Impressive Impressionists

'Impression, Sunrise' did not impress as much as it interested me. While the subject was evident to my 1980-something-nouveau-teen brain, the context clear, I thought the style choice a combination of ingenuity and laziness and not the movement-inspiring icon-creator of what would become the Impressionist movement. Frankly, I had more interest in impressionists for their societal impact than their method. Putting a few strokes of paint on a canvas to create a semblance of mood and scene was clever only as much as it caused a stir and with umpteen million books written of their specific style one could hardly ignore its presence in the world; they were important and I, therefore, wanting the same for myself and unaware of my subconsciously chameleon-like fickleness, liked them immensely. This was not atypical of those earlier years in my life.

With Monet's painting now staring down at me from the "audio-visual segment of the class", I wondered whether the extent of my impression would be enlarged vertically or laterally; was I to now understand a greater scope of worldly impact or would I merely cleave to the shallow form of intellectual inheritance? Rakow said something. I don't remember verbatim nor do I recall the placement in her lecture, but she effectively startled me with a summation which I will now quote, paraphrase, embellish, completely butcher to the hopeful benefit of this blog post:

"The purpose of this class is to illustrate these artists' works not as stylistic choices but as functions of the artists' increasing visual dysfunction."

Mrs. Rakow may not agree and may be followed by as many as all the attendees but me. It doesn't matter, really. This was the "impression" I had from her statement...and it floored me. Somehow, tardy though I was, there appeared within the final thirty minutes of a last-minute, end of day class, a singular understanding of any and all art ever created.

Parents probably recognize the rough, haphazard, sometimes violent, sometimes feathered strokes evident in the early paintings of childhood. In most that I've seen, there is little to distinguish one page from another and yet when asked, the child will recall precisely what each blob and smear means, with the occasional re-interpretation as memory fades. For these "artists", in other words, there is a remembrance of the sensation of painting, an association with thoughts and feelings experienced during the process, those packets of associations being so strong as to mold their recognition of an appearance of orange-green in the middle of mudlicious blue.

"That's you, Daddy, and we're reading books outside at the pool"

Sure, WE don't see the car, the tree, the mommy or dog in the work. There may even be an appearance of donuts or broccoli but we miss the fact that the family was sad since their neighbor couldn't read and dine with them. The child doesn't paint initially with the intention of recognition by any but themselves - they do not paint with icons, but with feelings, and they assume other people can see what they felt while they painted. It is only as they learn what society has collectively associated that their paintings begin to take on more "traditional", less symbolic form. In a sense, they are limited in communication by both their associations to that point (which will take us outside the scope of this blog) and by the ability to guide brush to paint and then, with directional control, to canvas; they are limited by their abilities: mental, emotional, physical.

Two months ago, I witnessed a painter forming carefully directed and very methodical strokes with his brush. On the canvas was forming a recognizable icon to which I had lifelong exposure - the mascot for the University of Georgia, "Uga". Colors were vivid, lines were intentional yet personal, the intended impression was evident. The artist had no arms...

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