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  • "I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here." 

Firenze, Gerhard Richter

Alexander McQueen, Spring 2012 

Shéhérazade by René Magritte 

    do you like mark rothko??

    — Anonymous

    i don’t know him but i like his art. i’m kidding. i used to hate his art.i remember my mom taking me to the MoMA in nyc when i was like 7, there was this very famous painting (one of many) of rothko’s in there and everyone was so obsessed with it.  i just couldn’t understand how abstract art appeals to people and i even left one of those weird little notes on the review book :) then as i grew up and started learning more and more about art i felt more captivated by something so abstract and inexplicable, but i was still torn bc i felt like no effort was put into such a painting. when i first went to tate modern like 5 years ago or so i felt a vibe coming from the “rothko” room, it felt so claustrophobic but kind of cathartic in a way. then i read into rothko’s life and many different statements he’s made throughout his life and career and i remember this specific thing he said; “I’m not an abstractionist. I’m not interested in the relationship of color or form or anything else. I’m interested only in expressing basic human emotions: tragedy, ecstasy, doom, fear.” i was very moved by this and very inspired because it is indeed true- he doesn’t want to show skill through his paintings, he doesn’t want to create a story. he wants to create huge paintings for someone to get lost in, experience emotions, and create his own story… and i think that’s beautiful.


Matisse ‘Cut-Outs’ is the most successful in history of the Tate: http://goo.gl/scQ7Xl

"The weeping woman is only paint, and yet the corners of my mouth move as a motor-sensory echo of the face before me."
She is Sobbing. 
I look at Picasso’s Weeping Woman, and before I have time to analyze what I am seeing, to speak of color or form or gesture or style, I have registered the face, hand, and part of a torso on the canvas and have an immediate emotional response to the image. The picture upsets me. I feel a tension in the corners of my own mouth. I want to continue looking, but I am also repelled by this figure. Although I am looking at a person crying, I find the depiction cruel. What is happening?

The face is the locus of identity—the place on the body to which we give our attention. We do not recognize people by their hands and feet, even those intimate to us. Infants only hours old can imitate the faces of adults, although they do not know what or whom they are looking at and will not be able to recognize their own images in the mirror for many months to come. Babies seem to have a visual-motor-sensory awareness of the other person’s face, what some researchers have called a “like-me” response that results in imitation, also referred to as “primary intersubjectivity.” A friend of mine, the philosopher Maria Brincker, who is working on theories of mirroring, was musing aloud to her six-year-old daughter, Oona, about infant imitation. 
“A tiny child can imitate my expressions,” she said, “Isn’t that hard to understand?” 
“No, Mom,” said Oona. “That’s easy. The baby has your face.” 
To some degree at least, while we are looking at someone in life, in a photograph, or in a painting, we have her face. The face we perceive supplants our own. Maurice Merleau-Ponty understood this as human intercorporeality, which is not gained through self-conscious analogy but is immediately present in our perception.7 Research suggests that infants do distinguish women from men long before they can identify themselves as either male or female, and their parsing of the sexes relies on essential differences, voice register, for example, as well as non-essential differences, such as hair length, makeup, and dress. But my apprehension and reading of Picasso’s canvas participates in this dyadic reality, my I and the you of the canvas. The figure before me is not naturalistic. How do I even know it’s a woman? I read her hair, her eyelashes, the scallops of her handkerchief, the rounded line of one visible breast as feminine. The weeping woman is only paint, and yet the corners of my mouth move as a motor-sensory echo of the face before me.
—From Siri Hustdvedt’s guest column “A Woman Looking at Men Looking at Women in the new Salmagundi

The Enigma of Desire or My Mother, My Mother, My Mother by Salvador Dalí — 1929

Henri Matisse
Le Destin, 1947

Egon Schiele