Art Focus Friday – Augustus of Primaporta and the Power of Art in Daily Life
Augustus of Primaporta
Sculpture
Imperial Rome, 1st c. AD
Art Focus Friday – Augustus of Primaporta and the Power of Art in Daily Life
One common, uninformed argument against art is that it doesn’t “do” anything. It just sits there, looking pretty (or confusing). It doesn’t run businesses, perform surgery, find the cure for cancer, or babysit children. It isn’t a law degree, a hot meal, transportation, or electricity. It just sits there, decoratively, seemingly without impact on society or daily life.
This is far from the truth.
Critics who lob the “art is useless” argument at artists and teachers often level the claim that art is not useful for anything obvious or practical, and is therefore a waste of time. Though they acknowledge some may admire it for its age, beauty, or historical context, many still believe art is just “that which should hang on the wall, matching the sofa.”
For the sake of this “Art Focus Friday,” I won’t go into the reams of data on art as anthropological, historical, and archaeological record—or the importance of it as a mirror of social activity, a voice of change, or even the propellant to revolution (i.e., muralism). Instead, as with all future “focus” features, I am focusing on one powerful, intriguing piece as an example: Augustus of Primaporta.
We are surrounded by art every day. Even something as common as symbols on street signs or public restroom doors is pictorial; a form of visual imagery and art. In addition to helping us perform daily tasks true art goes beyond the basal “decor” item. It has impact on things around it. Reflects social change. Inspires new ideas, or cements old ones. It actively participates.
Consider magazines at the supermarket checkout counter. Moody, dark images of celebrities may taint public opinion of their deeds even before they’ve gone to trial. Poppy celebrity posters helped propel the Obama campaign—everything from “change” posters to highly visible stickers, with carefully designed elements.
Like political posters from the 20th and 21st centuries, Augustus of Primaporta is a piece of artwork which is at once beautiful, and socially impactful. He is one of my favorite pieces, for sure.
Augustus is exquisitely carved, beautifully rendered, and politically charged. At first glance, he is a well-carved sculpture; a man with a realistic heft to the fleshiness of his arms and legs. A man who seems about to step forward, to breathe, to move, as his weight shifts from one leg to the next and he raises his arm. But there is far more to him than a slightly stylized realism, carved in stone. Every part of this statue is symbolic of something larger–and not simply “just because.” This figure was Augustus’ campaign “poster,” which expressed many things about his personality, intent, campaign, and political goals. It is considered to have been one of the most important factors, if not the factor, which led to his ability to more peacefully unite all of Rome under his rule.
Without boring you too much with ancient Roman history, I’ll give you a thin outline. Republican Rome was about as democratic as one could get, even with its inherent problems. Though still largely ruled by elitist votes, the plebians (or the working classes; masses) still had a voice, and many were able to participate in governmental decisions, casting votes and making changes. In the late years of the Republic, continued war, landlessness, and poverty undermined the basic outline of their inclusive government. Two failed land reformers (Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus) were killed by greedy senators, inviting an end to the Republic.
With the Republic weakened, the everyday masses began to lose ground, safety, value, hope. Powerful generals like Sulla and Julius Caesar were able to walk in and seize power, often claiming they were restoring the Republic. Instead, they had ushered in an age known as “Imperial Rome,” where emperors, or imperators, ruled, instead of true voting groups.
Augustus (born Gaius Octavius Thurinus), swept in and picked up the pieces after the mess and conflicts between Julius Caesar, Marcus Antonius, and Cleopatra (and the first triumvirate). He restored the outward façade of the Roman Republic, but held all of the major offices that had once been held by elected officials (kinda like being President, Vice President, Secretary of State, Chief Justice, and everything else, all rolled into one). After years of chaos, with Augustus in power, things calmed down and were known as the “peace of Augustus,” a time of prosperity, peace, and growth. If you’ve ever heard “having an Augustuan Age,” you now know where it came from. But, in order to get to the peace of Augustus, Augustus himself had to prove he was worthy–and was actually going to do a good job.
Augustus had detractors. Many were afraid that with him stepping in to fill all of the spots, it would become a dictatorship (or even despotism). That he would become a tyrant, like other before him, was a very real concern. Because he knew it was easier to lead willing supporters, Augustus wanted to make sure everyone knew his intents, goals, and the fabric of his character (or at least a desirable image of such). He commissioned Augustus of Primaporta (actually taken from an original bronze; it’s believed several of these marble carvings were created off of a bronze blueprint, to be distributed) to show the people his polticial base. The statue outlines the fears of the people, his answers to them, and his intent as imperator (emperor).
