A Portable Exhibit: Review of Steve McCurry's "Portraits" for iPad

By Beth Green

The best art exhibition I’ve seen recently fits in my travel purse.

A photo collage tribute to McCurry's "Afghan Girl"
by Flickr user francisshanahan. 

While nothing will replace for me the experience of seeing art in the flesh—of examining a larger-than-life image in a quiet, contemplative atmosphere and the fun of puzzling out what the artist and the curator want me to “get”—I am blown away by the quality and enjoyment factor of the photographs exhibited in the “Portraits” app for iPad, a collection of images of faces and places by National Geographic photographer Steve McCurry.

If you don’t recognize his name—I didn’t—you’re sure to know at least one of his photos shown in this touch-screen gallery visit: “Afghan Girl,” the 1984 portrait of a green-eyed Pashtun refugee. It was on the front cover of National Geographic magazine in June, 1985, and is likely the magazine’s best recognized image. Many people liken the photo’s intensity to that of the “Mona Lisa.”

Swiping through the 100 images collected in the app, it’s clear that the intensity in “Afghan Girl” is one of McCurry’s signatures. Traveling the world for National Geographic—you can search the app for photos from different countries by tapping a map and browse receipts and scrapbook-worthy tidbits of his travels in another section—McCurry has captured the profundity of people’s life experiences again and again. Elderly believers in France hoping for a miracle cure in Lourdes. A little girl pounding grain in Niger.  An eleven-year-old bare-chested gold miner in the Philippines. In his frank images, the viewer can interpret the stories of whole lives.

In the integrated 23-minute video narrated by McCurry, he says that he chooses his subjects for the depth of expression on their faces. While he’s walking on the street and browsing crowds for potential people to approach with his request for a portrait, he looks for the “intrinsic story written on their face,” he tells us in the video. I was surprised that McCurry says most of his portraits are taken in just five minutes; since he tends to find people who are busy or on their way to another place, he doesn’t want to ask for too much of their time.

Some of the people featured are ones we know are busy: activist Aung San Suu Kyi, actor Robert De Niro, and author Paul Theroux. But most of the portraits are of humble, everyday people, featured in their workday clothes, going about their business. There’s the Tibetan woman by a fighter jet in Lhasa, 2000; an engineer with clasped hands in Kashmir; a woman selling paintings from her car in Italy; Dubliners waiting for a bus.

After I get past the intensity of the eyes in these pictures, the next element that draws me in is the sense of place from the photos; the feeling of anticipation, of guessing what scenes are beyond the borders of the portrait. The woman practicing her cello in the mirror in France—is she about to give a performance, in her red jacket? Does the boy at the door in Mauritania invite McCurry to go inside, or is he too shy? Why is the Burmese woman, with her neck elongated by rings, laughing?

It’s amazing that, in the short amount of time McCurry says he is able to capture these street-side images, he’s able to harness the light in such a way that each one looks like a studio portrait. In the app’s video, he cites Vermeer, Rembrandt, and Caravaggio as his inspiration. What would these painters have done with a camera, I wonder? Probably something similar to what McCurry does.

The app is available on iTunes, and, at time of writing, is free to download. For non-iPad-toting readers, many of McCurry’s excellent travel photos can be seen on his blog and on his Facebook page.

Las Meninas – Diego Velázquez’s The Maids of Honor

By Edith McClintock

Las Meninas (1656), Diego Velázquez

Have you ever been fascinated, entranced—even spellbound—by a work of art? I’ve experienced it many times with dance, music, theater, even architecture. With literature, it’s too frequent to count. But it’s only happened a few times with a painting. Perhaps it’s the setting that works against paintings. Museums or galleries can be overstimulating, with too many pieces, one after another.

When rushed, as one often is when visiting a museum—either because your partner is impatient, or your schedule is tight, or the crowds are pressing you forward—the colors and textures and feelings can blend. I’ll often leave a museum or art show with a sense of enjoyment or disappointment but have little remembrance or feeling for individual pieces. (It’s especially bad when the exhibit has free mojitos sponsored by Bacardi, as is all too frequent at Art Basel Miami. Alas, those days are gone for awhile.)

There is, however, one painting I’ll never forget. I was thirteen and I’d been anticipating seeing it, but only because I’d given a presentation on Diego Velázquez in my art class the preceding year, and generally had a crush on all things Spanish. Despite that, I didn’t love the reproductions of his 1656 masterpiece I’d seen in art books. They were too dark, and I was drawn to the pretty French impressionists.

