Art and the erotic experience. By Jean Rivard JIMI HENDRIX ROCKS MY WORLD. The first time I ever heard the wail of his guitar, via one of my brother's albums, it nearly vaporized my little 5 year old aura, and he still rocks me down to the soles of my feet today. I'm not alone in this feeling. When Robert Plant, of Led Zeppelin fame, replied to his teenage son's amazed query of "Dad, who's that?" upon hearing Hendrix for the first time, by saying, "why son, that's God," I had to laugh. What is it about Hendrix that elicits that response and recognition? Of course Hendrix frequently tops the lists of "greatest rock guitar players of all time," and it's true that Hendrix was plain and simple a great guitar player. But there are thousands of great guitar players, some more technically brilliant, some more original — so many whose work I respect and love, such as Neil Young and Pete Townsend. But even Young and Townsend have conceded that Hendrix was playing on a whole other level. I'll simply say it: In the hyper sexualized world of rock and roll, Hendrix was the most erotic guitar player that ever walked, and that's what makes him the greatest. Let's be clear. I'm not exclusively talking about "erotica" — a genre of visual or literary, or musical (Prince) art that depicts sexuality, usually for aphrodisiac purposes, although not always. Spanning the globe and the reaches of time, like any genre, the quality of art in erotica spans the spectrum of awful to great. Henry Miller wrote: "Just as good pornographic novel depends on the writer's ability to write, so it is with a painting…Even in obscene works of art we look for the touch of the master. The work of a hack leaves us cold or derisive." Some great works of art are rightly considered erotica, including the Hellenistic era sculpture the Sleeping Satyr, Fragonard's La Gimblette, and of course the literary works of Marquis de Sade, and Anais Nin, among others. One of my favorite visual works of erotica is an electrifying 19th century painting by Japanese artist Hokusai entitled Pearl Diver and Two Octopuses, which can be found in Pippa Hurd's lovely book Icons of Erotic Art. What makes this painting erotica is the blatant depiction of oral sex between a female pearl diver and two octopuses. What makes this work electrifying is the outstanding erotic quality of its composition and execution. All art is erotic, wrote modern architect Alfred Loos in a 1908 essay entitled "Ornament and Crime". It's an odd statement coming from "functionality only" Loos — his stripped down, stark modern buildings stood in utter contrast to the highly dressed fin-de-siecle style of buildings in 1900s Vienna — a style that Loos loudly detested and decried. Ah, but there it is — Loos' "stripped down" functionality versus the "highly dressed," ornamented façade. Either way, we understand that architecture is sensual. According to writer Pippa Hurd, buildings can be male, female, or even bisexual, they can be dressed or undressed, beautiful or ugly, and so on. The point is that art is physical. Art affects the senses. And so art is erotic. All art. So a great work of art might be erotica, but my point is that all great works of art are highly erotic. But what exactly does that mean? In their September 2006 issue, ArtNews magazine asked "What Makes Art Erotic?" Sexual symbology, such as a woman holding flowers, and blatant or vague depictions of genetalia appear to be the consensus from most of the writers of this issue. Apparently, searching for the subliminal depictions of male or female genitals in visual works of art has been one of the favorite art critic sports of the last century. I will agree that great art is frequently blatantly or latently sexually suggestive in some way, and that is partly my point. Consider Edward Hopper's Summertime, with the appealing young woman in sunlight resting her hand on a cold phallic stone pillar, and a blowing curtain the color of her dress creating a vaginal suggestion in the window just to her left — it's a compelling portrait of hot, cold, desire, and mystery. Or T.S. Eliot’s utilization of images and rhythms of sex while writing of despair in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock: The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the windowpanes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools the stand in the drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.It's the sex, particularly the ongoing rhythm of Eliot's meters, which keeps one reading. It's simply true that sex sells. Why do we go to the cinema? We go for two reasons. Primarily we go to see ourselves and our lives reflected back to us through narrative and character. And we go to fall in love. With Elizabeth Taylor. Or Gary Cooper. Or Johnny Depp. Or Scarlett Johansson. More than just acting ability, or even pure physical aesthetic, these people have a sexual charisma that exudes from the screen, and we go to gobble it up with our popcorn and juju bears serving as poor substitutes. At the very least, creating art is a sensual activity. It is frequently a passionate endeavor. For some artists it might very well be sexual. Although I cannot verify it, Jackson Pollock purportedly replied to a Life magazine reporter, when asked how he knew when he was finished with a painting, "how do you know when you’re finished making love?" Of course this statement might be attributed to Pollock because his "spatter" work has evoked metaphors of ejaculation, although I would say the erotic power of Pollock's work lies in the movement leading up to the "spatter" — the spatter serving to focus our attention on that movement. According to Camille Paglia, Michaelangelo was literally slobbering over body of Jesus Christ in his Pieta — a work she thinks of as pornographic in sensibility. And Willem de Kooning biographers Stevens and Swan wrote that, "…it almost seemed as if the artist were screwing the women rather than painting them. The visceral touch of de Kooning's brush could amost be the sexual stroke of a man's hand; the slippery wetness of the paint evoked sweaty arousal; the messy convulsion in the forms and splattering of drops suggested the abandonment of orgasm." These are all examples of what I say is putting the fuck in one's work. I don't want to imply that sexual frenzy or orgasmic intensity is necessary when creating a work of powerful or great art, but then again, other components of lovemaking, such as attention, focus, care, and thought apply to art creation as well. As artists we reach out to touch, if you will, another human being. We use our art, instead of our hands, but the desire is there nonetheless. And for those of us in the audience, there’s something to that statement, art lover. Art might move into us and through us, our senses receptive to rhythm and melody, to classic ideal or new ideas. Or we might move into a work of art — a story unfolds itself before us as we move into it. A painting depicts the object of our desire, whether still life, landscape, portrait, or nude — as art critic Jean Clair famously declared, "The gaze is the erection of the eye." In his ArtNews article discussing the painter William Ingres, I think writer William Feaver gets closest to the mark of understanding eroticism in art. "The erotic instinct is to conserve and unify," said Sigmund Freud to Albert Einstein. According to Feaver, this is Ingres all over — Ingres' eroticism focuses mind and body. (Italics mine.) I say that all eroticism in art serves to bring mind and body together. If, as I discussed in "On Metaphors" (POLYSEMY Summer 2006), metaphors act as an arrow to carry across our intuitions, thoughts and feelings, then the erotic quality of the art determines how deeply the arrow pierces. Great art resonates physically, powerfully. The very cells of our bodies quiver when in the presence of great art. I once wrote of my experience on first viewing William Blake's engravings in the Tate Gallery in London that it seemed that the Master was not so much etching on copper as he was etching on my very soul. Balthus' The Guitar Lesson — an erotica masterpiece — serves as a grand metaphor for this experience, and for that matter helps us understand the erotic power and greatness of all great artists, including Jimi Hendrix. Hendrix wasn’t playing guitar — he was playing me. And that's why I always go back for more. —Jean Rivard is the creator of Valentine Hearts, a collection of graphically edited lampworked beads inspired by literature. NOT YET A SUBSCRIBER TO POLYSEMY? Make the choice to become one today — click here for POLYSEMY Print, or here for POLYSEMY Digital. ©2006 Polysemy. All rights reserved. |