So, the statute had a big job. Calm everyone down after years of strife, and prove to them that Augustus was the rightful leader, thus avoiding civil war.
For starters, he wears a military breastplate—which in itself is a picture within a picture. Scenes of Augustus pacifying rebels (as well as images of divinity) are emblazoned on the breastplate, showing the viewer that he was able to calm uprisings and concerns through diplomacy, not war. One look tells you that he means business, is ready for battle, but prefers to solve problems diplomatically when he can. He is also powerful, defensive, and prepared He purposefully does not wear a helmet, or complete armor, because that would have sent the wrong signal—that of a trigger-happy military man.
He also carries, draped casually, part of a citizen’s robe, which he appears to be wearing underneath the armor, or wrapped around himself. This reminds the viewer that he is of the people. He is a citizen, in a toga, who can pause to hold the drapery, without swinging a weapon. It also hints at his duties as a magistrate and with adjudication.
He has bare feet, echoing traditional Roman religious statuary, which always showed gods and goddesses barefoot—but which also shows that Augustus treads on holy ground (all of Rome), and that he is humble and barefoot before all.
His arm is raised in what Romans would have recognized immediately as a sign of “I am speaking.” He talks to the people, raises his arm to share ideas, presumably listens. He is devoid of a weapon (although there is some speculation that his left hand should be holding a rod, spear, or possibly an imperial scepter or scroll).
Even his hair is symbolic. He wears two hair cuts in one—one for each faction in Rome, so as to be on both sides at once.
There are even more levels to the symbolism, but you get the idea. This figurine, placed in the Roman forum, and at other key locations, showed the people who were concerned about Augustus’ intent that he was humble, willing to listen, placid yet prepared, brave and strong, yet willing to talk and listen. It calmed fears and allowed people to gather under him in support. His entire publicity campaign was wrapped up in the exquisite lines of a carved piece of artwork.
Art with social impact? Absolutely.
Photo #1:
http://www.kmkz.com/jonesj/index.php?id=gallery&course=ID11&category=Rome
Photo # 2:
http://www.titalus.com/art/Hum111/Rome/Rome.htm
The Vatican Museum’s beautiful page:
http://mv.vatican.va/2_IT/pages/z-Patrons/MV_Patrons_04_03.html
Further reading:
http://web.mit.edu/21h.402/www/primaporta/interpretations/
Self-Portrait
(This painting is done in acrylic, at about 24″ x 30″ size.
If you stand back from your monitor, or squint, you should see the pixelated squares come into focus).
We are who we are. For better or for worse.
When we’re aware of ourselves, we can improve the things that are out of balance. Those little things we all know we need to work on, or maybe just the things we feel we could develop. When we ignore ourselves, and don’t listen to our inner voice, we get out of whack, lost in all kinds of distractions. We get mired in the things that don’t matter, like gossip, self-pity, jealousy, hatred, confusion.
Someone once told me all artists have to do a portrait of themselves in their lifetime. I always wondered why. In fact, I rejected the idea at first, maybe out of a basic desire to instantly reject the kinds of things other people declare all people must do in their lifetimes. Y’know. Like the white picket fence and 2.5 kids thing.
I have never wanted to do a self portrait. In a high school art class, I remember dodging the project by doing a reflective self portrait–concepts, colors, and things which represented me at the time. Cheesy, but an easy way to avoid doing my own face.
It’s not that I dislike drawing people. People are actually one of my favorite subjects. I’ve done portraiture for years and enjoy drawing, painting, or rendering people who intrigue me. There are still so many more portraits I want to do that I have a list of names that I’ll tackle as I go. But–I have just never wanted to paint myself. Why would I? What the hell would I do with it? Who would buy a painting of me? Would I want it in my living room? What for? And wait–am I thinking too much about all of it, as usual? I could hang it in the back of my closet and keep the closet stuffed to the point where I wouldn’t see it. There’s an idea.
Some people really get off on the way they look–their favorite person is themselves. I’ve known two people who actually have tattoos of themselves ON themselves. Serious portraits. Glam shots in skin ink. I suppose it does “take all kinds” to make the world complete, but there’s just something about the idea of a serious tattoo of oneself, on oneself, that makes me quesy. Or, maybe I’m just thinking, again, that if I had a self-portrait tattoo of myself, on myself, my stomach would seriously be turning and tossing its lunch.
So, I’ve been forced (for a project) to do a set of two self-portraits.
