Art
The Appointment: A Date With An Artful Genius at The Carnegie
by T. SHER SINGH
On one of my early visits to the area, I found time to make my way to the Carnegie, an imperial structure located smack in the middle of the university complex in picturesque Pittsburgh (Pennsylvania, U.S.A.)
A seemingly endless collection of things educational and cultural, the Carnegie is memorable for each of its constituents: the Library, the Museum of Natural History, the Music Hall. And, of course, its splendid Museum of Art.
I meandered through its wonderful galleries one fine morning. One by one, I savoured the Monets, the Cezannes, the Van Goghs, the Gaugins - a smorgasbord for the eyes and the soul.
At one point, I sauntered around a corner into the next hall and abruptly found myself amidst the Contemporary section.
Colours and shapes leapt out from the walls, in anger, in passion, in gay abandon. It was as if this section of the gallery had been dedicated to the depiction of anarchy, as viewed by a mob of tortured souls. As if somebody had suddenly switched the radio channels - from Streisand to Guns ‘n' Roses.
I moved along at a steady pace until I found I was staring at a blank wall. No, wait. It wasn't blank. It was a white wall with a frame hanging on it, also white. Four feet square. Stark white, nothing else.
A small card on one side proclaimed that the spot was intended to display the following exhibit:
Robert Ryman, American, b. 1930
APPOINTMENT, 1985
Oil on Aluminum
Collection of J.H.L.Simonds
I noted that this was the only spot in the entire Museum (as far as I had been through it) which had a string around it, cordoning off a space several feet away from the wall.
A note attached to the string stated:
"PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH."
Suspecting there may be a story behind the missing painting, I turned to an usher who was standing within hailing distance, and asked her if the painting was in storage.
"No," she said, "it's right there, in front of you, Sir." She smiled as she turned away, with a parting "That's it; it's all there!"
I felt embarrassed. She must think I'm a boor, I said to myself. What am I doing in an art gallery, if I can't even recognize a painting?
I waited until she was out of sight. I swung around and stared at he 4' x 4' frame on the wall, captioned APPOINTMENT.
No, I glared at it. I was upset at myself. How could I ask such a silly question?
The usher was right. The frame on the wall was the exhibit.
It had no border. It was white. From top to bottom. From left to right. From corner to corner. It was plain, regular, standard-issue white. Blank.
Unadulterated, unbroken, un-undulating, unencumbered, untarnished, unvarnished, unshaded, unstriped, undersigned. Just white. No more, no less.
I stared at it for a long time. A long, long time.
It aroused feelings in me that no other painting ever had.
Ever. Neither Picasso. Nor Blake. Nor Dali. Not even El Greco. The sixteen square feet of simple white questioned my very sanity. Challenged my self-esteem. Taunted my self-confidence.
It made me angry. And sad. Embarrassed. I heard people behind me. Were they looking at the painting or were they gawking at me as I struggled to interpret the painting.
Was I the "Appointment"?
When I returned home to Canada, I sought out the bare walls in our house. I remembered when my good friend, Don - a painter hitherto unrecognized and unhonoured by his peers - had meticulously painted them only a couple of years earlier. White. Unequivocally white.
Just like Robert Tyman's APPOINTMENT.
Was I sitting on a gold mine? Should the National Gallery be called and asked for an opinion, maybe even an appraisal?
I did better. I called the owner of the Ryman masterpiece. I tracked down Ms. Simonds with a few phone calls, starting at the Carnegie in Pittsburgh.
She acknowledged that she was the proud owner of the Ryman. She had several of his works, she said. What had she paid for the APPOINTMENT? Can't tell you that, I'm sorry, she said. But each Ryman is all over the map in the six-figure range, she said. One was recently valued at $700,000.00. The APPOINTMENT? Who knows, she said, but it should be in the same ballpark.
I'm having some difficulty in understanding the painting, I confessed. Can you help me by sharing what it means to you? I asked
She was quiet for several seconds. Why do you want to know?
Because I'm troubled by it; because I want to understand it.
Well, she said, I'll have to think about it.
She took my number and my address down, and promised to write later that week, and help me with an interpretation.
That was some time ago. Still waiting to hear from her.
In the meantime, I'm considering a career change. I want to be rich. And I don't want to go about it the round-about way.
I want to be a Minimalist artist - just like Robert Ryman.
I want to be able to spell Reductivism and Rejectivism while staring into blank space.
I'm off to buy a paint brush. And some white paint. I think I have an idea for another, even greater (albeit minimalist) masterpiece.
Just you wait and see ...
November 9, 2010
Conversation about this article
1: Jaimal Singh (Utah, U.S.A.), November 09, 2010, 11:15 AM.
The Guggenheim in New York proudly exhibits a number of Rymans too. "Andher nagri, andher raaja, tukkey ser bhaji, tukkey ser khaaja ...!" The age-old parable applies to so-called modernity as completely as it applies to chaotic India.
2: Kanwar (Brampton, Ontario, Canada), November 09, 2010, 1:01 PM.
I suspect the canvas mirrors the blank space between the ears of this lady and therein lies the meaning. He certainly is a genius if he can separate the rich and stupid from their money in return for white space. He might be tempted to start a religion when this gimmick dries up. His holy text will be composed of a 1000 blank pages and it will still out-do most of the competition!
3: Sangat Singh (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia), November 09, 2010, 3:36 PM.
Have spent part of the wee hours of the morning in pondering "What it could be?" Perhaps I could ask my precocious grandson for help. Well, such a solution could unravel the puzzle. Children always have an apt description. They are not yet burdened with the hearsay description of things and always come up with fresh and unadulterated descriptions. Could you beat the following: Like Rapinder, a kindergarten teacher was observing her classroom of children while they were drawing. She would occasionally walk around to see each child's work ... As she got to one little girl who was working diligently, she asked what the drawing was. The girl replied, "I'm drawing God." The teacher paused and said, "But no one knows what God looks like." Without missing a beat, or looking up from her drawing, the girl replied, "They will in a minute."
4: Harman Singh (California, U.S.A.), November 09, 2010, 7:42 PM.
Ha..ha..! It reminds me of the Emperor and his 'invisible' clothes. Everyone is so afraid of offending nowadays that no one has the courage to call it BS when they see it. Great read, T. Sher Singh.
5: Manjeet Kaur Shergill (Singapore), November 15, 2010, 7:00 PM.
Reminded me of Yasmin Reza's play titled ART - three friends got quite affected when one of them bought an expensive painting - a canvas with nothing on it but just white paint. It's hard to reject and reduce. Less is less. More is less. Sikhi connection could be - dining at Lalo's place instead of Bhago's.