Musings. Ex Libris

If still-life painting is not invariably an art of contemplation, then what comes closest is perhaps the painting of faint light against dark, like candlelight in the time before electricity, or the gleam of moonlight in the pitch-dark of night. Those are the lights that give out hopes, a sense of security and serenity. I am not referring to the lights that partly reveal the true colour of a monster- the shock of lightening that triggers all the wicked happenings. Those paintings of more sinister overtones are not discussed here. I always value more the glimmer of light than the overwhelming darkness. Georges de La Tour’s The Penitent Magdalen (1638-43) is a painting embedded with symbolisms. The skull nestling on Mary’s knees is the emblem for mortality; the candle, the spiritual enlightenment; the mirror, the reflection of human’s vanity. Mary is aware of herself as a mortal and thus she is staring at herself instinctively into the mirror. Or rather, she is staring at the

Are still-life paintings exclusively for the contemplators? Not exactly. One can discover the abnormal amidst the most normal and mundane. Staring at still-lives is like staring at sculptures: you secretly harbour a childish anticipation that somehow these inanimate objects will eventually move. But still-lives function more than mere drab figments of one’s otherwise fanciful imagination. Different from landscape or other outdoor paintings, in which the painters are more like photographers relying on beautiful chances that contribute to their artworks, still-life painters have more leeway of arranging their subjects. In this case the end product is not only an artwork, but a creation. As hideously as they often appear to be, still-life paintings with raw meat nonetheless never cease to fascinate me. French painter Jean-Baptiste-Simeon Chardin, who is considered a master of genre paintings and perhaps most noted for his Soap Bubbles (1733-34), a nostalgic image of childhood w

American photographer Christian Patterson’s project, Redheaded Peckerwood , follows the trail of the notorious Charles Starkweather and Caril Ann Fugate who, in late 1950s, embarked on an atrocious killing spree which resulted in eleven deaths of their beloved and acquaintances. Most of the photographs feature the remnants left by the victims or the killers. One of them shows a jack knife stuck in the crack of a wall. Around the crack are some tinctures of brownish mud stains. For a second I was even convinced that they were more like blood stains with their colour gradually fading away over time. But it is the perverted romanticism of the killing spree that makes the story hauntingly enchanting. The love that makes one a robot which is ever-subservient to whatever the lover orders. We travel together and elope, and together we commit crimes which purpose and meaning fail our understanding. Even in the end fate tears us apart and we are forbidden to die together (Starkh

Eroticism abound in literature. Even under the straitlaced and morally-superior societies like the 18 th and early 19 th century England, erotica, much to the wonder of the high-minded detractors who considered such “pulp fictions” a considerable threat to the well-being of the community, still managed to flourish. But 18 th century erotic novels rarely overstepped the marks by unfolding graphic details of sexuality. There are often no more than just a glimpse of the flesh or an illicit exchange of a kiss. Unlike the satiric illustrations by William Hogarth which mostly chronicle a profligate’s irrevocable downfall, a bawdyhouse is yet making its way to the erotica. But most often a boudoir, the room where women conducted their toilettes and where men were strictly forbidden, that within such a constricted place bespeaks the perfect locale for a couple’s tryst. Art, in adherence to its supremacy, prefers to let the emotions shown and sentiments felt rather than making expli