Growing amazement

From weeping to the research of the lost emotion. In Pictures and Tears (Routledge) James Elkins, art historian and critic, professor at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, appealed for and collected more than four hundred contributions from very different people, who told him which artwork the armour we use to try to defend ourselves from mystification collapsed in front of: Rothko Chapel in Houston, the Nike of Samothrace, Kokoschka in tears in front of two naked feet in a Memling… emotion as a risk, tears as a reaction to what is too full or too empty. Stendhal’s Syndrome on the one hand and Mark Twain’s Malaise on the other.
Too much emotion against too much rationality. Maybe that shock that leads us to perceive another universe, that gentle breeze that can be the beginning of a journey on the other side of reality, is a necessary antidote in times in which, with Elkins, “we are too thrifty with our emotions”. Remembering with him that the more we watch the more we see (and feel). And that the experience of watching must be handled with care.

What is the relation between surprise and emotion as related to Art?
A lot of contemporary art relies on the shock of the initial moment, the moment when you come through the gallery door and are amazed (or delighted, or stunned, or shocked, or embarrassed, or bewildered). Some Renaissance art is like that as well – Titian’s Assumption in Venice, Michelangelo’s ceiling… but as a generalisation: surprise is a characteristic of postmodernism. A shark in formaldehyde! A dog, as big as a building, sprouting flowers! After you see the dog, you can learn, slowly, to love the dog. But usually people don’t linger over postmodern works: they are amazed, surprised, astonished, and they move on.
There is a strong reason for this. Western art has moved in an arc, from a kind of seeing that was slow and careful, to one that is fast and often careless. In the past it was more common for an artwork to ask its viewers to linger, to get to know it, to sit and ponder and not to move on. In order for that to happen you have to forget yourself: you have to forget you’re in a museum or a church, and you have to forget your lunch appointment, your work, your family. You have to be immersed in the artwork, and it has to hypnotise you. In modernism and postmodernism, there is a different theme at work: the artwork shocks you, astonishes you, etc. – and those emotions make you think of yourself. You are aware of yourself seeing, you think of yourself thinking, you watch yourself reacting. And in those dynamics, no immersion is possible. All that is possible is increasing surprise.

You wrote that nowadays we all suffer from an “emotional arthrosis”. Do you think the emotional climate of our times hinders us from feeling deeply in front of Art?
I think it’s partly the climate of museums, not our culture. Museums are so bright and busy that it’s hard to feel much of anything. My advice: go late in the day, and go by yourself.

What do you mean when you say erudition kills emotions? Does the large quantity (and low quality) of information we get make us unable to experience surprise as an opening towards emotions?
People have told me that idea (that erudition kills emotion) is wrong. My colleagues in art history invariably say they feel a lot when they look at art. But I don’t see much evidence of it. When you know a lot about an artist, it can help you to feel something when you look at their work. But when you know a lot about artwork, it’s different. When I look at art, sometimes the patronage, history, provenance, market value, symbolism, narrative structure, geometry, geography, colour theory, perspective, conservation, scholarly debates, ideology, politics, all get in my way.

You wrote that painting strictly links the fleeting moment to the infinite duration. Moment and duration: what is the importance of Time in accepting and developing emotions?
Many people feel strongly that the paintings on their walls will not change. They will grow old and die but their paintings and sculptures will not. And if the artwork is damaged, it can be repaired. People can’t always be repaired, and in the end none of us can be. That feeling makes many people love their artworks even more intensely, more devotedly.

Do you still feel emotions are central in your work as an art historian and as a person who writes about this?
I am working now on a book about mediocre painting, like Sunday painting, amateur painting, tourist painting. I am interested in it because there are many ordinary, not-so-good paintings done all around the world, and people really care about them. There must be tens of thousands of people who paint: painting is part of their lives, and they care deeply about painting. I am trying to take those emotions seriously, to understand them and to write about them. It is not only great art that produces great emotions.

Interview by Lilia Ambrosi