Close up of the
Infanta Margarita

I finally saw Las Meninas in 1986 during a summer trip to Madrid with my family. The atmosphere at the Prado helped. It was alone in its room and had been since 1899, in recognition of its growing acclaim as a masterwork of western painting—so important, that it has never been loaned out. It was imposing, monumental really, dominating an entire room. The figure of the Infanta (the Princess) Margarita glowed in the darkly lit space. The entire piece was luminescent and much more beautiful than I’d expected—probably because of its then-recent restoration.

But it was more than just the painterly technique. I was drawn into King Philip IV’s Spanish court: the young infanta surrounded by her maids of honor, a chaperone and bodyguard, plus two dwarves. Velázquez, the artist, looking beyond the scene to me, the audience, standing in the place of King Phillip and Queen Mariana who are possibly being painted and reflected in the mirror. Or maybe Velázquez is painting Las Meninas itself on the large canvas, reflected in a mirror that is the audience.

Meninas (1957), Pablo Picasso

The work raises questions about reality and the connection between the artist, the observer, and the artwork. It didn’t feel like an intellectual concept, though, but rather a reality under Velázquez’s gaze, the infanta’s slight preen, the direct look of the German dwarf Maria-Bárbola. Even my older sister, who’d spent most of that summer inventing ways to torment me in public, stopped her leg dragging and loud clattering in English (her own performance art piece), and fell silent in awe.

Like many great works of art, the painting has been endlessly analyzed and reinterpreted over the past 356 years, from the role of the artist in Velazquez’s time, to the history and protocol of the court, and each of its members. Up until the early 1800s, the painting was known mostly within the Spanish court circles, and Goya, another famous Spanish court painter, was one of the first to be deeply influenced by it. He used aspects in several royal portraits, including The Family of Charles IV (1800) and The Family of the Infante Don Luis de Borbón (1784). Like Las Meninas, the artist is there, possibly painting the scene, although his relationship with the royal family and audience is distant and not as inviting (see photo at bottom of blog).

Velázquez Painting the Infanta Margarita
with the Lights and Shadows of His Own
Glory (1958), Salvador Dali

Pablo Picasso may have painted the most famous reinterpretation in 1957. He shut himself up for four and a half months with a photograph of Las Meninas, producing 44 canvases, some of the painting in its entirety, but some recreating single figures or small groups. And his homage, in turn, spun its own imaginings, including Velázquez Painting the Infanta Margarita with the Lights and Shadows of His Own Glory (1958) by another Spaniard, Salvador Dali. Personally, although I’m not a huge Dali fan, I prefer his reinterpretation over the Picasso series. 

By the mid-20th century, reinterpretations of Las Meninas spread in tone, technique, and geography. In Spain, painters used humor, irony, and parody to critique the sociopolitical conditions of Franco’s Spain and its appropriation of Velázquez for propaganda. Beyond Spain, the piece inspired artists as varied as the American portrait painter, John Singer Sargent (who painted my favorite reinterpretation), Edgar Degas (who painted a version without ever having seen the original in person), and the Chilean-born multimedia artist Juan Downey, whose video, Las Meninas of 1975, was inspired by seeing the painting at the age of 22, as well as a critique of 17th century Spanish colonialism. 

Artists have continued to reinterpret, recreate, and inspire new pieces based on Las Meninas, whether in sculpture (see Manolo Valdés below), print and paintings, or video, film, literature and theater, making it not a relic of an old master, locked away in a museum, but a living, breathing, dialogue between the artists and Velázquez. And for me, 25 years later after my first look, I too have not forgotten. Perhaps one day, I’ll attempt my own reinterpretation. Or more likely just hang a print on my wall. Although neither could do the original justice.

The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit (1882),
John Singer Sargent.

This is one of my least favorite interpretations, more because
I prefer Goya's later works on war and madness.
The Family of Charles IV (1800), Francisco Goya.

I love these sculptures by Spanish artist, Manolo Valdés.
Las Meninas, Bronze 2006, Düsseldorf, Hofgarten
Photo by Ralf Hüls

Reference note: You can find a more in-depth discussion, and the source material for artists who have reimagined Las Meninas over the years, on the Museu Picasso website. Click here for the influence of Las Meninas from 1656 through 1901, and here for a discussion of its influence during the 20th century and beyond.

For more, visit my author website and/or personal blog, A Wandering Tale. Even better, order a copy of Monkey Love & Murder on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or the Book Depository (free shipping nearly anywhere in the world).

