the art i almost bought
Last Monday I took a long lunch and went to a gallery show in the West Village featuring prints of one of my favorite contemporary artists, Vija Celmins.
Among the pieces they had were two from her series of spider webs, though not the one pictured here (it was just the easiest image to find online for illustrative purposes). In their quiet, gloomy austerity, is it any wonder that I love these works?
Alas, though, not quite enough to say "I want that," whip out my credit card, and buy on impulse. I did ask about prices. 12 and 15, if you're curious. It's a lot to pay for a spiderweb, to be sure. If they'd been anywhere below 10, I might've done it, though.
A friend of mine expressed some doubts about these particular works. But I believe spending an outrageous sum of money on a spider web might be justified.
Celmins an obsessive observer of nature; it's not a photograph of a spider web, it's a print based on a painting. In addition, I love the obvious contrast between the permanence of a print and the evanescence of a spiderweb, about as close to not there as a thing can get, and still be there (unless you're a fly). And the self-referential aspect of an artist depicting one of the most beautiful objects created by a non-human living thing is kind of delightful. And finally there's the idea that on the one hand here's a spiderweb and all spiderwebs are alike, but on the other hand, this spiderweb is unique in all the world (except for the 64 other prints of it), a one of a kind piece of nature captured out of time.
Celmins's ability to obsessively observe and capture complexity particularly attracts me. I look at her work, the webs or the seascapes or the starscapes, and I think about the patience and the focus and the skill required to make them, and I find myself thinking, "Gods I wish I could do that." Which, although I love art, is a rare feeling for me. I don't look at The Starry Night and wish I could paint like Van Gogh.
So, someday a Celmins, maybe, but somewhat sadly, somewhat with relief, not this week.
Among the pieces they had were two from her series of spider webs, though not the one pictured here (it was just the easiest image to find online for illustrative purposes). In their quiet, gloomy austerity, is it any wonder that I love these works?Alas, though, not quite enough to say "I want that," whip out my credit card, and buy on impulse. I did ask about prices. 12 and 15, if you're curious. It's a lot to pay for a spiderweb, to be sure. If they'd been anywhere below 10, I might've done it, though.
A friend of mine expressed some doubts about these particular works. But I believe spending an outrageous sum of money on a spider web might be justified.
Celmins an obsessive observer of nature; it's not a photograph of a spider web, it's a print based on a painting. In addition, I love the obvious contrast between the permanence of a print and the evanescence of a spiderweb, about as close to not there as a thing can get, and still be there (unless you're a fly). And the self-referential aspect of an artist depicting one of the most beautiful objects created by a non-human living thing is kind of delightful. And finally there's the idea that on the one hand here's a spiderweb and all spiderwebs are alike, but on the other hand, this spiderweb is unique in all the world (except for the 64 other prints of it), a one of a kind piece of nature captured out of time.
Celmins's ability to obsessively observe and capture complexity particularly attracts me. I look at her work, the webs or the seascapes or the starscapes, and I think about the patience and the focus and the skill required to make them, and I find myself thinking, "Gods I wish I could do that." Which, although I love art, is a rare feeling for me. I don't look at The Starry Night and wish I could paint like Van Gogh.
So, someday a Celmins, maybe, but somewhat sadly, somewhat with relief, not this week.
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