Wednesday 14 March 2012

Contour States at The Cornerhouse

Claire Brentnall

Samantha Donnelly’s first major UK solo show at The Cornerhouse, Contour States explores the objectifying nature of the modern media, in particular its representation of women. Wandering around this exhibition, the works on display almost appear as mutations of one another: evolutionary creatures that have spawned by splicing plastic, metal, faux fur and glossy magazines. I wouldn’t say that the alien objects conjure images of the human form, but suggest more of a displaced humanity, with the false nails, eyelashes and tights scattered amongst the debris: the remnants of a person (a woman?) once present.

With various components of fluorescent wires, photographs, magazine cut-outs and plaster casts precariously balanced upon one another, or hanging together with bulldog clips and vices, the works were simultaneously hard-edged and exquisitely fragile. They are inviting, tempting viewers to prod and poke the squidgy stuffed stockings and pet the spider-shaped fur, but once reeled in, the sharp cut angles and jagged corrugated plastics ward off potential threats to their equilibrium so much so that The Cornerhouse didn’t really need their ‘Please do not touch’ sign.

My personal favourite sculpture consisted of a large piece of polystyrene, beaten and bashed through until the inner substance of the board was scattered over the floor of the gallery, a trail of blood seeping from the victim in the form of a bright orange piece of fabric. This, for me, is where the beauty of these works lie: in the overt display of their creation. Delicate and measured or violent and uninhibited, journeys around and into these works reveal their birth, life and death.

Sunday 5 February 2012

Clowns, Pigs and Stuffing: A visit to The Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney

Claire Brentnall

Still feeling a little Picasso’d out after visiting Barcelona’s Museu Picasso last April (I think I perhaps have an annual Picasso intake threshold), I decided not to visit the Masterpieces from the Musée National Picasso, Paris, exhibition, and instead devoted my time and attentions to the free, much less crowded exhibits that were showing at the Art Gallery NSW. And I’m very glad I did.

For me, as I am sure is the case for many an art lover, an enjoyable visit to a gallery will always include some fluctuation of emotion, and I am pleased to say that the Art Gallery NSW did not disappoint. Indeed, as I strayed away from the herd of Picasso fans to the basement floor of the gallery, the New Contemporary Galleries, featuring the John Kaldor Family Collection satisfied this remit: a contemporary cacophony of witty, gritty and sometimes freaky artworks. Aleks Danko’s Art Stuffing caught my eye: a paper filled Hessian bag with Art Stuffing written in prison block lettering on the front. This Warner Brothers-esque piece reminded me of the dry wit of David Shrigley, and I allowed myself a quiet giggle at the strange prop that I imagined sitting on the shelf in Danko’s studio, ready to fill his next creation, as if it were a cheap DFS sofa.

I also thoroughly enjoyed Jeff Koons's intentionally cringe-worthy Art Ad Portfolio. With the airbrushed skin and plastic hair of a Hollywood actor, Koons is pictured in gaudy hi-res answering a show-and-tell in an American classroom, gazing wistfully into the distance while being waited on by female swimwear models, and showing his fluffier side by cuddling a piglet next to its disgruntled mother.

Maybe I had had my fill of the ‘comedy’ art object that showed two fingers to the decorative arts with Danko, but Michael Landy’s No Frills series, left me rather cold. The huge Tesco value style Sculpture, Drawing and Painting had nothing in particular to offer, I felt, other than the obvious display of a rather boring concept. But perhaps that was the point, in which case I suppose it was successfully delivered: I was bored.

This monotony was however violently disrupted when I wandered into Ugo Rondinone’s piece If there were anywhere but desert. Wednesday. Not being a fan of clowns, discovering a life-sized clown figure lying on the floor was enough to make me jump, and then feel silly. This, coupled with a looped recorded conversation entitled ‘What do you want?’ projecting into the room, Rondinone’s work was altogether unsettling and sent shivers down my spine. I challenged myself to remain in the space for at least a minute. I failed.

However, after spotting the familiar, rasterised faces of Gilbert and George I felt reassured to explore the rest of the fantastic works that make up the John Kaldor Family collection. After experiencing an array of emotions that was as multi-coloured as Sol LeWitt’s Wall Drawing, I decided that this was a collection that was eclectic as much as it was well-stuffed.