Melbourne’s Laneways – A Love Story

While Alli is off exploring the wilds of the Barossa Valley in South Australia (translation: visiting lots of wineries and eating too much cheese), her brother Dave is stepping in this week. Dave is a writer, a blogger and an excellent parallel parker. You can harass him at his own website or on Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/thedavesinclair or on his website at www.davesinclair.com.au.

Years ago I was flying around Canada and picked up Air Canada’s inflight magazine. In it, their travel writer was talking about Melbourne.  He said the first time he visited the city, in his words, he hated it.  Sure, there were pretty bits but it seemed to be ‘just another city’.  It was bereft of attractions like Sydney, or weather of Brisbane and frankly, soulless.

Years later, he reluctantly went back and was shown around by locals.  It was as if he’d been shown a completely different city.  He finally ‘got it’.  He fell in love with the city that day.

Melbourne may be many things – obvious isn’t one of them.

If you ask a Melbournian what makes their city unique and you’ll often get the same answer – our laneways.  For the uninitiated, this is an odd response, until you experience them yourself.  The centre of Melbourne city is a labyrinth.  Sure, it has lovely wide tree lined streets, but once you step off the main path it’s a whole new world.  Down the kaleidoscope coloured graffiti walls is an endless supply of the unexpected.

Every few days, a new bar opens behind an unmarked door.  Brilliant culinary delights can be hidden around the next corner.  You just have to know where to look.  The only constant is that there will be something new and exciting just waiting to be discovered.

The fact that the laneway culture was created organically, with no final agenda, was conceived and supported by grass root Melbournian’s only makes it more special.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve shown someone the city and I’m sure they thought they were just about to be rolled.  Walking past the stinking bins, piss stained walls and puddle laden cobblestones, I’m surprised none of them turned around and shrieked, ‘Just take my wallet, please don’t hurt me!’

Melbourne’s laneways can be considered art galleries (Hosier Lane), host music festivals (St Jerome’s Laneway Festival), fashion shows (here) or be renamed after local eminent local ‘dignitaries’ (AC/DC Lane, Dame Edna Place).

The art of the laneways is impressive and ever changing.  Tourists from all over the world are stunned by volume of brilliant graffiti that adorn walls throughout our laneways.  And due to its very nature, it is forever transforming.  Even Banksy pieces have been painted over.  There’s nothing permanent about Melbourne art.

Robert Doyle, the Lord Mayor of Melbourne (and borderline crackpot, but that’s another post) was pictured in The Age newspaper under a stencil of himself in Hosier Lane praising its street art as a ''legitimate expression of artistic intent''.  Not many cities have their civic leaders supporting graffiti (here).   The same article quotes another official saying “This is my laneway and a tourist attraction bringing in up to a thousand people a day because of the street art”.

But not everything about laneways is positive.  A recent decision by the state government sold off Elliot Lane, and part Merriman Lane to developers to make way for a huge apartment complex. This has rightly stirred the ire of many.  This short sighted and almighty dollar focussed decision flies in face of what the laneways represent.

Selling part of what makes the city unique is tantamount to cutting off a part of our own body.  It can never be replaced, and it makes us less whole.  Keep it up and we may very well end up like the first impression of our Canadian cousin – soulless.

All images from - http://postglobalurbanism.wordpress.com/2011/02/

A Surfing Safari – Bombay Royale

By Alli Sinclair

By now you’ve read me banging on countless times about how Melbourne, Australia, is an awesome multi-cultural city. If you want to go out for dinner in my fair town, pick a country, and chances are you’ll find a restaurant that serves the food of the nation of your choice. Nearly every weekend there are festivals, be it Greek, Italian, French, Croatian, Spanish... you name it, we have it. And when it comes to music, Melbourne is the place to be if you want to throw a few musical styles into a blender and see what happens. The Melbourne band Bombay Royale, has done that, and the musical cocktail is one of a kind and very hard to resist.

Bombay Royale embrace the music of Indian cinema and take great pride in covering little-known Bollywood classics as well as creating original surfadelic Hindi numbers. East meets West in a most spectacular way, and the result is a mix of music, sung mostly in Hindi, that is guaranteed to get the feet tapping and executing the odd Bollywood dance move or three.

Indian cinema has a love of the dramatic, a cascade of colours and over the top acting. Almost half a century ago Indian cinema adopted music from around the world, including rock, surf, and disco, and put their own Indian spin on it that appealed to the masses. The musicians from that era, such as R.D. Burman, Asha Bhosle, and Mohammed Rafi, created music that Bombay Royale now cover and wow audiences in Australia and around the world. 

