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Mona Lisa Images for a Modern World by |
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fig 41a |
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fig 41b |
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Mona Lisa Pillow Shams (obverse and reverse) by
Boxelder, Inc. |
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From the product insert: |
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The view of the back of Mona's head is
not the problem, however. After all, it is needed to complete the
surrogate. What confounds is the logical path the observer must follow to
get from the front of the Mona Lisa to the view from the rear? One
possibility is that the artist is imagining what the painting would look
like had it been painted from the other side -- the artist moves, not the
model. If that had been the artist's intention, we should expect to be
looking into
the interior of the room in front of her -- certainly not viewing the
landscape that recedes in front of her.
Details viewable in the original work reveals that Mona was posing -- or supposedly posing -- on a colonnaded parapet or balcony. In the original, there is a low wall still visible behind Mona's chair. Upon this wall, at the extreme left and right of the painting, remain fragments of bases of columns. The columns, themselves disappeared when the painting was trimmed on the left and right borders. These have been restored in the recreation at the Movieland Wax Museum, Buena Park, California (a detail of which is reproduced in this column). They may be seen in a sixteenth-century copy of the Mona Lisa, now at the Walters Art Gallery, Baltimore -- the black and white image on the right. Obviously, the Master of the Pillow Sham has not moved his mental eye into the landscape to view what the space Mona Lisa inhabits would look like from the back. The only other possible explanation for this reverse view is that the rear of the sham depicts Mona Lisa at a moment when she turned around to view the landscape -- turning her back to the artist. Thus, the Pillow Sham Painter substitutes his eye for Leonardo's. But this contention, too, is not fully credible, since the artist has not only taken pains to paint the landscape anew, but has also flipped it as if he were viewing it in a mirror. As Mona turns, so turns the landscape. To those familiar with the original, or to those who are aware of the front of the pillow sham, there is a logical disjoint on the rear. Moreover, if Mona turns to create the second view, the mystery of the pillow metaphor is broken. The secondary view should somehow imply that it is the pillow that has been turned and not the subject. Given the palpable reality of the front view, it is impossible to maintain a perception of a consistent reality that accommodates both images at once. In a phrase, "You can't get there from here." How do we explain this existential dichotomy; does it have any meaning? [note: See E.H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation. (The A.W. Mellon Lectures in the Fine Arts, 1956, National Gallery of Art, Washington), Bollingen Seriex XXXV.5, Second Edition, revised, Princeton University Press, Princeton, N.J. 1961, p. 5. The author discusses a "trick" drawing, that can be perceived either as a duck or a rabbit, but not both at the same time. He does not presume to guess that there may be a state of perception that allows for the harmonization of contradiction.] One possibility is that the artist experienced a cognitive lapse, and couldn't move his mind's eye to execute a logically consistent image showing Mona from the rear; but we tend to give artists more credit than that. More likely, however, because the object is a commercial product and is expected to be placed on a bed, there was a merchandising decision to depict the rather mysterious landscape on both sides -- an aesthetic decision of sorts. Somehow an architectural simulation may have been considered inappropriate or untrue to the slim contextual evidence suggested in the original work.. This theory does not account for the mirror image of the landscape, however. Luckily, Jim Stratte, from Boxelder, the firm that distributes these pillow shams, in a letter to this author dated December 17, 2002, provides some useful information pertaining to the source of the anomaly, and in the process verifies some of the above conjectures. According to Mr. Stratte, they were uncomfortable rendering the view from the landscape into the room since there was little or no evidence as to how that view might appear, so the image was cast to show Mona Lisa turned around looking at the landscape, in