Wednesday 25 January 2012

Northern Art Prize Winner Announced: Leo Fitzmaurice

Claire Brentnall

I set myself the admittedly reductive and clichéd challenge of describing each of the artists’ exhibited pieces in this year’s Northern Art Prize in one word. This is of course a pigeon-holing activity that artists, including myself, may find irritating and that viewers will undoubtedly debate, but none-the-less, the challenge had been set in my mind so I gave it a go. My results were as follows.

My initial reaction to the work of James Hugonin was to describe it as ‘clinical’. The scrupulously delicate and vividly colourful paintings were very impressive when considering the care and attention that would have been needed for their creation: these are paintings that have been made by combining a surgeon’s precision with the love of a parent for their child. However when it came down to personal taste, Hugonin’s abstract work was not my favourite.

With Liadin Cooke’s work, I was instantly reminded of Rebecca Warren’s 2006 Turner Prize entry Come, Helga: the beaten and moulded sculptures that just make you want to stick your hands in and squeeze! I therefore chose to describe Cooke’s work as being highly ‘visceral’, with objects reminiscing of their physical, fluid creation and hinting towards natural or bodily forms.

Richard Rigg’s art I enjoyed for its ‘playful’ nature: the lost functionality of the seats in Some Rest on Six Occasions and likewise with the negative imprint of Wall Hanging. These were objects that tempted and teased the viewer to recognise an everyday and familiar occupation that has somehow been disrupted. I also found Wall Hanging strangely beautiful, and thought of Duchamp’s Bottle Rack when considering whether this was Rigg’s intention.

It was the work of Leo Fitzmaurice that I struggled to label with a single adjective. I felt that Horizon was a novel concept, taking 19th and 20th century landscape paintings and placing them side by side to create a single, joined landscape. Similarly, the urban environment images were quite interesting yet had, I felt, a rather depressing quality when pictured opposite the idealistic, romantic landscape paintings. Perhaps this awkward meeting of opposites was Fitzmaurice’s intention; in which case, maybe a suitable adjective for his work would be ‘juxtaposing’.

Is it possible that my difficulty in ‘pigeon holing’ the work of Fitzmaurice tells the tale of an artist that is innovative and fresh? Perhaps it was this that won him first place at this year’s Northern Art Prize, and it is a title that I feel is well deserved. I would however, like to suggest Rigg as a close second for the crown, as it was through his work that I was able to consider a different kind of aesthetic ‘beauty’ to that found within a landscape painting.

Tuesday 26 July 2011

Lucian Freud

Claire Brentnall

Another sad loss for the art world this year with the death of Lucian Freud. Always prolific, always controversial, Freud may be best remembered for his visceral, fleshy nudes, his achingly stark portraits, or his shockingly ‘unflattering’ (or so labelled by the tabloids) depiction of the Queen. Personally, I will always remember Freud for a painting that may at first glance appear rather ‘un-Freudian’ (or at least when referring to Lucian’s aesthetic).

It was on a visit to the Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool, that I first came across the painting Interior at Paddington. Before reading the label and discovering its creator, I was intrigued by the bizarre, rather awkward scene. A large plant dominates the right hand side of the picture, whilst a stern gentleman stands, seemingly poised for action with fist clenched, to the left. Staring intently at something, or someone past the plant and outside of the frame, I couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen next.

This suspense: a glimpsed preliminary moment to some unknown event, made me feel uncomfortable, as did Freud's depiction of the the dagger-like leaves, the snagged blood-red carpet and the man’s ‘get-set’ stance.

The Walker Galllery website suggests that Freud was mirroring Holbein’s full-length portraits of Henry VIII in terms of the posturing of the man at Paddington, replacing Henry VIII’s elegant gloves with a lit cigarette. Perhaps though, in front of this painting, I began mirroring its uncomfort, its unease. Indeed, Lucian Freud is quoted to have said that "the task of the artist is to make the human being uncomfortable", and this is something that he most certainly achieved time and time again throughout his inexhaustible career, with his often shocking and in-your-face pictures. The work of Lucian Freud, and this painting in particular however, I find, offers a certain type of enjoyable unease: an uncomfortable, adrenaline fuelled pleasure, like getting 'on your mark' at the start of a race, or anticipating the twist in a plot.