One in a very structured way (a large-scale grid. Think of those posters of Homer Simpson, where he’s made up of many small images of Homer Simpson; Chuck Close-inspired), and another in free style. My gut turned, of course. But, I HAD to do them. In fact, we had to use photos (no sneaky tricks this time) of our head, face, shoulders. My first reaction was the old one: Why the hell would I want to paint myself? I’m the least interesting subject I know. But then, I backed up. Why be so judgmental? The project had to get done, and I tried expanding my horizon. Just going with it. Hitting the flow to see what would come out.
It was more challenging than other portraits I’ve done. When (those of us who don’t get tattoos of ourselves, on ourselves) do self portraits, or even when we take photos of ourselves, so many of us are so selective and judgmental of our own looks, we forget to simply enjoy being.
A self-portrait forces you to look inward, at a reflection, at an inner glow. After staring at your own photo for hours, painting, you begin to lose the critique. You begin to soften. The face turns into shapes, hues, tonal qualities. You stop worrying about how good or bad you look and you just break things down and work.
So, I’m sharing the structured, pixel-by-pixel style painting with you here. Stand back, and it comes into focus. Squint and it comes into focus. It’s weird.
And, here is one of my favorite songs–Wir sind Wir (We are We), by Peter Heppner and Paul Van Dyk. Well, we are who we are, after all! 
http://new.music.yahoo.com/paul-van-dyk/videos/view/wir-sind-wir–33442661
(can’t embed this one into my blog, so if you click on the link, it will load the Yahoo video, which is good quality).
Weighing of the Heart, from the Papyrus of Ani, New Kingdom
(Here, Ani and his wife watch the weighing of Ani’s heart. If he has been an honorable person, his heart will be lighter than the feather of truth–which it is. The end of a season, rolling into the next, is metaphoric for this, I think. We pause in contemplation to see what we’ve done, how we’ve behaved, what we can improve–and hopefully gain the strength to move forward, as Ani does).
Updates are Fun: Wrapping up the Fall Semester
From Winter into the New Year
So, it’s been crazy.
This fall, I went back to school, pursuing a second bachelor’s degree (this time in fine arts); technically a third as well, since I’m double-majoring in Asian Studies. I like to collect degrees (and student loans), apparently. Well, hell. Why not. Learning is life.
I also managed to finish a National Novel Writing Month stint during the semester, producing 50,000 (sometimes terribly combined) words in 30 days. You’ve seen snippets of it here. I will probably spend the next couple of years polishing it, but I’ll be sharing tidbits as I pull it together. I’ll probably be asking a few of you (you probably know who you are) to read through it, too.
Plus, I’ve been teaching classes through UNM and doing a bunch of crazy art projects. I had a great “Awakening the Artistic Mind” class this semester, with a bunch of now-opened minds wandering around out there, gathering art supplies. Joy!
Whew. Crazy. Stupid. Fearless. Busy.
I guess I also started the semester out with my 30 Paintings in 30 Days Robot themed challenge. I was happy with some of the work that turned out, but some days were less than inspired, I felt. I have two other 30-paintings-in-30-days projects planned, and I was originally going to do them in November and January, but I am saving them up to perk up a few boring months (do we have those?). Still to come are “boobs” and “ninja clowns & mushrooms.” I haven’t forgotten. 
I will be sharing photos of my Book of the Dead project on this blog shortly. I haven’t measured the length of the scroll yet, but it’s pretty damned long, and is all hand-painted, with free verse poetry translations of some of the “spells.” I was fascinated by the modular quality of the Book of the Dead. It was entirely customizable for the deceased and you could build in different transformations you could take (modern people might choose things like “Superman” hee hee). I developed a fictional character, a deceased florist, which was a popular and desirable trade at the time. Like I said, I’ll share more soon.
I think I just scratched the surface of the potential for variations of this project. Somewhere I ran across a great modern remake of it, where the artist tied in personal situations to it, and I think I’ll be doing several more incarnations (heh) of the intriguing book as time goes by. I might try one in a different painted style as well. So, stay tuned for Book of the Dead tidbits.
I also did my first self-portrait this semester. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with a finished portrait of myself, but it’s done, and it was more challenging than any other portrait I’ve ever done. Also a blog post upcoming on this. Just need to get off my butt and photograph the finished painting.
I am also doing a map painting project, based on studies of chaos, coincidence, and the movement of people coming together into one space, in one place, at one moment. I’ll share more soon. Let me finish the thing first.
I also dealt with my fair share of drama, stupidity, and crappiness this semester, in the midst of painting, teaching, test-taking, and hair-pulling. A break-in & burglary, petty gossip-mongering, backstabbing, title-taking, copycats, and bullshit. But, here I am. Still me.