a way they thought would mimic the process of turning the pillow over, as one so often does. Aesthetically, the artist thought that rendering the same landscape on both sides of the pillow was a disappointment, so instead they reversed the landscape in the rear view, making it seem (at least to them) that Mona was standing at the top of a mountain with landscape stretching away on all sides. Even so, they were aware of the logical discontinuity and forced symmetry, but decided to live with it. Before we move on, the reader should take note that the rear view is not just a mirror image of Mona turned toward the landscape. The sash she wears over her left shoulder remains on her left shoulder as she turns to face the landscape. To put it simply, as Mona turns, so turns the landscpae. This writer believes we can do more than just live with it. With a little exertion of imagination, in this pictorial paradox we can find a clue to what might lead to a profound observation about the nature of the modern Mona Lisa and, more specifically, an insight into what function the image serves in the human business of sleep. What can explain the co-existence of multiple, conflicting versions of reality other than evidence of an awareness of the ways sleep and dream may entertain simultaneously accepted logical impossibilities. In, Through the Looking Glass, as in the preceding
The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland, the protagonist commences
her story by falling asleep. ("Alice was sitting curled up in a corner of
the great armchair, half talking to herself
In our example, the paradox of dream wraps around both sides of the pillow. The pillow serves as the perfect metaphor for sleep. As the Boxelder brochure tells us (somewhat naively), the pillow is the "perfect sleeping companion." It induces dream, suggesting that secrets be shared, that pictures can become real. But what secrets? The secret of her smile, perhaps; or might they be the secrets of the sleeper? Could one analogize that the pillow conceals in its conceit its role as a gateway for ushering the sleeper into a world that is neither here nor there -- a world where contradiction is enveloped in harmony and thus is not altogether unlike the perpetually conflicting dualities that invariably separate painting from reality, a world where reality is strongly conditioned by subjectivity. In this context Leonardo's deep and misty wilderness gives shape to the unfathomable depths of the dreamer's slumber. [note: On the theme of making pictures come alive, see this author's review article "Images and Icons: The Making and Unmaking of Pictures for Mass Consumption," in Visual Resources, XVII, pp. 323-340, esp. p. 329 ff.] The pillow sham is not the first instance of the Mona Lisa being paired with a pillow, and not the first time in the modern universe of Monas that a pillow (as metaphor) serves to reveal her "secret." Illustrated below is a couch pillow sold by the Unemployed Philosophers Guild and other purveyors of intellectual kitsch. In this case, the secret is revealed when the user rests his (or her) head on Mona's breast -- consider it a "whoopee cushion" for Ph.D.s. The pillow laughs. Try it. Nor are these the only associations artists have created that link the Mona Lisa with sleep -- well, not sleep exactly. A 1974 painting by Graham Dean showing Leonardo and Mona Lisa sharing a bed together (with the famous landscape appearing in a window) may be viewed (watermarked) on the Corbis website (BP001040). (See also, Mary Rose Storey, Mona Lisas, 1980, p. 42.). In this case one might expect that Mona would be revealed as "the perfect sleeping companion" -- which suggests the Freudian proposition that the Mona Lisa stands for both mother and paramour. But, enough of that; there may be children reading.
Sleep is the
impetus for Mona to share her secret within an adventure in James
Mayhew's children's book
Katie and the Mona Lisa. (See
review.)
(On Sophie Matisse, see Alec Wilkinson, "Sophie's Guernica: Can a Matisse paint a Picasso?" in The New Yorker, February 3, 2003, p. 46 ff. Also see Meg Treadwell, "Mona Takes Tokyo," in Artnet Magazine. 1/19/06: Lisa Erickson corrects: "... Sophie Matisse is not the "one time daughter in-law" of Henri Matisse. She is in fact Henri Matisse's great grand daughter. I worked for her father Paul Matisse who is the son of Pierre Matisse, Henri's son.") The effect of this attitude is to undo the traditional fusion between figure and background that typifies Renaissance portrait painting. Rather than remaining captive to their enframements, in these works Mona literally steps out -- as if she is being liberated from years of constraint.
