In all honesty I must begin my comments on Rembrandt in America with the admission that I am really not a Rembrandt person. Clearly Rembrandt stood head and shoulders above his contemporaries during the Dutch “Golden Age,” and it goes without saying I would thrilled to have an autograph Rembrandt painting come to the Museum (unfortunately, the three we thought we had have all been de-Rembrandted!). My interests have centered elsewhere in the field, however—specifically Frans Hals and painters in his circle, among them Jan Miense Molenaer. Readers might recall the Molenaer exhibition I did at the NCMA in 2002. So, naturally, one might wonder why a “non-Rembrandt” person would agree to devote most of the last three years of his life to a large and complex Rembrandt exhibition.

The answer lies in the fact you can’t really function as a 17th-century Dutch painting curator without dealing with Rembrandt. The long shadow he casts over Dutch art touches nearly everyone, and one can argue that his popularity has never been stronger than it is today. Certainly much of this interest centers on the lingering controversies over whether a particular painting was painted by Rembrandt or by one of his assistants. So, as one deals with the myth, reality, and especially the marketability of Rembrandt, I asked myself, what is the glue that could hold these concepts together? More important, how do these concerns relate to the North Carolina Museum of Art? The answer was simple—William Valentiner, the NCMA’s first director.

As one of the world’s foremost authorities on Rembrandt during the first half of the 20th century, Valentiner was largely responsible for expanding the accepted number of Rembrandt paintings. His flawed accounting would eventually embrace more than 700 works. This expansion happily coincided with a huge appetite for Rembrandt paintings by American collectors, an interest that began just after the Civil War. These “Gilded Age” collectors—many were often described as “robber barons” (or “the 1 percent,” to use today’s terminology)—snagged some of Rembrandt’s greatest masterpieces. Others, however, bought studio works, imitations, and even outright forgeries. To their credit, though, many eventually gifted their “Rembrandts” to American museums.

Thus, it was my idea to link Valentiner with Rembrandt and the collecting of his paintings in America. Since collecting history has long been of interest to me (note my Sinners and Saints exhibition), I was returning to a comfort zone as I considered the viability of Rembrandt in America. With the help of my co-curators, we created a project that was intellectually sound, visually exciting, and certainly worth pursuing. Long story short, we successfully made our case to the museums and individuals who agreed to lend works to the show. So while I am exhausted, I couldn’t be prouder of the exhibition, its installation, and the accompanying catalogue. And yes, I guess I have become a Rembrandt person!

Dennis P. Weller is the NCMA’s curator of Northern European art and co-curator of Rembrandt in America.

It’s that time of year again, dear readers! With the change of the seasons comes a new edition of our billboards project, Park Pictures. We’ve been promoting Park Pictures here on Untitled for more than two years now, and we’re still going strong! As you may recall, our Pictures are three “billboards” installed along the paved walking trails, commissioned by the Museum to encourage visitors to explore the art available in the Museum Park. These billboards change regularly to feature new works by different artists, both from North Carolina and elsewhere.

Last spring Anthony Goicolea created three billboards in conjunction with his solo exhibition Alter Ego: A Decade of Work by Anthony Goicolea. This time around we’ve commissioned three works by California-based artist Carolyn Janssen, who completed her master of fine arts degree at UNC–Chapel Hill in spring 2011. Janssen’s works are digitally crafted worlds created by the expert superposition of images from Janssen’s own daily environment, including multiple representations of herself. This consistent layering allows the artist an element of control as she focuses on the process itself. “I used individual objects in the same way I would use a single brushstroke,” Janssen notes, “building each scene mark by mark.” Janssen’s knowledge of art shines through in her works, which are reminiscent of traditional landscape painting as well as the complex scenes of Bosch and Breughel. The images also refer to video game worlds and science fiction tableaux, which keep Janssen’s works rooted in pop culture.

The subject matter of Janssen’s billboards pertains to an imaginary dystopic society populated solely by Amazon-esque women who, the artist notes, “question and commandeer the landscape, engaging in narratives and mini-dramas, in which they build, fight, kill, and rest. At times calm, at times acting in apprehension to a present or past disaster, the figures reflect on a landscape broken, uncertain, and strange.”

