Peter Schjeldahl: Let’s See
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Turns out, writing about art doesn’t have to be as technical as one might think. Which makes sense because so much about art is how it makes you feel. Peter Schjeldahl who writes on art for The New Yorker uses metaphor and similes to convey how art makes him feel.
In the essay “Beauty” on the Hirshhorn’s exhibit “Regarding Beauty,” Schjeldahl found it “added little to [his] delights that day.” (17) This was mostly due to the fact that he disagreed greatly with the curators concept for the exhibit. “Beauty is not a concept,” Schjeldahl declares loud and clear. He concludes his essay and argument saying, “Beauty isn’t articulate. Beauty isn’t nice. The curators, taking their eyes off the ball, reproduce vulgar misunderstandings of beauty, confusing it with lesser qualities, such as prettiness.” And here is where Schjeldahl uses metaphor to get his point across: “They chose for the cover of their catalogue an assemblage of silk flowers by Jim Hodges. It looks terrific, but its effect stands in relation to beauty as a friendly wave does to a punch in the mouth.” This connection is spot on for how often does someone relate the effect of a work of art to a listener but describing it as something else completely? Something visceral and ordinary? Schjeldahl uses this way of communication in a far more sophisticated manner.
In an essay on Calder, Schjeldahl refers to the dialogue on public art and whether art which is public is art at all as like a discussion between “cats in a sack.”(20) On being overwhelmed viewing MoMA’s “Matisse Picasso” show he says “looking at so much stupendous art is like trying to check the oil in a speeding truck.” (23) A fellow visitor to the show can identify, saying “Yes, that is exactly how I felt.”
In a particularly unsympathetic essay on Gauguin, Schjeldahl writes, “Gauguin’s art dazzles, but it cannot be trusted.” Schjeldahl is able to convey every bit of Gauguin’s selfishness, immaturity and self-disguise in this wonderful metaphor: “It was as if Melville, having written the early adventure books Typee and Omoo, had never proceeded to Moby-Dick.” (32) Scalding and yet so understandably true.
When Schjeldahl does delve into technicalities, he often uses metaphor to conjure the image for the reader. When describing a painting’s size, Schjeldahl doesn’t stay that it is 12 by 14 inches but rather, “no bigger than a briefcase.” What a clearer image that conjures in the reader instead of one of two rulers set at a right angle. Or describing the couple in Caspar David Friedrich’s Man and Woman Contemplating the Moon, he says they are “as stiffly as chess piece.” We understand that this is not a romantic picture.
Schjeldahl says Surrealism is not an American phenomenon, “In the United States, Surrealism has always had an imported aura, like fabulously smelly French cheese.” (56) Even in reading that assessment, the reader squishes their nose both to Surrealism and to stinky cheese. And in describing his reaction to an exhibit on painting that appeared at the World’s Fair at the Guggenheim, Schjeldahl writes, “suddenly a judgmental attitude felt absurd—as if one attended a baseball game only to keep score.” (59) The reader understands immediately that this was not the point of the exhibit or the experience. Schjeldahl’s description of the work of Rembrandt is relatable. “Rembrandt is a detective. When I look at his pictures, I feel like Dr. Watson bumbling along behind Holmes.”
The interesting part of all of this is that metaphor and simile often comes so much more natural when telling a friend about an art experience that moved me. And yet, for some reason, when it comes to writing about it, I feel like I have to leave those connections out. That they are somehow too base for an essay about art. Turns out, even though mine would never be as sophisticated as Schjeldahl’s, they are helpful and connective ways to describe an art experience.