Thursday 26 May 2011

Leonora Carrington

Claire Brentnall

One of my favourite artists, Leonora Carrington has sadly died aged 94. A painter, sculptor and writer, Carrington worked closely with Mexican artist Remedios Varo after moving to Mexico in the 1960s. Before her emigration, Carrington was linked to the Surrealists and is well-known for her relationship with Max Ernst.

Alchemy was something that Carrington explored through her artwork and writing, but in an altogether different way to the males of the Surrealist movement. Alchemy paired with the erotic was seen as a fitting model on which to base the union of opposites of men and women by male artists of the Surrealist movement, in order to exploit the female spiritual connection with the unconscious and advocate traditional views of the active male and submissive female. Contradictory to the male utilisation of alchemical symbolism, Carrington’s paintings, much like those of Varo, distinctly lack the portrayal of sexual interaction. Instead, she chose to create her own esoteric symbolic discourse in order to portray the magical creativity of woman.

The wonderful painting Kitchen Garden on the Eyot was created in Mexico around the time of the birth of Carrington’s first son. Her newfound familial role in Mexico, including her marriage to Enrique “Chiqui” Weisz had a great positive effect on her life, and instead of restricting her artistic output she took inspiration from the domestic duties she had to perform. She incorporated family life, cooking and her occult interests to simultaneously elevate painting and ‘woman’s work’ to magical acts. This was a notion that informed her esoteric pictorial language for many years, as Carrington did not simply reject the roles of mother and wife, but imbued this lifestyle with magical significance.

Subsequently, Carrington is often considered as being a positive model for female artists, moving away from a simple polarisation of male and female and moving towards a notion, supported by feminist writer Shoshanna Felman, of viewing male and female within separate, unique frameworks.

Monday 15 March 2010

Auction Sale Review: Bonham’s New Bond Street sale of Fine English Furniture and Works of Art 03/03/10

Claire Brentnall

The persuasive tone adopted by the auctioneer at the Bonham’s sale of Fine English Furniture and Works of Art, held the attention of the small but expectant crowd. Many of the pieces up for sale, such as lot 35, A George II mahogany Wine Table,[1] or lot 98, A late George III mahogany three-tier Dumbwaiter,[2] would most likely at the time of their production have been acquired as commodities or as objects embodying a “transient”[3] value: their economic worth decreasing with wear and tear. In the 18th Century, there was certain vivacity over furniture and curios that had been imported from the East and from Europe, and a strong sense of “Italy worship”[4] led British collectors to keenly decorate their interiors in a lavish style. Native talent was less exciting to the 18th Century English buyer (before the likes of Chippendale became highly popular amongst the wealthy during the 19th Century), a notion that contributes to the now “durable”[5] value of the items at the Bonham’s auction. In all kinds of collecting, whether it is of art, furniture, or curiosities, fashion contributes to the scarcity value of an item.[6] Now, in a modern world that is growing smaller due to ever evolving advancements in communication and travel, imported items are not so exotic or rare, and buyers now compete for lucrative investments in home-grown luxury goods.

“Any more?”, “Last time?” the auctioneer queried whilst calmly gesturing across the room, making deliberate eye contact with bidders, trying to squeeze out that extra £500 by tantalisingly delaying the bang of the hammer.[7] “Sold!” and successful bidders were congratulated on their purchases. However, this was not an auction of particularly high stakes or shock buys, pieces being sold for no more than £10,000. This may have had something to do with the lots largely being pieces “in the manner of” the original masters such as Chippendale, Sheraton or Gillows. Lot 81: A pair of George III Irish embossed Bird Pictures in the manner of Samuel Dixon was sold for £4,560, in comparison to lot 82: A George III Irish embossed Bird Picture by Samuel Dixon, the single print selling for £3,360, nearly as much as the previous pair. Consulting the catalogue hoping to find the artist behind lot 81, I discovered a footnote informing me of the provenance of the pictures, and directing me to “See lot 82 for a catalogue note on Samuel Dixon.”[8] It is a legitimate attribution and provenance that gives the item its economic value, and offers an amount of security to the buyer that they are making a worthwhile investment. If the Bonham’s auction had chiefly included pieces crafted by the hand of the original masters, and not by contemporaries emulating the style, there may have been a somewhat different atmosphere that day.