This work, made possible by Blue Cross and Blue Shield of North Carolina, is part of an ongoing series of outdoor art projects, Art Has No Boundaries, commissioned by the NCMA to encourage visitors to actively explore the Museum Park.

Recent visitors to the Museum will have noticed a new addition to the paintings in the American galleries. Dock Builders by George Bellows is the latest promised gift of Ann and Jim Goodnight. Bellows (1882–1925) was one of the most influential and beloved American artists of the early 20^th century. He dropped out of college to play semiprofessional baseball before pursuing a career as a painter in New York. There Bellows studied under Robert Henri and through him fell in with a group of young urban artists. The “ashcan school” advocated painting contemporary American society in all its gritty reality. Though more famous today for his boxing pictures, Bellows painted a wide variety of subjects, capturing the bustle of life around him.

Painted in 1916 during a summer in Camden, Maine, Dock Builders is one of a series of pictures depicting the hard laboring lives of Down East people. It gives a noble dimension to men and horses struggling to move logs into position. Bold, slashing brushstrokes give a sense of movement to this otherwise carefully ordered composition. Bellows’s painterly gusto spills out along the rocks at the bottom as his thick, churning splashes of color encrust the sunlit shoreline. There is a playfulness in Bellows’s handling of the brush. Perhaps the relaxed atmosphere of coastal Maine and the joy of working outside encouraged him to paint more freely. In a letter to Henri, he wrote, “I have done a number of pictures this summer which have not arrived in my mind from direct impressions but are creations of fancy arising out of my knowledge and experience of the facts employed.” Whether it was the sea air or a desire to try new things, it is exciting to see an artist enjoying himself in this “creation of fancy.”

For all the freedom of Dock Builders, Bellows was also experimenting with a systematic approach to composition. The smoothly contoured figures are carefully arranged in an underlying structure of intersecting diagonals. Also, along with several other members of the ashcan school, Bellows was intrigued by the color theories of Hardesty Maratta. Maratta devised a system that assigned each color to a corresponding musical note. He then directed artists to combine colors at prescribed intervals, using “chords” to achieve a harmonious effect. We do not know if Bellows used a color keyboard [see image below] when he was painting in Camden, though it seems likely that he had the balanced triads of the Maratta system in mind.

Combining freedom and restraint, Dock Builders adds something new to the Museum’s galleries. Celebrating men at work, the vibrant colors and innovative technique showcased in this landscape represent a pivotal moment in the history of American art.

Laura Fravel, Curatorial Intern

Hardesty G. Maratta’s color keyboard. From The Maratta Scales of Artists’ Oil Pigments, 1916. John Weichsel Papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C.

Image: George Wesley Bellows, Dock Builders, 1916, oil on canvas, Promised gift of Dr. and Mrs. James H. Goodnight

In commemoration of the anniversary, numerous galleries and art centers have come together as part of a citywide event, titled “Remembering 9/11: The 10th Anniversary.” All told, more than 50 institutions are partaking in exhibitions, readings, and performances dedicated to honoring those lost in the terrorist attacks. Now that a decade has passed, it seems that some artists now feel that their wounds—personal, physical or psychic—have healed enough to revisit, leading to a proliferation of works.

The Brooklyn Museum is presenting Ten Years Later: Ground Zero Remembered, an exhibition featuring works by two artists, Michael Richards and Christoph Draeger. The inclusion of Richards is especially notable for NC Museum of Art visitors, who may be familiar with Tar Baby vs. Saint Sebastian, currently located in our Modern and Contemporary Galleries. During his tragically short career, Michael Richards frequently addressed issues of social injustice, creating stunning sculptures that criticize oppression. Tar Baby vs. Saint Sebastian commemorates the Tuskegee Airmen, African American pilots whose heroic contributions to World War II were recognized only in the past few decades. The sculpture itself, cast from the artist’s own body, represents a gold-painted airman penetrated on all sides by small airplanes, reminiscent of the arrows shot at St. Sebastian, an early Christian martyr and saint. The title of the work, with its double reference to the saint and a southern folktale of entrapment, pays tribute to the Tuskegee pilots—and to all who suffer intolerance and unfairness.