The band played its first gig in April 2010 at the St Kilda Festival, a multicultural arts festival popular in Melbourne and has a strong contingent of international artists performing. Since then, Bombay Royale have played nationally at the Port Fairy Folk Festival, Bellingen Global Carnival and also at the Australasian World Music Expo as well as a gig in the Reunion Islands (Africa) in 2011. Now seen regularly on television and radio, their fan base has increased dramatically and is still on the up.

With what looks like a cast of thousands, Bombay Royale have assembled an eclectic bunch of talented musicians who share a passion for Indian cinema music with a twist. Tablas, brass, guitars, sitars, organs, drums, bass, and fabulous vocals combine to create a very cool, multi-cultural sound.

One of the lead singers is Parvyn Singh. Born into a family of professional musicians, Parvyn’s performed on stage since the age of five. She blends the singing styles of East and West and has created her own unique style. Lead male vocalist is Bengali Shourov Bhattacharya, who grew up listening to his family collection of Bollywood records. When these two performers sing a duet, it is hot!

Other band members include Andy Williamson on sax; Bob Knob bassist, composer and producer; Tom Martin on guitar and song writer; Matt Vehl on synth; Julian Goyma on drums; Josh Bennett on sitar, table, mandolin, dlruba, and guitar; Ed Fairlie on trumpet; Declan Jones on horns, and Ros Jones on trombones.

Once again, Melbourne’s diversity has nurtured and encouraged a band that takes all the good of various cultures to make it even better. But rather than me tell you how fabulous they are, find out for yourself!

A Portrait of Love – Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera

Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera photograph by Carlo Van Vechten

The girls here on the blog often give me a hard time about my soppy, romantic tendencies and truth be told, I can’t deny it. I’m a sucker for a good love story – the more tragic, the better. That’s probably why I like to make the poor characters in my books suffer heartbreak at every turn. This works great in fiction, but not so wonderful when it’s real life. Sometimes, though, out of tragedy and suffering, great things can grow.

Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera go down in my books as a couple who left an indelible imprint on history. Born in 1907, Frida suffered from polio, and even though she lived, the disease left her with a withered leg that she always kept covered. In an effort to help his young daughter heal, Frida’s father gave her some paints, thus began a journey that would take many twists and turns.

At the age of eighteen, Frida boarded a bus with her then-boyfriend, Alejandro Gómez Arias. They’d planned to travel to her home on Coyocán, Mexico, but the bus had an accident with an electric trolley car, throwing bodies in every direction. Alejandro found Frida with a pole sticking out of her torso, and she was hospitalised with a myriad of injuries. Her dream of becoming a doctor disappeared and instead, she was left with more physical challenges. The only solace she found from the physical and emotional pain was through her painting.

One of Frida's fascinating paintings

Frida first met Diego Rivera when she was a student at an exclusive prep school in Mexico City. Twenty years her senior, Rivera had been employed to paint the school auditorium. Frida fell in with a crowd who loved to play pranks, so she became involved with soaping stairs for Rivera to fall on and popping water balloons over his head. Rivera and Frida had yet to discover their true destiny.

Alejandro went off the scene after the accident, and years later, Frida met Rivera again. Frustrated with her work, she asked his truthful opinion about her painting. Rivera replied, “Keep it up, little girl.” She invited him to her house to show more work, and this is when they realised they had more in common that just painting. When Frida was 22 and Rivera 42, they married. Frida’s mother disapproved of the tall, well-padded Rivera, and therefore didn’t attend the wedding.

The couple moved into a house shared by communists and not long after Frida became pregnant, but couldn’t go through with it as her life was at risk because of all her earlier physical complications. Later, Frida expressed her disappointment with her inability to have children through her paintings, with themes of childbirth, blood, and fertility.

She and Diego moved to the United States in 1930, and Frida fell under Rivera’s shadow. She played the “good housewife” while he lapped up the attention, and she suffered through his many extramarital affairs, including one with her own sister, Cristina. In 1933, the couple returned to Mexico, and during this time, they both had extramarital affairs. Kahlo had many lovers, both male and female, including Leon Trotsky. Her romance with him inspired her to pursue her painting on a larger scale, and by 1938, Frida’s work who traveled to New York, where she finally gained the recognition she’d craved.

In 1940, Frida and Rivera finally divorced and it was during this time, she produced some of her most renowned work. Turning to themes of death and religious symbolism, Frida cemented her position among the Surrealists.

Photo by Patrice Raunet Hollywood Mural by Siner

The last ten years of her life were more tranquil, all the romantic heartache and rejection behind her. She taught at La Esmeralda, an art institute in Mexico. As her failing health took its toll, Frida set up her easel while she was in hospital, and continued painting. In 1950, she and Rivera remarried (yes, they did!), and in 1953, she exhibited her work for the first time in Mexico.  

