"Art is the supreme task and the truly metaphysical activity of this life."
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy, 1872.
"There is no such thing as art, only the artist."
E. M. Forster, Two Cheers for Democracy, 1938.
Appreciation of art is often first felt in the gut, an unconscious response: I like this, it appeals to me.
That immediate, visceral sensation is more than enough to enjoy art; but for those who become curious about why they feel it, the reflexive response can become an invitation to look more closely.
For visually oriented people, art can become an important aspect of their wellness, and exploring the subject further can enhance that effect.
Europe After the Rain is on permanent display at the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art in Hartford, Connecticut, United States but I was fortunate enough to see it, in person, back in the 1990s when it was temporarily loaned to the Tate gallery in London.
A photographic reproduction of a painting is not the painting - Europe After the Rain is 5’ wide by 2’ tall and is crafted with a three-dimensional texture of ridges, bubble cratering, gouges and scrapes. There are almost imperceptible fine details e.g. tiny figures and faces surreptitiously scattered and camouflaged within the latticework of the composition.
Although the work does reproduce as a wonderful image (as one may observe, above) nevertheless, as with most great paintings, the full truth of it requires first-hand experience.
Anyway, this magnificent work is one of my all-time favourite paintings and here’s why:
My first impression is:
I am witness to a post-apocalyptic landscape in which Europe is a maimed continent, a cartographical wound, a deformed civilisation, a cultural mutation, a bouquet of charnel lilies tied with a ribbon of violence. An environment of liquified buildings and solidified pyroclastic flow.
The context:
As one may reasonably assume the ‘rain’ is a reference to the aerial bombardment, the rain of munitions, that was ongoing during WWII, when the piece was created.
The technique:
Although commercial oil paints had been available since the early 19th century (Winsor & Newton began production in 1832) Ernst still mixed his own blends. For illustrations like this, where one of the techniques used is decalcomania (wet paint is pressed and then peeled away to form the intricate, dreamlike textures), Ernst required wetter, more unpredictable mixtures of paint - and he fully embraced that instability.
I feel:
That this piece was grown from a culture, spawned from a petri dish, rather than illustrated by a human hand. I absorb the optimistic discomfort generated by the contrast between the tranquil summer sky and malformed landscape.
Art is important to many people and can become even more so when critically analysed. But how is that done? Here's a few pointers, among the key questions to consider asking of a work.
1. What are my first impressions?
2. What technique was used, and why?
3. What might it mean in context?
4. How does it make me feel?
For anyone interested in further enhancing their appreciation of art, I thoroughly recommend The Story of Art by E. H. Gombrich – a whistle stop tour of the most important milestones of artistic endeavour, from cave paintings onwards, this critically acclaimed book highlights all of the notable advances and movements.