Before the auction, prospective buyers were allowed to inspect the lots: cupboards could be opened, chairs sat in, and although I did not attempt to, I might have got away with a quick nap on the George III mahogany Four Poster Bed. This setting was rather relaxed in comparison to some of the art galleries that inhabit the surrounding area of Mayfair, but of course, artworks are a very different kind of commodity to furniture and purely decorative objects. At White Cube that same day, a Franz Ackermann exhibition was taking place. Here, viewing was an incorporeal experience, the artworks being kept very much separate from any indication of commerce, although they were undoubtedly up for sale. This division is no bad thing, as artworks should be allowed some autonomy from commerciality whilst in the gallery space, to be experienced within their intended context so that the “magic”[9] of art can survive the supposed contamination of economic structures.

Indubitably though, tactics are readily adopted by art dealers and gallery owners to encourage buyers to invest in art, something that Olav Velthius suggests is most obvious in less Avant-Garde galleries,[10] and in dealers’ shops. Comfortable chairs may be dotted around or perhaps a painting will be positioned above a fireplace, conjuring a faux domestic setting thus encouraging the prospective buyer to imagine the artwork in their own home. For the commerce of furniture and collectables, a perfect situation may be if the sale takes place in the collector’s house, as the buyer can view the objects in situ, as in the renowned sales of Fonthill Abbey and Strawberry Hill.[11]

Touching the objects at Bonham’s therefore further enticed prospective buyers, as they could simultaneously picture an item aesthetically within their interior décor and also envisage its utilitarian function. It was also something of a thrill, as usually in a gallery or museum setting, the viewer is asked to do no more than that: view, and remain obediently behind the ropes. Watching a podcast of a private view of the Myers 2009 sale at Sotheby’s however,[12] I was shocked to notice how the use of touch was also being exploited to sell artworks. In the podcast, Leslie Prouty, Senior Vice President of Contemporary Art, whilst speaking about Alexander Calder’s Extreme Cantilever, caresses the jewel-like mobile that hangs from the end of the $1,000,000 sculpture. Similarly, Tobias Meyer, Worldwide Head of Contemporary Art places his hand dangerously close to the $8,000,000 surface of Andy Warhol’s 200 One Dollar Bills,[13] as if to say, ‘if you owned this piece, you could touch it too.’

The temptation of touch therefore, should not be underestimated in the selling of luxury goods. At Bonham’s, immediately after I had been seduced by the smooth surface of a parquetry cabinet, the other visitors and I were ushered out of the room, and items were placed under complementary lighting, out of reach, for the duration of the auction. Bonham’s had tactically positioned me in the centre of my imaginary, desirable interior, but perhaps the saying is true: you shouldn’t touch what you can’t afford!



[1] www.bonhams.com

[2] Ibid.

[3] Michael Thompson, Rubbish Theory, the Creation and Destruction of Value, (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1979) p. 10

[4] Gerald Reitlinger, The Economics of Taste: Volume II, The Rise and Fall of Objets d’Art Prices since 1750, (London, Barrie & Rockliff, 1963) p. 55

[5] Thompson p. 10

[6] Arnuld Hauser, The Sociology of Art, translated by Kenneth J. Northcott, (London, Routledge, Kegan & Paul, 1982), ‘The Art Trade’ p. 507

[7] Iain Robertson, ‘Price before value’, in Iain Robertson & Derrick Chong (eds.), The Art Business, (Abingdon, Routledge, 2008) p. 30

[8] www.Bonhams.com

[9] Olav Velthius, Talking Prices, Symbolic meanings of prices on the Market for Contemporary Art, (Princeton and Oxford, Princeton University Press, 2005) p. 38

[10] Velthius p. 45

[11] Clive Wainwright, The Romantic Interior, the British Collector at Home 1750-1850, (New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 1989) p. 26

[12] www.sothebys.com

[13] Ibid.

Tuesday 2 March 2010

The Moses of Michelangelo: Art and Sigmund Freud

Claire Brentnall

Within the vast body of Sigmund Freud’s work, we can venture down pathways and find doors that stand ajar, that enable us to glimpse further into his psyche. The multifaceted persona of Freud is often revealed to us, whether or not this was his intention. This is something that is notable in the remarkable text The Moses of Michelangelo, a piece of writing by Freud that I feel, provides significant spy holes onto areas of his life that, possibly, display conflicts between his artistic interests and his scientific discoveries. To consider this notion I am going to do a close reading and critique of the first section of this text: the introduction before he begins his close observation of the statue. I will however, make reference to other areas of the text, other articles by Freud, and wider reading to strengthen my argument.