The back story of the sculpture, though, is a haunting one, and is quite pertinent to the anniversary of 9/11. The work itself, in effect a self-portrait, now seems an eerie foretelling of the artist’s death. Richards was a victim of the World Trade Center terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001—his studio was on the ninety-second floor of Tower One. Tar Baby vs. Saint Sebastian, too, was feared lost in the wreckage, as it was not found in the remains of the artist’s studio, or at his home. It was only revealed later to be stored in a relative’s garage outside of New York City. Now housed at the NCMA on long-term loan, the work is a commemoration of the artist’s life and talents and a memorial, of sorts, for September 11. Stop by over the weekend and include this as a must-see on your list.

Image: Michael Richards, Tar Baby vs. St. Sebastian, 1999, body cast in resin and fiberglass, painted, and supported by steel shaft, with airplanes cast in resin and fiberglass, painted, and attached by steel bolts, On loan from the estate of the artist

I returned to Cebolla in early June while driving with my family to my son’s college graduation in Washington State. (Yes, we took the long route). I left my family in the car while I photographed the somewhat forlorn church which replaced the adobe structure painted by O’Keeffe. (Note to memory: in my earlier blog post I mistakenly described this later church as made of brick. It is in fact faux adobe.) The church was locked so I was limited to peering through the windows. I was pleased to see that several windows had potted plants on the sill, though none resembled the lavish foliage of the “thing in the window.”

The mysterious message

“Ô living ones who are upon the earth who shall pass by this tomb of mine, faring north or south, and who shall utter ‘1000 loaves of bread and 1000 jugs of beer for the owner of this tomb—his nickname is Golden Boy,’ I shall intercede for them in the necropolis. But for any man who shall enter this tomb in his impurity, I shall wring his neck like a bird! He shall be judged for it by the Great God.”*

Signed, Golden Boy

Golden Boy’s message might sound rather cryptic, but it’s in fact quite simple. Our glittery friend is inviting you stop by the Egyptian galleries to visit him next time you come to the NCMA.  If you and your family are interested in all things Egyptian, the best day to visit would be April 30, during our A Date with Egypt family fun day!

Come and immerse yourself in ancient Egyptian culture by taking a gallery tour with an ancient Egyptian guide or participating in the archaeological dig (don’t forget your archaeologist hat). You also can dress up as an Egyptian princess or a pharaoh, join in some art-making activities, and meet the NCMA’s only archaeologist. Oh! And don’t forget to say hello to Golden Boy and offer him some bread and beer (his favourite treats) by quietly whispering the following words: ‘hetep dee inek heh tah heh kheneket en kah en nehen neboo’.**

Mark your calendars for A Date with Egypt on April 30!

We’re looking forward to seeing you.

* This type of text (what Egyptologists call the ‘Address to the Living’) is found at the entrance to Old Kingdom mastaba tombs as an invitation to passers-by to enter the tomb and give offerings. Those failing to do so would be sued by the deceased when they got to heaven.

**An offering of 1000 loaves of bread and 1000 jugs of beer that I give for Golden Boy’s soul.

Trotman calls his figures embodiments of a “dystopian America,” a foil to Rockwell’s utopian images of the American Dream. Toppled housewives and sinking businessmen make up his vision of 1950s cookie-cutter convention. He turns static material—wood—into figures that vibrate with tense energy, so confined by their roles that they threaten spontaneous combustion. The only interruptions in his pristine craftsmanship are strategically placed splits in the wood that call attention to the unease that is hidden beneath the starched shirts, sensible pumps, and strained smiles of his characters.

When we all stood looking up at Vertigo, Trotman’s first self-portrait and a new addition to the NCMA’s collection, Linda noted its reference to Yves Klein’s iconic 1960 photograph Leap into the Void. The visual and conceptual resemblance is clear—an ordinary-looking man in a suit triumphantly breaks free from life’s constraints as he plunges off a building. But a darker parallel exists underneath the obvious similarities. Klein’s photograph was fabricated, a lie. This “staged lie” is the truth behind Trotman’s Inverted Utopias—the uncomfortable reality that one cannot really leap off the building, sink into the ground, or hide beneath the sheets. There is no escape for his characters.

