Approaching the Realm of Art as a Newcomer: A Personal Account
“Original Instructions” - I had recently finished reading Braiding Sweetgrass by the brilliant Robin Wall Kimmerer and was moved by her discussion of indigenous teachings of cooperation and reciprocity with the land. Instructions for life exist as well in our very cells in the form of DNA, and these pine needles reminded me of microscopic images of protein patterns I had seen years ago in high school biology class.
For too long, I believed that genuine appreciation of art depended on figuring out exactly what an artist had intended to say through their work. I thought that missing even the smallest detail meant I wasn't truly understanding what I was looking at, like I was a bad student bound to be left in the dust by my peers. Growing up in the United States, art class was always a “fun” period in the day, not to be taken too seriously or thought about after the bell rang. So, while I love a good puzzle, I had never been one to over-analyze my own work. I had gotten by, as far as I could tell, on some combination of intuition, instinct, luck, and maybe a little skill sprinkled in, to slowly build a small body of work. Except where it concerned other peoples’ art, I was pretty much happy to leave analysis to those more studied and experienced - perhaps former classmates who went on to careers in museum curation or philosophy - so I could get on with enjoying the process of making images for its own sake.
Generally, I’ve always held that life is anything but black-and-white and “analysis paralysis” can be a very real roadblock to progress. Life is ambiguous and complex, and so to spend too much time analyzing some aspects of it can wind up being a long dive down a non-productive rabbit hole. Very often, I found, it was easier to read just enough about a topic, and then move on to easier, or more fun, material. When it came to photography, I remembered a great quote that aligned with this sentiment (whose author’s name I’ve sadly forgotten): “Get the photograph now. You have the rest of your life to decide what it means.” But, when I would visit an art museum or see amazing photographs in a magazine, this axiom could do little to hush my curiosity about the stranger’s work I was viewing. In the reversed role, as viewer rather than creator, I was impatient to get to “what it means” right away by deciphering the code cleverly embedded by the artist.
Over time, this conflict between my own “go with the flow”, intuitive mindset to photography, one that seemed to be treating me well, and my high regard for learning and understanding, taught me that every piece of compelling art possesses the capacity for wide interpretation. Fundamentally, there are some serious limitations to a purely intellectual approach to artistic engagement; after all, we each respond to art in our own unique ways depending on our backgrounds, sensibilities, education, and stages in life. We might extract nothing more than quick sensory pleasure if we don’t believe a piece of decorative wall art warrants contemplation (because it is not interesting). Alternatively, we might become intellectually stimulated if, for example, a poem begs to be understood through its intriguing use of allegory. We may feel a strong emotional connection to a dramatic symphony that moves us deeply, but whose effects are impossible to describe verbally (i.e. “I’m just speechless!”, “I don’t have the words!”).
I am thankful to be able to extend my own subjective experience in ways that are meaningful and relevant to me while viewing works of art. Maybe, I can sample the creator’s frame of mind by allowing their compositional choices, such as patterns and colors, to open up emotions inside me that can serve as a shared experience. I can also use my imagination to generate a fantasy that may be extremely farfetched, but still a rewarding result of viewing the work. Walking along a snowy bridge or the edge of a pond in a Showa period Japanese woodblock print is fun and relaxing, and doesn’t require a ton of mental effort. The same could easily be said for many landscape photographs. Perhaps there is an intentional portal into the artist’s emotions through their work, or maybe their “wall is up”, in a manner of speaking, so the art is not reflective of their feelings but, instead, aspirational.
I grew amazed by how one work of art could be received a million different ways depending on the person viewing it. While trying to overcome self-doubt surrounding my understanding of art, I resolved to become more fluent in embracing my emotional responses in its presence. This involved consciously getting away from a strictly logical perspective and, counterintuitively, getting back to a more rudimentary starting point.
“Transcription” - Furthering the biological theme of the previous image, I recalled the process of DNA transcription in which gene expression manifests in cell replication. One could argue this is the very basis for Earthly life as we know it. Full disclosure, I had to look up the scientific nomenclature days after making these images, as my emotional impulses crystalized into meanings. The theme seemed to fit the design of the images and intent that I sought.
Examples can be found throughout history, among the most enduring artworks spanning genres and cultures globally, of intended messages either falling by the wayside or becoming distorted. To be sure, plenty of artists have obscured their messages with deft intention (any of Jackson Pollock’s massive abstracts come to mind), while others are famous for getting their point across in jarring fashion. I can still recall the visceral pain and anguish I felt while viewing “The Two Fridas” in Mexico City a few years ago, and the comical absurdity I experienced when I first saw photographs of Marcel Duchamp’s “Fountain”. These were just my own kneejerk takes, not the opinions of professional critics or historians, but it is well established that interpretation of art is a dynamic process. Any meaning derived by a viewer can diverge significantly from the artist's original goal.