One of the reasons why I describe this text as remarkable is due to the curious fact that Freud chose to write it anonymously. He opens with a sentence explaining that he is no art historian or expert, and sets about writing with the deceit of “layman”[1] to the arts. The footnote attached to the title enforces his (somewhat unconvincing) disguise, with the explanation that the supposed editor gives as to why this article has been published in Imago.[2] Here, Freud makes the tongue-in-cheek remark of the author moving in psychoanalytic circles, and that the text has “a certain resemblance to the methodology of psycho-analysis”.[3] This rejection of authorship alone, attaches a sense of mystery, almost romance to the text. It raises the question of why Freud initially refused to put his name to what is a beautiful and brilliant piece of writing, until acknowledging it finally ten years later.

A number of explanations for this fact could be obtained from a close reading of the text. For instance, it is possible that, on a superficial level, he was concerned that the reader may see his analysis of the statue as absurd, or controversial enough to subsequently damage his credibility as an acclaimed scholar. This would not be a farfetched deduction, as Freud bases his examination of Michelangelo’s Moses around a complete reworking of the Bible story, something that indeed, must have been met with much trepidation.

Or, perhaps it is his intention to set up a case for psychoanalysis, impressing upon the audience that the techniques of the science can, and should, be applied to all intellectual pursuits. This notion, coming from the perspective of someone who is only loosely associated with the practice, would be seen as less biased than if coming straight from the horse’s mouth. An endorsement of psychoanalysis is noticeable later in the article, as Freud writes with admiration of the “revolution”[4] of Ivan Hermolieff, the Russian art-connoisseur, who was able to distinguish the difference between authentic artworks and copies. Freud pushes the importance of using techniques comparable to those used in psychoanalysis, such as paying close attention to detail, even of the most seemingly minor elements, as it is these minute particulars that every “artist executes in his own characteristic way”.[5] It would appear that Freud is giving himself a mischievous pat on the back, by acknowledging his own discovery of the necessity for analysts to practice “evenly-suspended attention”.[6]

These reasons, and indeed many more, could have contributed towards Freud neglecting to put his name to the article, however I feel that there is one possibility that is particularly crucial if we are to look towards a deeper explanation. This is implicit in the fact that he described the piece as a “love child”,[7] and also in his initial hesitation to write the article at all. These factors suggest that maybe to Freud, the origins of this text were wrong. The Moses of Michelangelo, I feel was born out of an inexplicable, unfathomable, love. I put this notion forward because he clearly had intense feelings towards this statue, so much so that he admits in the text that no other piece of statuary has made such a strong impression on him.[8] It could be said that it was an obsession of his, as he was enthralled by it, visiting the Moses year after year, making endless sketches, notes, observations, and interpretations. However, is it possible that Freud was afraid of this kind of passion? Did it awaken in him some feeling that perhaps repulsed or unsettled him?

There is a noteworthy crack in the article, out of which seeps the contradictory nature of Freud in relation to this concept. In the first paragraph, he establishes a void between himself and “the artist”,[9] by enforcing how lacking he is of the ability to appreciate the formal and effectual aspects of artworks, taking interest solely in their subject matter. He seems to be underscoring his outlook and interests as scientific, as it is the artistic types who in fact put the technical qualities of a work first. However, in the second paragraph, he admits that works of art do in fact “exercise a powerful effect on me”,[10] despite not knowing what their effect is due to. He confesses to experiencing emotional attachment to art objects, particularly literature and sculpture, before he has understood them and explained why they have affected him in this way. But then, as if realizing what he has just revealed, Freud immediately contradicts himself by denying such an affectation, and states that his mind “rebels”[11] against the irrational thought of being moved by something he does not understand. This is clearly at odds with his rationalistic and analytical mindset, which underpins his scientific approach.

