Bronze Chinese Zodiac Heads

We saw the Bronze Chinese Zodiac Heads on display at the Portland Art Museum over the weekend.

I liked the heads.  The boar had interesting eyes; the eyelids or some reflection from the rest of the head made it look like the sculpture had irises.  The dragon head looked the most traditional.  The roster head looked the most realistic.   The snake looked very cool and also like something you'd see in a science fiction show with reptilian aliens.  I liked the ram's curling horns.  I'd say I didn't have a favorite, although I liked the snake, the roster, the ram more than the others because they looked the happiest and friendliest; the horse was well done, but looked anxious.

These were reproductions of heads that existed in 1700 in China.  They'd been designed for a palace courtyard fountain by a Frenchman; the prints of what they originally looked liked was very Versailles.  The palace where they'd been part of a fountain was looted a long time ago, and the original heads have appeared on auction.

I learned that the twelve Chinese Zodiac signs were assigned hours over a twenty-four hour period.  The dragon has the hours 7 AM to 9 AM, the tiger 3 AM to 5 AM, and the roster 5 PM to 7 PM (additionally the cardinal direction of west).   The original heads were on human bodies, and sprayed water during their assigned hours.

There was a short video about the artist, Ai Weiwwi.  I didn't remember until I saw it in the video that he had bought a Ming vase and photographed himself breaking it.  The artist had a convoluted statement about art and commodities and real art and reproductions and market value, which strayed into the "It's worse than that, it's art, Jim!" language Tina Howe used in her play, "Museum."

What I got out of the display was that he was good at his craft, and the heads were cool.  

Art of the Tuileries

We recently saw the Portland Art Museum's show, The Art of the Louvre's Tuileries Garden show.  I liked the individual pieces, but the show as a whole didn't seem unified:  I'm not sure what the gardens as a whole meant to the French people, or at least how that meaning changed within the cultural context of a private garden turned over for the enjoyment of citizens.  (I must have missed a sign somewhere, because http://www.portlandartmuseum.org/special/tuileriesgarden/about talks about the historical interpretation of the park).   I think I would have tried to take a chronological approach to the galleries, or maybe a functional one, or maybe I would have tried to present the pieces from the standpoint of a preserving and displaying public art and the difficulties thereof.  

They did place François Joseph Bosio's (French, 1768–1845), Hercules Battling Achelus well, as one would turn a corner and be confronted with a twice life size naked Hercules battling a snake.   Both Mark and I gave a little shriek when we saw it.   I liked the scales on the snake.  What was interesting was that there appeared to be bullet holes in the bronze, but there wasn't an explanation of what they were from.  We agreed that Antoine Coysevox's (French, 1640–1720) sculpture of a faun(?) playing pan pipes was the best sculpture there, although we liked the herms-style carving of Vertumnus revealing himself to Pomona (Surprise! I'm a MAN!)

I liked the sculptures of Atalanta and Hippomenes, but then Mark started pointing out how they were mediocre in proportion and execution (I still think Hippomenes' face was well done).

MET Friends: Hatshepsut

I usually visit the Egyptian Wing when I visit the MET.  After the Crown of a Harkonian Princess, and the scarabs, I find myself drawn to Hatshepsut, and I consider her one of my "MET Friends."





For good or for ill, her name always brings to my mind the opening line from a Saturday morning show, "The Secrets of Isis," which started out with an announcer intoning "'Oh my queen,' said the Royal Sorceror to Queen Hatshepsut, 'with this amulet, you will fly...'"  I usually can't help myself from whispering "Almighty Isis-isis-isis" in the gallery.





Whoever sculpted Hatshepsut captured a dynamic expression while implying that the throne on which she sits is confining her.  Maybe it's the poise, which seems formal and slightly relaxed. 

The gallery where Hatshepsut sits has high windows, so the lighting can change dramatically depending on if the morning sun is slanting in, or if it's overcast, or if the city-shine from other buildings is lighting the room. 




When I see Hatshepsut, it's easy for me to imagine that she's thinking, "I want to rise and dance."  But she can't, the power of the throne is too strong for her, so she remains seated.