In 1957, Frida Kahlo passed away, leaving a legacy of artwork that has been respected and admired for decades. The ups and down of her romance with Diego Rivera no doubt influenced her work, and it would be interesting to know what she would have produced (if anything) had her life been a Mills and Boon or Harlequin romance. I doubt we’d have such evocative and memorable paintings as we do now.

So there you have it. Sometimes out of great tragedy, comes something very special – the works of Frida Kahlo.

God with His Girlfriends

Scandalous headline, no?

Well, if that puts you off, then maybe you shouldn’t look at the following picture. (You’ll have to scroll down a bit if you choose to see it. I don’t want to offend anyone who decides not to.)

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Or (blush) this one:

I know. They’re hard for me to look at too. (But made you look, didn’t I?)

They do make for a good story, though, so here goes.

These two paintings show Lord Ganesha, whom I’ve blogged about before, with a bevy of babes, some a little, ahem, closer to the mighty deity than you think would be permitted.

Of course, truth be told, if any god were going to have a harem, I would have placed my bets on Ganesha. He’s a bit of a partier, and he does like the good life. Good food, seconds of dessert, fancy dinner parties. On occasion, I’ve wondered whether he might have been (or maybe that should be “is”?) a meat-eater. Okay, that’s an unlikely theory…. like elephants themselves, the gods have to be vegetarian. Or so I’m told. He probably tipped back the occasional cocktail though. They don’t call it ambrosia for nothing.

But girlfriends? That thought certainly never crossed my mind. Until now.

I’d never seen these two particular paintings until recently, but its artist, Raja Ravi Varma, is without a doubt, one of India’s most famous painters. He was born simply as Ravi Varma in 1848 in the Kilamanoor Palace in the princely state of Travancore in Kerala, India. He wasn’t born a prince but after a maharajah recognized Varma’s talents at a young age, Varma received the maharajah’s patronage as well as training under accomplished artists, such as Dutch portraitist Theodor Jenson, and eventually the title of “raja” from Lord Curzon, Britain’s viceroy to India.

Varma melded traditional Indian subjects (particularly South Indian women as well as mythological characters) with European artistic styles. He achieved widespread fame after winning first place at the Vienna Art Exhibition in 1873 followed by two gold medals at the World’s Columbian Exhibition in Chicago in 1893. He was India’s most popular artist in his own time, and his work remains extremely popular even today.

Take a look at some of his pieces (and tell me these don’t remind you of something you might see hanging in the western art wing of the Met or even painted on the ceiling at the Sistine Chapel):            

These are among the many popular paintings Varma rendered in his lifetime, reproductions of which are often seen in Indian homes, coffee shops, book stores – even on stationary.

The paintings of Ganesha’s gals? Less common. Maybe because some folks would consider them inappropriate. So what’s the story? Did Varma just imagine Ganesha with some mojo or is there any historical basis to these renderings?

Turns out, if Ganesha had a Facebook status, it would be “It’s Complicated.” Religious scholars have differing theories on his relationships or lack of them. Unlike other major deities with goddess-wives, Ganesha is not associated with any particular consort and is typically considered a bachelor. The most prevailing myths show him as a sort of brahmacharya, a kind of celibate spiritual leader. Another pattern of myths, however, associates him with buddhi (intellect), siddhi (spiritual power), and riddhi (prosperity), and occasionally, these concepts are personified as goddesses considered to be Ganesha’s wives. Varma’s second painting from the top is entitled “Riddhi Siddhi,” representing two of those three wives. In some modern retellings, he’d fathered Santoshi Ma, the goddess of satisfaction, with them.

Then there’s the Ashtasiddhi – the eight spiritual steps achieved through yoga. The very first Varma painting up top is called “Ashtasiddhi Ganesha” and shows these eight steps or concepts as young women who surround Ganesha. But don’t read into it. It’s only a spiritual love. Of course.

There are other theories and variations, mostly depending on region and/or linguistic group, that show Ganesha with any number of females who embody his spiritual attributes. One story shows him having sons by Siddhi and Buddhi. Another says the two female deities are shaktis, divine creative forces personified as female. Yet another ancient tome specifically calls them his “wives.” In some ancient artistic depictions, he’s shown with only one shakti, with no distinct features, so it’s unclear who she might represent other than as a general consort.

Regardless, it’s hard to imagine any of these versions are quite as provocative as Varma’s very modern ones. What do you think?