No escape. I went back to the exhibition with that in mind. Is it really that dark? Trotman has a beautiful way of exposing the sad realities of everyday life, our hidden agendas and concealed burdens, with just enough humor to help us pretend we only imagined that glimpse of ourselves in Arden or Martin. Am I Janet? I think I am wearing her shoes. Perfectly camouflaged in my badge and business attire, I can’t help but feel exposed by her presence, as if I, too, am beginning to spin off my axis into the Void. I turn away only to find myself scrutinizing the exhibition as if I were a member of Trotman’s Committee, ready to offer up my art-savvy intern input like the Cake Lady’s chocolate confection.

I think we, as museumgoers, often get caught up in the appeal of collecting experiences. Seeing works of art and high-profile exhibitions becomes a part of that pressing “better-yourself” checklist. We start darting around, snapping photos and referencing our list of the museum highlights without really seeing anything. Check, check, check. Bob Trotman’s characters do not allow this type of detached viewing. Instead, they mirror back to us that delusion of checkboxes against which we all measure ourselves and confront us head-on with solid, tangible personifications of our own flawed realities.

So, art nerd, housewife, professional, adolescent, and museum wanderer, unite—Trotman has something for all of us. Take a moment with Inverted Utopias to put down the checklist and help Olive Suit find his shoe, picture the faces under Cover Up, and wonder what Stu might look like, if he just opened his eyes.

Laura Ritchie, Curatorial Intern

In the fall of 1944 in the fifth year of the Second World War Valentiner wrote an essay in the Art Quarterly on the reclusive visionary artist Morris Graves.

Our whole existence has been weighed down by the horrors of war to such a degree that we have forgotten how necessary to the balance of our life is the aspect of untouched nature, of nature unaware of and unconcerned with human struggle.  There is only one thing that can save man from himself—his contact with nature. When we look up from our work at a bright moment nothing grips our heart more than a glimpse of the splendor of her colors and her forms, than the awareness of the power of her growth.  It does not need to be a glance into the crater of a Mount Vesuvius….  It is sufficient to become conscious that in the beauty of a flower, in the song of a bird, there is something more wonderful than all the mechanization of the world of which we are so proud.  But we people of the cities where wars are conceived, believe this truth only if it is explained to us by the artist-prophets who with their deeper insight into nature speak so convincingly that we cannot help but listen.

W.R. Valentiner, “Morris Graves,” The Art Quarterly 7 (Autumn 1944), 251.

Manship was the most successful American sculptor of the first half of the 20th century. He specialized in subjects inspired by classical mythology, which he treated in a sleek, graceful style, very linear, highly patterned, that echoed Art Deco design. He is best known as the sculptor of the gilded Prometheus at Rockefeller Center in New York.

However, Manship’s most accomplished sculptures are a pair depicting the Roman goddess Diana and the hapless mortal Actaeon. In classical mythology Diana (or Artemis in Greek) was bathing with her nymphs in a forest pool when Actaeon chanced upon them while hunting in the woods with his dogs. The fiercely chaste goddess was so incensed that she cast a spell on Actaeon, transforming him into a stag. The hunter thus became the hunted. Not recognizing their master, Actaeon’s own dogs attacked him, teeth bared.

It is this gruesome tale that Manship depicts in the pair of sculptures now on view in the American Galleries. He tells the story as if it were a ballet. Diana leaps into the air, at the same time twisting around to let fly a deadly arrow at the poor hunter. Actaeon, already sprouting horns, bounds away from the goddess as his confused hounds bring him down. I’m convinced that this athletic figure in dramatic extension was at least partly inspired by the great Russian dancer Nijinsky of the Ballets Russes.

Manship links the figures by the implied arc of Diana’s arrow. Note how Actaeon clutches his side—a direct hit! (You will note in the gallery how the pedestals are angled so that Diana aims straight at the man’s side.) Visitors might appreciate the startling differences between Manship’s figures and those of Auguste Rodin. Where Rodin is all about emotional turbulence, Manship is about grace and an almost blissful disregard of drama. Even the doomed Actaeon succumbs with magnificent aplomb.

Diana and Actaeon are promised gifts to the North Carolina Museum of Art.