{"id":8936,"date":"2020-01-01T01:28:13","date_gmt":"2020-01-01T01:28:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thedorseypost.com\/?p=8936"},"modified":"2020-01-01T17:03:19","modified_gmt":"2020-01-01T17:03:19","slug":"giotto-and-a-la-recherche-du-temps-perdu","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thedorseypost.com\/?p=8936","title":{"rendered":"Giotto and A la recherche du temps perdu"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Envy, from Giotto’s Arena Chapel frescoes<\/p><\/div>\n

To paint pictures is to live in a state of paradox. What I intend usually just points me in the direction of what I achieve, and by not achieving quite what I want, I sometimes succeed in ways I wouldn\u2019t have imagined and may not even realize. Occasionally I invest paint with something far better than what I could have intended or predicted. In every success, there’s a bit of surprise, if not discovery.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

When you begin to realize how great paintings aren\u2019t necessarily limited by whatever outcomes the painter desired, it dawns on you that this is how life itself<\/i> works, almost invariably. All of your representations, all of your mental pictures of what matters in life fail to embody what it is you think those images represent. Try to picture anything\u2014goodness for example\u2014and whatever instance of goodness you imagine will fail to capture what it actually is<\/i>. And, even if you lower your sights and accept the consolation prize of depicting what\u2019s actually visible in life, even then, there\u2019s shortfall. What you do<\/i> picture to yourself as familiarly good will rarely resemble how living, new instances of goodness actually<\/i> appear.<\/span><\/p>\n

Early in\u00a0Swann\u2019s Way,<\/i> Marcel Proust elaborates on a physical similarity between his cook\u2019s pregnant kitchen-maid and one of Giotto\u2019s figures of virtue and vice in his Paduan frescoes. It\u2019s a little running joke between the novel\u2019s protagonist and Swann, when he comes to visit and asks how things are going with Giotto\u2019s Charity. As his focus shifts from the kitchen-maid to the painter, the way Proust elaborates on the Gothic painter, circling around his subject, reminds me of how Francis Bacon, in his essay on it, seems to turn the subject of Truth inside-out and then outside-in, until you are almost completely disoriented but left with a kind of Socratic doubt about your own callow assumption that you can actually know Truth. In the same way, you think you\u2019ve understood Proust\u2019s point and suddenly he seems to be saying just the opposite\u2014this symbolizes X, but X is nowhere visible in the behavior depicted and yet the reality of X is embodied by it. Come again? It does make sense, but at first it feels like riding in circles on a Mobius strip. All the while he asks you to keep reconsidering what exactly is happening in Giotto\u2019s paintings of virtue and vice\u2014forcing you to go back and look at them. Which is both the first and last step in letting a painting do its work. <\/span><\/p>\n

For years, I\u2019ve considered Proust a purposely amoral novelist, someone so driven to see exactly what\u2019s happening in human behavior and human consciousness, that he can\u2019t stop to pass judgement on the behavior he depicts\u2014not letting discriminations of good and evil constrain his phenomenology. Passing judgment on something gives you an excuse to ignore what you\u2019re seeing. I\u2019m beginning to think differently. In my third reading of this novel right now (first in college, second when the Kilmartin translation was published), I\u2019ve delved only a hundred pages into the book, and it seems he was constantly thinking of goodness, interested in why his many of his characters found it so difficult to see and embody it. His ability to convey goodness was so fresh, so unsentimental, that it\u2019s hard to realize what he\u2019s doing as it happens on the page\u2014in a way analogous to his consistent depiction of social and sexual relationships as detours that usually lead away from an authentic life. In a way similar to how I\u2019m seeing this new dimension in Proust, this year I\u2019ve become more and more interested in visual art that seems to be doing exactly the opposite of what I think painting and drawing should do when operating in its most innate way.\u00a0 <\/span>Painting that has always struck me as the most fully realized has no meaning. Any effort to extract meaning from it is, in a way, to look away from what\u2019s actually happening in the work, the awareness it can generate, and nullify it by translating it into thought. (In the same way, the best passages of Bergotte\u2019s writing have an impact on Proust\u2019s narrator unrelated to their significance. In one of his book\u2019s quietly amusing moments, Bloch advises him to read only poetry that means nothing.) What\u2019s most powerful in a work of visual art has nothing to do with meaning: deconstructing it will get you places, but it won\u2019t replace the looking and often gets in the way.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Against all this, Giotto clearly intended his paintings to mean<\/i> something\u2014as did most of the great Renaissance painters, as well as scores of artists who came after them. His work signified what for Giotto were the most important things, forms of behavior that led toward and away from ultimate truth. Proust says that for a long time he (his avatar in the book) couldn\u2019t see any evidence of Giotto\u2019s strange genius in the reproductions of the Arena Chapel frescoes on his schoolroom wall. But as he got older he began to realize how profoundly accurate, in an allegorical way, were these images of Envy and Charity, along with the others. Aldous Huxley said that Piero\u2019s painting, The Resurrection<\/i>, was the greatest painting in the world, and it is wonderfully simple and powerful, but it seems conventional and almost predicable compared to Giotto\u2019s visionary Envy. It\u2019s shown as a serpent living, like an intestinal parasite, inside and outside a man\u2019s head, slithering into the back of his skull and them emerging through his distended lips to curl back and gaze directly into his eyes, as if the cobra has charmed the man rather than the other way around. A wreath of red flames consume his feet, melting him from the ground up, like someone being burned at the stake\u2014all of this, the blinding, the burning, with no trace of recognizably envious behavior in the figure. It\u2019s quietly scathing, obscene, Dantesque. Giotto\u2019s victim might as well be in a coma. To the young Proust, all of this looks about as impassioned as an illustrative plate from a Medieval manual for surgery\u2014there is no sentiment, no familiar human emotion nor pathos in the faces, qualities which Giotto became so famous for being able to convey. This is what puzzled the young Proust: he couldn\u2019t see any sign of the vices and virtues in the eyes, the social behavior, of the figures Giotto had painted. Where in all this is actual, envious behavior? <\/span><\/p>\n

