity through our ancestors, education, value systems, and societal structure.
Back at Tate, entering the room where the photograph was being exhibited, I waited for an elderly woman to move away from the frame, feeling a growing unease as I observed the photograph from a distance; I was giving her space, as I dislike intruding on someone's experience with art, and patiently took her place once she moved on.
I hadn’t yet read the label on the corner, so I was unaware, this was Nan herself, but I always make a case of spending time first with the work then read the information in the label.
There, confronted with the image of bruises and a bloodied eye, I found myself captivated by the sheer power in the gaze that met mine from the photo.
Oddly fixated on the curtains in the background, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions.
My heart raced, and motion sickness overtook me, leading to a teardrop from my left eye -a phenomenon I've never quite understood; why my left eye first? - I began to cry and sob without restraint. It took me a moment to respond when my companion asked if I was okay.
We sat outside the gallery as I attempted to compose myself. "What happened?" my companion inquired. All I could mumble was, "those curtains, that photograph… reminded me of a dark place I thought I'd left behind 15 years ago. Clearly, I hadn't."
After a few minutes, we returned to the gallery in silence.
Returning to the photograph, this time with a sense of calm and preparedness, I stood before Nan, reflecting on the enduring issue of violence against women. Despite the image dating back to 1984, the sad reality persists.
I pondered over how my father's violence nearly shaped me into a person as reprehensible as he was.
Memories flooded back of the day he struck me with a clenched fist, leaving me sprawled on the cold floor, overwhelmed with anger rather than pain.
I recalled how, years later, he attempted to strike me one final time—but I refused to allow it, marking his last effort to harm me and the last time I talked to him.
Quietly, a single tear slipped from my left eye.
Then, I finally read the label: “Nan one month after being battered” Nan Goldin, 1984, acquired 1997. I took a note and moved on with the rest of my visit.
When I researched the work and the true meaning of that title, I understood her defiant eyes.
Nan’s photograph made me aware of unresolved traumas that day.
Unica Zürn, Circus, 1956
In October 2023, as part of the temporary exhibition “A Surreal Shock – Masterpieces from Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen” at Aros Museum, I had the opportunity to see, and for the first time meet, both this artwork and its creator, Unica Zürn, an artist who was unknown to me until that day.
Unica’s biography
“Circus” made me want to understand the human/artist behind such an amazing mythological and surrealistic viewpoint, and I wasn’t disappointed. Born in 1916, Unica Zürn was a German author and artist. Raised in Berlin-Grunewald, her life was marked by personal challenges, including a troubled relationship with her parents and being sexually abused by her brother.
Working for the German Film Agency UFA during the Third Reich, she was initially unaware of Nazi atrocities until 1942. Zürn's life took a tragic turn post-war with divorce, loss of her children, and mental health struggles, which became gradually more severe over the next few decades.
Zürn's artistic journey flourished after meeting artist Hans Bellmer in 1953 and moving to Paris. There, she immersed herself into automatic drawing and anagrams, influenced by Bellmer and the surrealists. Despite her immense talent, Zürn battled mental illness, which was potentially triggered due an experience with Mescaline, leading to repeated hospitalizations and her untimely death by suicide in 1970.
Her writings, like "Dark Spring" and "The Man in Jasmine," reflect her life's turmoils and have gained cult status in Paris. Zürn's visual art, characterized by intricate, fantastical forms, was less promoted, yet made an impact in the art world.
Unica was a pivotal figure in the Surrealist movement, Zürn's legacy lies in her ability to express her internal struggles through her art, challenging the traditional narratives of female roles in both life and art.
The Experience
As I was gazing at this painting, I was immediately drawn into a sense of wonder, like I've uncovered a treasure map of the stars. The intricate lines and symbols etched in white against the dark background give me the impression of ancient constellations and celestial maps.
It feels as though I've stepped into the shoes of a psychonaut explorer, deciphering a cosmic puzzle.
There's a mix of curiosity and a tiny bit of being overwhelmed, trying to make sense of all the lines and shapes that seem both random and full of meaning as if each symbol and figure holds a secret about the universe waiting to be understood. The longer I look, the more I feel enveloped by the mystery and majesty of the night sky, reminded of the vastness of space and our quest to make sense of it.
It's a humbling feeling, one that connects me to the explorers of the past and the endless human pursuit of understanding what lies beyond.
It's quiet and still, but it also feels alive, as if the picture is a frozen piece of something much bigger, something that's always moving and spinning.
It's pretty neat to think about how someone took all those grand, swirling galaxies and fit them into something someone can hang on a wall and just look at, getting lost in the little lights and the big quiet of it all.
Following that experience, I found myself deeply fascinated with the painting and Unica. I've contacted the museum to inquire about additional details regarding this painting and have acquired two of her books and developed an interest in mythologies. Who would have thought?
Wrapping up
Each artwork listed here is a portal into the complexities of human experience and has etched its narrative into my consciousness, creating a deep and intricate blend of self-reflection and understanding.
My experiences marked by moments of profound connection with these masterpieces, underscores the transformative potential of art to mirror our deepest fears, hopes, and the unyielding quest for understanding.
In the silent dialogue between viewer and artwork, I discovered a reflection of my own vulnerabilities and the universal longing for connection that binds us all.
The haunting gaze of Nan, marred yet defiant, became a mirror to my own struggles, a reminder of the resilience that lies within the human spirit.
Meanwhile, Goya's solitary dog, adrift in an expanse of uncertainty, echoed my own moments of isolation and the search for light amidst darkness.
These art experiences and the stories of its creators has been a pilgrimage of sorts—a quest for meaning in the Rebel Strokes (or frames) of the past that speak to the present.
As I stood before Unica Zürn's celestial explorations, I was reminded of the boundless capacity of the human mind to imagine, create, and transcend the confines of reality. Her intricate cosmic maps, a testament to the beauty and mystery of the universe, invited me to look beyond the immediate and into the realm of infinite possibilities.
The narrative that unfolded through these encounters speaks to the enduring power of art to confront, console, and catalyze change. It is a narrative of resilience, a testament to the artists' courage to confront their darkest hours and emerge with creations that offer solace and understanding to others.
All I am left with is a sense of gratitude for the artists who have paved the way for conversations around vulnerability, cruelty, strength, and the indomitable human spirit.
We are never truly alone.
By any art necessary.
Really enjoyed looking at these pieces through your POV 👁️
LOVE this post!