Had to spend our savings on bars for our windows and repairs to our home after the break-in, but the cats are safe (and so are we) and it could have been much worse. As for the drama in Albuquerque, it’s always here, like acts played out on a big stage. I am looking forward to new beginnings.
I’ve made some new friends this semester–other eager minds at school. Vibrant. Curious. Funny. I’ve also reconnected with even more old friends. You have no idea how much I enjoy all of your witty banter and daily support.
As I gear up for finals (have a couple this week), I am reminded of the constant ebb and flow of things. We have all ended up in our own special places, at this point in time. Maybe we’re on an ebbing tide, or maybe we’re in the flow. We’re working through it, working toward it, working away from it, or floating on the surface.
I think I might have a brain anueryism from all the stuff I’ve been working on at once–but it will have been fun and maybe worth it.
I’ve made some life-changing decisions (I’ll share some soon!) and I’m working to correct some negative connections I’ve acquired in the last year or two. As 2010 approaches, I’m excitedly looking for the next great chapter.
Did I mention I love Weird Al?
(Here’s to old times and progress toward new beginnings. Do any of you remember this? We kicked ASS at this competition; November, 1990 Arcadia Band Review, before Acciani left).
Posting some new goodies on Etsy, for holiday shopping.
Mention my blog or twitter in the “comments” section when you order, and I’ll throw something extra special into the mix.
I also have gift certificates available.
My Etsy Shop: http://www.etsy.com/shop/plasticpumpkin
Temple in the Storm
Man Going Piss in the Parking lot of the Great Western Forum
Young man:
goatee,
tie-dye,
bandanna bracelets,
cut-off jeans.
In one hand,
he held a white cup.
In the other, his belt and
the flaps of his shorts.
The cup was filling fast,
looking like yellow
and white
stained glass.
–Ren Adams, 1996.
(published in “The Crunge,” 1997)
Ezra Pound was a proponent of “show me don’t tell me,” the art of painting with words. Even plastic cups filled with piss.
Chinese brush painting by Wang Xi Meng, 1096-1120 AD
I do a Poetry Saturday column, and a random, curiously named “Daily Musings” column, which doesn’t actually happen every day (hee hee)–and I’m also starting a new art-focus feature, inspired by my friend Robert’s blog. He does an art history and appreciation day, where he brings interesting works into the light, for people to enjoy and explore.
I’m planning an art focus column for Fridays, inspired by Robert’s art history days–featuring works of art that I find compelling or mesmerizing. Might be fun and interesting. Might suck. We’ll see.
My goal:
To bring some interesting pieces of art out of the stiff, formal world of art history, and into every day enjoyment. Period.
Oh, yeeeaaah. Finished it. Well, as I’ve said before, not “finished” per se. But I’ve completed all 50,000 words, spewed out on electronic paper, saved up to be sorted, edited, and polished later. I’ll begin revising it whenever I’m done being sick of looking at it. Heh heh.
Sharing a few snippets with you, too, since you’ve followed the whole way. I know they’re totally random and out of context, but random is fun:
——————————————-
When Julian was 12, his mother thought he’d poured perfume in his Country Time Lemonade. He hadn’t. A small vial of cheap men’s cologne, a sample from K-Mart, sat in a glass tube, in an empty ashtray on the table. They had mixed lemonade in large glasses and he was playing with the tube with two fingers, marveling at the way the dim kitchen lights played off its slick surface. The strong liquid dribbled down his fingers, got under his fingernails, seeped into the very cells of his skin. He smelled like a cheap Chanel No. 5 knock-off, and he drank the lemonade with slippery tips.
“What’s that smell?” His mom asked suddenly, cigarette hanging out of the side of her mouth. “What did you do?”
“What?”
She had sniffed the area, found the vial. “Did you spill perfume?” She saw the bottle. “Did you put this on?”
“I was looking at it.”
She sniffed deeper, leaning in to check his shirt. He pulled back. “You ain’t wearing it. Smells like you put it in your drink.” She snatched his oversized glass out of his hands, sniffing harder, jamming half her face into the opening. “You put perfume in your glass? What the hell’s wrong with you?! It’s poison. Spit it out.”
“But—“
“Spit it out now!” She grabbed his arm and dragged him to the sink, shoving aside the unwashed dishes from breakfast. “Spit! Spit!” She smacked him on the back, between his shoulder blades. He leaned over the chipped basin and spit a few times. As he wiped his face, she shoved a glass of milk into his hands and made him slug it down, quickly. His stomach swelled, cold and heavy with the bracing liquid. She sniffed the glass repeatedly, crazily, dumped the contents down the drain and grabbed the phone.