This is the point in Proust\u2019s mini-essay on the painter that turns it into a nest of Chinese boxes. Open the first one and another one, this time locked, rests inside of it (and inside the smaller one, if you could pick the lock, you suspect you might find the larger one you just opened, as in a weird recursive dream.) Proust says Giotto\u2019s figures are entirely allegorical, entirely symbolic, and yet the symbol disappears in images so physical, so strangely mundane, that you can hardly see what the image signifies in the situation it actually depicts. The symbol seems to disappear into the immediate physicality of what\u2019s happening in the scenes. The reality made visible in these symbolic figures erases the inner emotional lives of the people themselves\u2014they aren\u2019t shown to be envious or charitable, but rather they are puppets of the vices and virtues, engaged in an entirely physical, specific, awkward and often bizarre pantomime. These people don\u2019t experience<\/i> the reality of what they embody. Charity stands on a hoard of worldly goods, as if to subdue it, and uses it to hike herself up a bit in order to hand her heart\u2014her actual physical heart, seemingly with the stump of its aorta sticking out\u2014to God. In its own way, this is actually a bit funny. It\u2019s so matter of fact. Proust is rarely laugh-out-loud funny, but his wit and humor constantly resurface throughout the novel and glow in this passage because of the ironies in Giotto\u2019s originality. <\/span><\/p>\n

\n

. . . The powerfully built housewife who is portrayed in the Arena beneath the label ‘Caritas,’ and a reproduction of whose portrait hung upon the wall of my schoolroom at Combray, incarnates that virtue, for it seems impossible, that any thought of charity can ever have found expression in her vulgar and energetic face. By a fine stroke of the painter’s invention she is tumbling all the treasures of the earth at her feet, but exactly as if she were treading grapes in a wine-press to extract their juice, or, still more, as if she had climbed on a heap of sacks to raise herself higher; and she is holding out her flaming heart to God, or shall we say ‘handing’ it to Him, exactly as a cook might hand up a corkscrew through the skylight of her underground kitchen to some one who had called down to ask her for it from the ground level above.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

And, contrary to Proust\u2019s assertion, you have to give her credit for actually being so visibly charitable that she doesn\u2019t even say, \u201cI\u2019m going to need that back very shortly\u201d as she passes this workaday pump up to street level. If Giotto were a contemporary film-maker, the muscle in her hand would still be contracting. Giotto seems to be implying that if there is any Truth worth conveying, it isn\u2019t conceptual, it isn\u2019t disembodied, it doesn\u2019t reside in the consciousness<\/i> of those who serve it or who want to see a symbol manifest it\u2014it isn\u2019t something that can be reduced to thought\u2014but is incarnated in human activities through time, just as these virtues show themselves in the strangest way, through the behavior of figures who don\u2019t even feel the emotions one would expect of them and don\u2019t seem to understand that they are icons of virtue or corruption. <\/i>They aren\u2019t even aware of what they embody\u2014as, in a more literal sense, people aren\u2019t entirely aware of the full reality of what they are doing as they do it. And this is suddenly where this passage gives the reader a glimpse of the crux of Proust\u2019s entire project: the hope that art can offer a hint of the whole when all the human mind can grasp are the parts of life, of individual identify, of being itself. <\/span><\/p>\n