It is in the earlier paper, Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of His Childhood,[12] that Freud expresses his appreciation of the man whom he greatly admires, describing da Vinci as one “among the greatest of the human race”.[13] It has been said of this text that Freud identifies himself with Leonardo to the extent of it being an overtly autobiographical piece of writing.[14] Subsequently, Freud picks up on traits that he sees and admires in Leonardo which are present, or at least which he would like to be present, in himself. A particular quality is Leonardo’s belief that one must fully understand something before having the right to love or hate it,[15] displaying da Vinci’s ability, therefore, to subject his emotions to reflection. Freud does acknowledge that this is not a normal human condition and that people do in fact love impulsively. However, he stresses that perhaps, da Vinci endorsed this somewhat unrealistic notion as a paradigm, as something the human race could (or should?) aspire to. So, it would seem that Freud is putting this idealistic concept into practice in The Moses of Michelangelo, in the way that he stresses that he “must[16] (my italics) be able to interpret Michelangelo’s intended meaning, in order to allow himself to feel emotionally connected to the statue. This of course is another contradiction, as he has already admitted a strong attachment. However, Freud still feels the need to prove that he is capable of achieving what he sees as a higher, perhaps more civilized state of consciousness gained from consideration and understanding.

So, why is it that Freud holds this obvious suppression of emotion with such high regard? We are aware that he was an extremely creative man: his descriptions of dreams read like short stories, and indeed, his whole career displays his remarkable ability to produce new ideas. Nevertheless, it is possible that sometimes, this creativity was a hindrance. It has been written of Freud that two of his main drives were the quest for self-knowledge and for success.[17] However, particularly whilst studying at university, he often became overwhelmed by his own potential, and his intellectual pursuits and passions were so broad, that they would often cause him to lose focus. As a result, he would reprimand himself for diverging down too many creative routes, believing that a professional man should really put full focus onto his own field, in order to become successful.[18]

To write The Moses of Michelangelo, therefore, was possibly a bit of a treat for Freud, and he openly admits to this when asking for the “reader’s indulgence”[19] in allowing him to explore one of his interests. He wants almost, to be treated like a child, just for the moment while he has his bit of fun, and his rejection of authorship will have also allowed him this kind of freedom.

In the introduction, Freud reveals that he plays at make-believe in the presence of the statue. He writes of the wilful suspension of reality that he undertakes: divulging to the reader how he occasionally creeps around the Moses, before meeting the “angry scorn of the hero’s glance”.[20] He describes how he pretends to be one of the “mob upon whom his eye is turned”,[21] giving way to a sense of thrill and excitement in the game that he is playing. I feel that this displays, partly, a childlike amusement in his lack of professionalism, as the reader can picture the rather comical image of Freud playing hide and seek with the marble Moses. Perhaps though, this sense of thrill also comes from the luxury that he is allowing himself: the act of enjoying the “inscrutable” artwork, which is again a confliction of his supposed initial rebellion against gaining pleasure from anything intellectually bewildering.

Freud did indeed associate art with pleasure,[22] recognizing similar patterns of the build up, transformation and release of energy as he saw in sex, neurosis and jokes:[23],[24] this being the excitation of tension coupled with the expectation of the release of pleasure. He argued that everything in the body inclines towards this cathartic offloading of pressure,[25] and art promises this initially in the way that it seduces us. The artist flirts with the viewer by providing the origins for this excitation, giving hints as to what their initial impetus to create may have been, and encouraging the viewer to experience this emotion also. However, I do not feel that to compare the process of pleasure and release present in sex and jokes, with that present in works of art is completely accurate. There is no punch line in a work of art. Indeed, if there was a definite, scientific solution to these “unsolved riddles”;[26] some predetermined emotion that the artwork was designed to make every person experience, then the artwork may as well not exist.

The only pleasure that Freud claims to allow himself will, supposedly, come from an interpretation and mastery of the artist’s intentions, but he has already, in the text revealed otherwise. So, he sets about suppressing his bewildering love of the Moses, that he may have unconsciously let slip to the reader, and the battle between the desire to embrace this passion, and the need to explain it, begins. He again, takes on his false persona to claim that he is “not sufficiently well-read to know whether this fact has already been remarked upon”. Freud is clearly referring to Kant, undermining the theory of “some writer on aesthetics”,[27] who suggests “this state of intellectual bewilderment is a necessary condition when a work of art is to achieve its greatest effects”.[28] Kant’s reorganization of teleology in art, the notion of art not necessarily having a predetermined outcome or specifically fixed purpose, is what Freud is rebelling against. Kant proposed that the feeling obtained from a work of art, “is felt along with the overall contemplation of an object in its sensuous detail rather than deduced after a study of its features taken seriatim”. [29] This process of deducing the meaning of an artwork, a dream, a slip of the tongue step by step, to find the “correct” answer, is something that Freud has based his career on, so it is unsurprising that he neglects this philosophy. It is unsurprising too, that Freud’s dreams display a need to be the master, as in the Irma dream which is an apparent wish fulfilment of gaining patients who accept his theories, with open mouths.[30]