For Tabitha Vevers consult, Kraushaar Galleries, Inc.(724 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10019, 212.307.5730. KraushaarG@aol.com). Illustration taken from Cape Cod Life, August 2002, p. 125. For Leonardo we know that sleep held a special importance. He says, "As a well-spent day brings happy sleep..." We are told that he would sleep at frequent intervals during the day. The "refreshment" of sleep is thought to encourage creativity and may have done so for Leonardo. He may have been aware of its restorative qualities. I do not think that the makers of our pillow sham would disagree. But the quote goes on: "... so a life well spent brings happy death." Not a useful slogan for selling pillows, except, perhaps, in mortuaries. On its face it does not appear that Leonardo intended the Mona Lisa to imply anything about sleep, per se, even though we see that Leonardo discussed the efficacy of sleep. Thus, one may not abandon this discussion without first asking whether the theory proposed here is persuasive or valid -- and to do that you'll have to determine what kind of criteria determines validity. As already noted, certainly, Leonardo, to anybody's knowledge, never entertained the presumption that the Mona Lisa had anything to do with sleep, nor it is likely that in Leonardo's mind the Mona Lisa served any existential role in mediating the duality between reality and representation -- though it must be mentioned that Leonardo, ever the jokester, did delight in tricking viewers into believing -- even for a moment -- that a representation was real, much as Zeuxis painted grapes so realistically that even birds were fooled. (See Deceptions and Illusions: Five Centuries of Trompe l'Oeil Painting, Washington, National Gallery.) Even so, one might wish to rule out Leonardo as a source for the theory put forward. (But see addendum, below.) No, the association with sleep, if it applies at all, must be accepted as a modern idea, a consequence of the way the Mona Lisa recently has come to represent a state of ideal fulfillment, a visceral reaction to the weight of history coiling upon itself and the signifier of passions kept secret except in dream. To understand Mona's modern role, listen to Walter Pater, in 1893, foretelling it in his famous, romanticized evocation of the Mona Lisa: "The presence that rose thus so strangely beside the waters, is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years men had come to desire. Hers is the head upon which all 'the ends of the world are come,' and the eyelids are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out from within upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions." At this point it seems logical to ask whether the intention of the artist serves any role in determining what an image means, or whether meaning arises from how an image is understood by its viewers or projected by critics? Is meaning innate to an object or applied by its audience, or both? Is meaning somehow a product of what a particular society, at a specified time and place makes of it? What use is the quest for meaning if it ultimately relies upon subjective knowledge or fugitive sensibilities? Is it possible that meaning may flow through artists -- as (sometimes unknowing or naive) conduits -- and asks only that it be perceived by those who wish to pay attention? One should not expect this writer to answer these questions; the answer or answers rely upon the opinions and awareness of those who seek to look, understand and interpret what they see. It is a tough question. You might want to sleep on it. Addendum: Probably from the Los Angeles Times (n.d.). "Secret of the Secret Smile:" An Italian doctor claims to have discovered the secret to the Mona Lisa's enigmatic smile: a compulsive gnashing of teeth. Dr. Filippo Surano said he believes the noblewoman in Leonardo Da Vinci's famous portrait suffered from bruxism, an unconscious habit of grinding the teeth during sleep or periods of mental stress. Surano says the strain of posing for the painting could have triggered an attack of teenth grinding. He has sent a summary of his thesis to the Da Vinci Museum in Florence, where the artist was born. (Reported by the newspaper: La Repubblica.) See further. Arty Cats Postcard Book , "David Baird/Vicky Cox, Stewart Tabori & Chang, 1556709544 Book Description With amusing artwork and witty text, Arty Cats told the story of how cats have shaped the course of art over the centuries. ... Stroking a sleeping tabby on Mona Lisa's lap made her smile for Leonardo da Vinci. ... Now, these images and others from the book can be enjoyed in postcards. Fifteen portraits of fabulous felines who inspired the world's greatest works of art can make all of your correspondence clever. [ed. Tabby on Mona's lap: A reference to Alice stroking her cat?] Quote from Leonardo: "As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so a life well spent brings happy death." Excerpt. "Speaking so much about Mona Lisa, undoubtedly, raises the question what her character might have been. Such an analysis has been made by Lailan Young (1993) by applying "face reading" resulting the following character: liar, stubborn, gifted abstract thinker with an IQ above average, greedy, unreliable "friend", would punish her enemy by any means, a sneak and finally, needing at least nine hours' sleep each night. All above, indeed, demonstrates the many faces of Mona Lisa."
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Sleep
(or other necessities) liberates both Mona and Mona watchers. In
her Flying Dream Series, artist Tabitha Vevers uses sleep and dream
as metaphors for wish fulfillment. In one of her simulated ex-voto panels,
a detail of which is shown at left, a child sits upon a flying carpet
hovering before the Mona Lisa. The story-teller (presumably not the
artist) has taken a flying carpet tour of Paris, visiting the Louvre, the
Mona Lisa first and then, with the boundaries between paint and reality
dissolving, just as it did for Katie, the story-teller enters a garden by
Monet where she could smell the flowers. Again, sleep becomes a mechanism
through which our society's fascination and reverence for the Mona Lisa is
revealed. The artist chose the ex-voto format as a means of expressing
"thanks for the miracle of flight," which is to say, as thanks for the
power of dream to create impossible realities.