This is where Proust\u2019s reading of Giotto becomes thoroughly Proustian: the symbol disappears into the experience, the Truth merges with the behavior that upholds it, in such a way that these people can only live<\/i> it, unaware. We all live in this darkness, this fragmented and warped ability to understand who we are and what we\u2019re doing. This is Proust\u2019s fundamental insight: that none of us can know ourselves in a complete way, at any given moment, except on rare occasions through spiritual insight or through art or, in Proust, a kind of spontaneous memory categorically different form the recollection we rely on to survive. <\/span><\/p>\n

\n

. . . That Charity devoid of Charity, that Envy who looked like nothing so much as a plate from some medieval book, illustrating the compression of the glotis or the uvula by a tumor of the tongue or by the introduction of the operator\u2019s instrument, a Justice whose grayish and meanly regular features were identical with those which characterized the faces of certain pious, desiccated ladies of Combray whom I used to see at mass and many of whom had long been enrolled in the reserve forces of Injustice. <Again Proust\u2019s quiet, subtle wit.> But in later years, I came to understand that the arresting strangeness, the special beauty of these frescoes derived from the great part played in them by symbolism, and the fact that this was represented not as a symbol (for the thought symbolized was nowhere expressed) but as a reality, actually felt or materially handled, added something more precise and more literal to the meaning of the work, something more concrete and more striking to the lesson it imparted.<\/i> . . . and in the same way, again, are not the thoughts of the dying often turned towards the practical, painful, obscure, visceral aspect, towards that \u2018seamy side\u201d of death which is, as it happens, that side that death actually presents to them and forces them to feel, and which far more closely resembles a crushing burden, a difficulty in breathing, a destroying thirst, than the abstract idea to which we are accustomed to give the name of Death? <\/span><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Having been at my father\u2019s side this past summer when he died, I know that Proust understands the actual reality of death. He describes it perfectly. It is hard, punishing labor for the dying and everyone else nearby. What Giotto paints is a physical correlative to a spiritual state: the dizziness of Inconstancy depicted as a woman levitating off the ground and tipping backward in space, floating like a balloon, rootless and on the verge of whirling away in the breeze. (Proust\u2019s appreciation for this symbolic power, for Giotto\u2019s achievement, has little to do with what he was trying to achieve himself in his novel, which was anti-conceptual, anti-symbolic, almost entirely sensual and immediate, where the greatest glimpses of the truth he was chasing arose from seemingly random sensory experience. Which is, for me as well, where painting\u2019s greatest power resides.) Instead, as Charity itself, a woman has physically excised her own heart and is handing it up to a cherub reaching down from the ceiling. In reality, it\u2019s fairly simple to turn this into a bland concept: give your heart to something greater than yourself. In his matter-of-fact way Giotto depicts something almost bizarre with all the weight of ordinary human activity. What you see is awkward, unlovely effort, not the loving, caring gift-giving of some favored, saintly icon of compassion. What’s here seems more in the vicinity of a bizarre anatomical nightmare. <\/span><\/p>\n

Proust concludes with a passage that proves his psychological novel was a profoundly moral effort and points toward the need for art as a way of glimpsing what\u2019s actually there in human behavior and experience, hidden and inaccessible in the moment\u2014but fleetingly manifest in the best art. The wisdom and moral depth of Proust\u2019s sentences here, at the end of his passage on Giotto, are stunningly eloquent:<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

There must have been a strong element of reality in those Virtues and Vices of Padua, since they appeared to me to be as alive as the pregnant servant girl, while she herself seemed scarcely less allegorical than they. And quite possibly, this lack (or seeming lack) of participation by a person\u2019s soul in virtue of which he or she is the agent has, apart from its aesthetic meaning, a reality which, if not strictly psychological, may at least be called physiognomical. Since then, whenever in the course of my life I have come across, in convents for instance, truly saintly embodiments of practical charity, they have generally had the cheerful, practical, brusque and unemotional air of a busy surgeon, the sort of face in which once can discern no commiseration, no tenderness at the sight of suffering humanity, no fear of hurting it, the impassive, unsympathetic, sublime face of true goodness.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

To paint pictures is to live in a state of paradox. What I intend usually just points me in the direction of what I achieve, and by not achieving quite what I want, I sometimes succeed in ways I wouldn\u2019t have imagined and may not even realize. 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