However, the pleasure that he appears to be obtaining from the statue, perhaps unconsciously, seems deeper than that of solving a problem. It has been written of the pleasure gained from art, that it is “a release of tensions that take place in our soul”,[31] a pleasure that the artist has supplied by allowing us to perhaps enjoy fantasies of our own without shame. Therefore, maybe the picture Freud paints of himself, often sneaking around the statue and pretending that he is part of the “mob”, is a revelation of his repressed desire to indulge in being naughty. This, along with the way that he also suggests he finds it difficult in his attempts to “support the angry scorn”[32] of his hero, makes me raise the question of what, or who, does the “Law-giver”[33] really embody to Freud?

I feel that one of Freud’s dreams and the analysis of it holds a possible key to this door. Part of the latent content of the dream in question, according to Freud, relates to an event in his childhood when at the age of eight, he had urinated into a pot in his parents’ bedroom. As a result, Freud was made to feel a great amount of shame, and his father, Jakob, made the pessimistic prediction that his son Sigmund would not amount to much.[34] Perhaps then, to meet the angry scorn of the Moses, the “law-giver”,[35] an embodiment of his father, raised repressed feelings of shame in Freud. In his childhood, he was his father’s favourite; therefore to be scolded by him in such a way must have deeply affected the young Freud, and he admits that it was a blow to his ambition.[36] Essentially though, Freud does confess to being aware that there was a ban on relieving oneself in his parents’ bedroom: a ban that he had wilfully disregarded.[37] So, maybe this feeling of defiance, this wilful rejection of authority and self-control is similar to that which he is transferring onto the statue, imagining himself as “the mob, which can hold fast no conviction”.[38]

In the manifest content of this dream, a blind man is present with Freud at a train station. This character represents his father, as Freud recalls that Jakob Freud had glaucoma in one eye. The adult Sigmund is the carer for the blind man, and in the dream he holds a glass for his father to urinate into whilst helping him onto a train. Jakob Freud’s exposed member and decrepit state are visible sources of shame. So, the dream is partly a vengeful wish fulfilment, as the tables have now turned for the naughty Sigmund, and Freud does not have to feel humiliated by his childhood act any longer. Crucially however, the dream also displays the need Freud feels to prove himself to his father. He reveals that the fact that his father is blind in the dream is a manifestation of a reminder to Jakob that his son had aided his father’s recovery from an eye operation with the use of cocaine. This seems to depict Freud’s need to prove to his father that he had been a success within the field of medical science. Therefore, perhaps the contradictions present in The Moses of Michelangelo relate to his feelings towards father figures: the need to prove himself a success versus the wish to rebel against authority.

So, it is after Freud meets the “angry scorn”[39] of his father that he realizes he needs to stop rebelling if he is going to become a success. He must repress this powerful affectation, which is frightening and uncontrollable. The bewildering artwork has stirred feelings in his soul, and allowed him to release tensions in acting out fantasies of putting two fingers up to authority whilst escaping from reality. However, as Freud recalls from his childhood, acts of defiance such as this can only result in blows to his ambition, so the abandonment of self-control encouraged by artists must be replaced by rational explanation. If he were to get to the bottom of what the content of Michelangelo’s work meant, then perhaps Freud would reach the higher state of being of which that Leonardo was capable. However, Freud’s ambitions are indeed so great that he wishes to overtake even the greatest artist and scientist of all. Freud admires da Vinci’s amazing ability to sublimate his sexual drive completely into intellectual pursuits; however, he states that Leonardo’s “urge for knowledge was always directed to the external world”, meaning that he failed to investigate the workings of the human mind. So now, it is up to Freud to sublimate his energy completely in order to give birth to psychoanalysis.

