Personal

In the American Wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a middle-aged woman born in 1889 sits down on a bench. She offers a subtle nod to another woman sitting by her side— this woman is born and bred in the 1990s. When the future looks to the past, we impose our reinterpretations on what we have understood in the past. But for a spectator from the past to observe artwork of the future, the context is so transformed almost beyond recognition that banality is difficult to reach. We tie strings from past to present so art becomes personal— what is the point of life if it is not personal.

Seymour Joseph Guy, an English contemporary artist, finished one of his well-known works Making A Train in 1867. The horizontal format of this oil-on-canvas is ideal because Guy catches an instance much like a camera captures a memory. A young girl is enjoying a private moment of imagination and contemplation— could she be imaging a train of a wedding dress? Or a train of a woman fighter’s torn dress? Or is she making believe that she is the character in the off-kilter poster on her wall?

As with most paintings of young female children during the 19th century, artists commonly resorted to themes of innocence and fertility. The misconception that women are born— to truly exist only— to become child-bearing mothers often conflicted with the moral precept that a girl should forever be pure and naïve. As the girl is enjoying her moment of solitude, it is not accidental that she is framed by moonlight. Guy purposely juxtaposed the girl with the  shadeless lamp to minimize the moon’s luminance. In doing so, the presence of the moonlight is subtly introduced to the young girl. From Northern European folklore to contemporary superstition, the Moon is often heralded as a symbol of femininity, fertility, and renewal.

Now if the woman of late 19th century were to view a Futurist painting by Duchamp, the jarring disconnect will wrest feelings of emotional turmoil and fearful curiosity. After all, Parisian Futurists yearned for expression of how fast life moves— Futurists painted violent disarray within beautiful concinnity. In the early 20th century, Duchamp did several studies of nude bodies and nude bodies in movement. One of the many examples is Sad Young Man in a Train, an oil-on-canvas study of an active young man. To express the young man’s sadness, with the help of the vertical format— the lines and shapes are heavy in a sense that the whole composition feels as if it is a balloon tied to a cement block. Towards the top of the painting, the vertical lines are interrupted by short horizontal lines. Whereas, the lines at the bottom that contour the man’s legs are extensive. Although Futurists siphoned the violence and inspirational turmoil from political and social complications, they sought to create the composition in a nuanced manner. The movement of the young man is visible to the spectator even without loud diagonal lines or swooping swashes of color. 

Art is personal. Art is as much a boon as it is a curse. The young girl in Making A Train basks in her youthfulness all the while she transforms from young girl to mature woman. What that transformation entails is up to the spectator— is she doomed to be tangled in patriarchy’s web or will she break those confinements? The sad young man that rides the train in Duchamp’s head— although he is slowed down by society’s moral shortcomings, he still sways to and fro against his will to the train’s force. Although the two paintings reveal the characteristics of two societies, the denominator lies in what we constantly ponder upon: What am I doing here?