“Why would you do that?! What’s wrong with you.”
“I didn’t.”
“If you didn’t, why did your lemonade smell like perfume? It’s poisonous, you dumbshit.”
“I didn’t, I swear.”
She seemed to toy with the idea of dialing the phone. “I can’t afford the hospital. You can’t go. You better throw up in the bathroom.”
He realized then that sometimes the scent of things, covering other things in a cloud, concealed all.
———————————-
“I love my life. I will not apologize for who I am. I hate my life. Sometimes things fall apart and accidents happen. You narrowly avert choking on a ham sandwich, or slipping into the street as buses roar by. You keep going. You stop. You live. You die. Things are so delicately, sacredly held in those few moments, as a child begins to choke, and you feel the rush of terror and disbelief flood your body—you spring into action, the terror and horror of it, seconds becoming hours—yet not enough time to rush them to the hospital.”
Many thanks to those of you who have nudged me online. No, I’m not dead. Yes, this has been a crazy month (sucky, wild, awful, wonderful, bizarre).
I have been having serious issues with my internet connection for the last two weeks. Using it at home is unbearable. Think: 14.4 modem in 1994, but slower. Some days I can’t even connect at all, so I am pretty much without internet access until I get the new cable installed next week.
Just wanted to let you all know I’m still out here somewhere. And, that I am almost finished with my second NaNo novel. Whoopeee! Well, I shouldn’t say “finished,” actually, as it’s really just an awful, sloppy draft. But, I have almost completed the required word count, which is something. I’ll share snippets soon.
I have also been working on the Egyptian Book of the Dead project (huge, too big really, I’ll probably do it over again), and dealing with fallout from a break-in. I’ll be sharing photos of this and a self-portrait project I had to do (gack).
And, leaving you with a fab scene from The Wedding Singer. Robby Hart (Adam Sandler) sings a song he wrote about his recent ex-girlfriend who left him standing at the altar. Love this.
Just a funny little snippet. Robert and Jen should get an extra kick out of it, methinks.
National N ovel Writing Month, Novel Appetizer #2:
Michael Trent had decided a long time ago he would die of cancer, or some other perilous, rotting disease. Like Chief White Halfoat in Catch-22, who had declared his death would be pneumonia, Michael Trent had assigned it, decided it, and filed it years ago, in high school bent over the idea in a cozy, mid-winter living room.
A palm-reading book laid out Jennifer’s floor had revealed mysterious lines–paths crossing poorly drawn palms like a road map. Fingers following the jaggy landscape, they pored over simian lines, life lines, heart lines, and those funny, D-shaped diamonds that appear as a dooming, world-ending declarations of disease. Michael Trent had one on his right hand, which was reality, and it clearly meant illness. Something terrible. Modern doctors wouldn’t take the diamonds seriously, but they were there, all the same. The barbarians.
Of course it would be cancer. Coffee, soda, chocolate and air caused cancer.
Monday Morning–crisp, cold, refreshing.
When there are Mondays like this, where the grass and cottonwood leaves are encrusted in a crackling shell, you can’t imagine or remember that only a short time earlier, the weather was greasy-hot, permeating everything like the sticky black tar that liquifies in the cracks of parking lots. You can’t fathom that you were walking around, a few limp pieces of clothing clinging, in the hot-dread of late August. And yet, here it is–fresh, cold. Your breath materializes. You feel alive. The annuals are bowing down, returning to the ground. The perennials are buckling in for the ride. Your favorite tree emerges as a silent, hibernating skeleton. Arm-wave branches bear only a few little yellow medallions and the sky becomes San Francisco.
The progression of the seasons. The endless cycle of life. Before you know it, the icy ground will be giving way to shoots and spring crocus. People begin washing their cars in their driveways–it won’t be too cold to splash and foam. Home Dept will lay out flats of new plants. The gray sky will give slowly to a light warm which is cool at the edges.
And you’ll wonder where you will be that summer, that winter.
And you’ll wonder why you never told that secret high school crush that the thought of them made a candle light somewhere.
And you’ll wonder what you might do this year, next year, how much bigger that favorite tree will grow, and how your car–your trusty car–will eventually meet its end. How you might look, where your hairline will go.
And, you’ll find yourself having to find creative places to stash and stack your wardrobe from the previous season.
The day after tomorrow, and more days after tomorrow.
The same moon Lao Tzu, Julius Caesar, Livia, Rumi, Socrates, and Hatshepsut all saw, the same moon you see, we see, that poets and painters and writers have hailed and railed, will continue rising, moving closer, pulling farther away with each cycle, each rythm. A perfect dance.