Thomas Cole’s iconic painting, “The Oxbow”, was created to inspire feelings of awe and majesty in the public of nineteenth century America. For someone like myself, not trained in art history, his intent was a success regardless of whether its geography surrounding the Connecticut River could be recognized by anyone viewing the work. When I viewed the piece a few years ago, I was impressed by its expansiveness and wonderful detail. To my understanding, which is admittedly limited, Cole’s best-known works, and those of other painters of the Hudson River School era, is that they aimed to emphasize the bucolic over true depictions of the “real America” of the time.
Life for most Americans was anything but ideal (it was desperate, if not harrowing, for factory workers, many women, tenant farmers, and slaves) and any sincere read of American history reveals significant class- and race-related upheaval in the mid-1800s. “The Oxbow” is an idealized, beautiful representation that invokes the sublime and big emotions, while dreaming up a pleasant harmony between landowners and the land (private landownership was still a relatively new concept to the continent), but it does not convey a literal understanding. While rooted in a specific place and time, it is understood as an ideal, capturing a particular vision, rather than as an accurate document of American history.
It is common to enjoy a piece of music without knowing the composer’s precise message. Many enjoy the beat or melody of a song without ever learning why it was written, but they are free to look up the lyrics on the internet. Of course, lyrics are a completely different artistic language than that of visual art, but both are important expressive channels for emotion and metaphor. I couldn’t begin to guess how many times I’ve “misunderstood” a song over the years after singing it incorrectly, and poorly, before finally Googling the lyrics. When this happens, my understanding of the song almost always updates, sometimes slightly but often in a big way.
Consider the case of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, which is widely associated by many Americans with themes of patriotism and victory thanks to its iconic cannon fire and triumphant melodies. The piece inspires feelings of victory and patriotism, and has become a staple of Fourth of July celebrations. It is a symbol of the spirit of American independence. This was certainly how I always perceived the piece, until I discovered its historical context and original intent differed from the one I had adopted. The work was composed by Tchaikovsky, a Russian, to commemorate the Russian Empire's successful defense against Napoleon's invading Grande Armée in 1812, a historical event far removed from the American experience of independence.
But, for a country still reconciling the tragic embarrassment of the Vietnam War, the explosive political scandal that became known as Watergate, and widespread civil unrest, Tchaikovsky’s music lifted the spirits of countless Americans. It struck a chord on a massive scale and seemed to fill a cultural and emotional void, solidified by the Boston Pops Orchestra’s famous 1974 bicentennial performance, and has remained a validating symbol of American might in the decades since. While no fireworks spectacle is complete without the piece, it is fair to say that Tchaikovsky did not actually intend for the 1812 Overture to become a symbol of American patriotism.
Anyone who listens to the piece has little trouble understanding the emotion behind the music, but the composer’s original message of the commemoration of a contrasting historical event is lost to many who appreciate it. It seems to me that the piece endures for the impressive emotion it evokes, and not for its originally intended message.
“Qualia” - Named for the subjective or qualitative properties of experience as described in theory of mind (ToM) psychology.
Despite not being able to travel back in time, or to read minds, in order to gain detailed, intended understanding of works of art, there remains a natural curiosity and desire to grasp the artist’s inner world during the creative process. When we view a work that moves us deeply, we often wonder what might have been happening in the artist’s mind and heart. What deep anguish or joy or whim or tragedy compelled them to create? What music was playing in their mind? How had the wind impacted their attention, or had the warmth of the sun softened their sensitivity to life’s subtle gifts?
The unknowing, the very mystery of the artist’s subjective reality is what appeals more than anything else about a work. It means more than technical perfection, commercial success, loyalty to a predetermined “style,” bondage to social media, placement in a competition, or the distinction of the gallery in which they exhibit. In my view, it is the emotional mystery of a work that compels viewers to examine their own lives more deeply, to learn not only about the artist and their message, but also about themselves. By extension, they are ultimately moved from a state of intellectual investigation to one of self discovery and appreciation of life in the moment. It has less to do with the actual representation of what may or may not have existed in empirical reality when the art was made, and more to do with what the viewer brings to the experience. While an artist’s background, historical context, and technical skills are valuable, they take a backseat to the emotional experiences that define them and foster connection across time and space.
Our deep, natural desire for comprehension, our innate curiosity about the mysteries of universe, pulls us through gallery doors, onto artists' websites, into theater seats, and eagerly through bookstore aisles. Our explorations compel us to pick up our cameras, lace up our hiking boots, and sit behind microscopes, books, easels and potter’s wheels.
Whether we create art or quietly behold it, whether we're just beginning or long immersed, it is emotion that binds us — reaching where words falter and reason fades.