Freud assures bewildered art lovers that “it will not be difficult”[40] to reveal the concealed, essential details that are needed to interpret the statue correctly. These details, apparently, have been overlooked by all other writers on art, causing readings of the Moses to be incredibly diverse and, according to Freud, “curiously inapt”.[41] Now though, it is psychoanalysis to the rescue, just as it saved Shakespeare’s Hamlet from the “mass of differing and contradictory interpretive attempts”,[42] and finally explained the mystery of its effect as being down to the Oedipus theme. Again, by writing this Freud is recognizing his own achievements, and goes on to strive towards a step by step analysis of the Moses, in order to prove himself, and his discovery of psychoanalysis, as a success.

So finally, his reading of the Moses statue is very telling. He completely uproots the common belief of the statue as representing the moment in the Bible story when Moses is about to release his wrath onto the sinners. Freud deduces that it was in fact Michelangelo’s intention for the statue to depict the scene when Moses conversely restrains himself from releasing this emotion, showing a far superior strength of character to that of the Bible story. So, perhaps the “law-giver” is a manifestation of Freud’s father, but also of himself. As a concrete reminder that Freud’s ambition is to achieve the “highest mental achievement that is possible in a man”,[43] and this is to struggle and win against “inward passion”.[44]

This is something that I feel Freud does to an extent, but to look at his entire career, he will always be something of a rebel. He unashamedly talks about sex and its relation to psychological conditions, such as hysteria. He leaves no social taboo untouched in his theories, defying his critics and sceptics, in order to help people, and provide a revolutionary outlook for his creation: psychoanalysis. So maybe it was Freud’s intention for us to notice these playful aspects of his spirit. To pick up the hints he gives to the notion that he enjoys, now and then, turning off his rationalistic side and indulging in games of fantasy and make believe, that great works of art allow us.



[1] Sigmund Freud, The Moses of Michelangelo in Peter Gay The Freud Reader (Vintage, 1995) p 523

[2] Imago was a periodical on psychoanalysis, which Freud gave editorial direction to.

[3] Gay p 522

[4] Gay p. 529

[5] Gay pp. 529-530

[6] Gay p. 357 This means that whilst listening to and analysing patients, focus should not be placed wholly on selected, explicit points, but spread evenly. The analyst, as a result, becomes open to communication and the free associations of the patient, understanding that the unconscious expresses itself in the form of derivatives and coded messages.[6]

[7] Gay p. 523

[8] Gay p. 524

[9] Gay p. 523

[10] Gay p. 523

[11] ibid.

[12] Gay p. 443

[13] Gay p. 443-444

[14] Gay p. 444 Hidden aspects to Freud’s study of Leonardo were that this text came at time when Freud was analysing his own homosexual feelings towards former friend Wilhelm Fleiss. Freud believed that he proved Leonardo’s homosexual inclinations in the text.

[15] Gay p. 449

[16] Gay p. 524

[17] Lesley Chamberlain The Secret Artist a Close Reading of Sigmund Freud (Quartet Books, London, 2000) p. 2

[18] Chamberlain p. 11

[19] Gay p. 523

[20] Gay p. 525

[21] ibid.

[22] Chamberlain p. 6

[23] Chamberlain p. 33

[24] see e.g. Freud, Sigmund The Joke and Its Relation to the Unconscious (First Published in 1940, this copy, Penguin Classics, London, 2002), Part B.

[25] ibid.

[26] Gay p. 523

[27] ibid.

[28] Gay p. 532

[29] Newton P. Stallknecht, From Kant to Picasso: A Note on the Appreciation of Modern Art” in Eighteenth Century Studies, Vol 2 No 1 (John Hopkins University Press, 1968) p. 29

[30] Gay p. 134 Irma was recalcitrant to Freud’s treatment, so in his dream his wish is fulfilled of having a patient who “opened her mouth properly”, in order for Freud to make a more conclusive deduction of her condition. This is fulfilled by a process of displacement: Irma is substituted for a “wiser” friend.

[31] Chamberlain p. 34

[32] ibid.

[33] Gay p. 525

[34] Chamberlain p. 46

[35] Gay p. 525

[36] Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams (First Published in 1899, this copy, Penguin Classics, London, 2006) p. 230

[37] Freud The Interpretation of Dreams p. 229

[38] Gay p. 525

[39] Gay p. 525

[40] Gay p. 525

[41] ibid.

[42] Gay p. 524

[43] Gay p. 539

[44] ibid.