I once had a close encounter with Aristotle.
It was not with the great philosopher himself, as fascinating as that might have been. Unless and until someone is willing to pay for Greek lessons and/or a TARDIS, actually meeting the man at the core of Western thought is something that will only happen in the fevered synapses of what I laughingly call a brain. No, the Aristotle I met was of a somewhat later vintage.
It happened several years ago, during a visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. I was there with members of my SCAbarony to see an exhibition of medieval art from Bohemia. The exhibition was both astonishingly rich, with magnificent embroideries, metal objets d'art, and other precious objects, and somewhat disturbing, since many of the aforesaid objets were what the Met politely called "reliquary busts." This was theoretically supposed to lessen the ewwwww factor when the viewer realized that these busts were actually sweetly smiling golden portraits of dead saints that had once contained a piece of the holy wo/man's skull. Even better, some prefigured modern pop culture by incorporating an arc reactor a rock crystal panel or mandorla in the chest so that pious believers could see a chunk of what had been St. Anthony of Stark's Wenceslaus' braincase.
I love medieval art, but there was only so much I could take. By late afternoon I was tired, hungry, and thoroughly creeped out by the religiosity of an earlier time, and when we split up for an hour on our own I took the opportunity to visit the European painting galleries.
There are many, many things of excellence in the Met, from the gorgeous little studiolo that Federigo da Montrefelto built for his summer home in Gubbio LINK to some wonderful Coptic embroideries, but the European painting galleries are probably its chief claim to glory. Van Dyke, Botticelli, Morisot, Ingre, Gainsborough, Vigee-Lebrun, Vermeer - you name it, they have it. The art lover can spend hours, if not days, immersed in works by the cream of Western artists, to the point that low blood sugar and visual fatigue are a real possibility if one forgets to take a break or two. I only had an hour, so that pleasantly dangerous state wasn't a real possibility. I was there to clear my head and scout out possible routes for a later trip, not spend a significant amount of time with any one item.
Fortunately for me, the galleries were all but deserted; most visitors were either staring at the reliquaries, in the American wing, or Christmas shopping in the gift shop. Except for a couple of the elderly men who serve as security guards, I was pretty much alone.
And then I wasn't.
There must have other Dutch masterworks in that little room - the 19th century robber barons who collected what became the Met's core collection loved loved loved them some still lifes and views of Delft - but I only noticed one. It was an average sized painting of a man in dark clothes and large hat gazing down at a bust of stone, not gold.
Reader, that painting glowed.
I stared at it, scarcely believing that here I was, alone in a little room with one of the finest paintings of one of the finest painters ever born. I got to within a few inches, mesmerized by the loose, painterly brushwork on the sleeves and the marvelous use of light, the gently sagging face of the subject, the soft modeling of the marble statue that sat before him. Something moved in the corner - a guard? - so I may have made some sound of appreciation, but if I did and it was, it scarcely registered.
Eventually I lowered myself to a bench and simply gazed at the painting, trying to memorize each line and shadow. I didn't have much time, so every second had to count. And when it was finally, finally time for me to leave, part of me wished very badly that I lived in New York so I could come back the next day, and the next, and the next.
The painting was, of course, Rembrandt van Rijn's extraordinary Aristotle Contemplating A Bust of Homer. One of the great Dutchman's finest paintings, it came to the Met in the early 1960s. It hangs quietly in its gallery, alongside other works of its creator, his apprentices, and other exemplars of the Dutch Golden Age, but even in such company it stands out like Secretariat at a county fair.
My experience is scarcely unique - what critics call the "white flame of recognition" in the presence of true art occurs far more frequently than one might imagine - but it is a fine example of the power of greatness to move and thrill the human spirit. What captures our hearts and minds varies from person to person; one of you might find it in a perfectly executed chintz quilt, another in a Helen Frankenthaler abstract or a Tiffany window or a Veit Stoss altarpiece or the temples of Angkor Wat. What appeals to one person may not appeal to another, after all. But truly great art is universal.
The same, alas, can be said for Art So Bad It's Good.
There's a wonderful little museum near Boston devoted to proving this very point. The Museum of Bad Art, founded in 1994, is the first (and so far only) museum "dedicated to the collection, preservation, exhibition and celebration of bad art in all its forms and in all its glory." It's simultaneously a parody of overly pretentious museums and a means to preserve art that is not just mediocre, not just bad, but So Bad It's Good, the sort of terrible, terrible art that gives professional artists hives both for its utter lack of technique and its utter sincerity. Even as Rembrandt's genius allowed him to capture the texture of Aristotle's sleeve with a few brushstrokes, the anonymous artist of Sunday on the Pot with Georgewas able to bring to life the grumpiness of an alter koker with no feet.
Other masterworks from the collection are equally memorable in a way guaranteed to make Bernard Berenson execute every pirouette in the Rose Adagio from the grave. ConsiderWoman Riding a Crustacean, which seamlessly melds 1950s backgrounds, Barbie's anatomy, and a tasty treat, or the psychological depth of Peter the Kitty, where the titular feline seems almost human in his rage about how badly some idiot hominid has portrayed him.
MOBA's paintings come from many sources: private donations, flea markets, Salvation Army stores, tag sales, even Dumpsters and trash collections. None are valued at more than $6.50, allowing even the poorest of the poor to purchase and donate to the permanent collection. It is truly a national treasure, even if it must be housed in a community instead of a purpose-built museum.
For all its wonders, MOBA has yet to tap one significant source of bad art: book cover art. Why this is, I cannot say - perhaps it's that most cover art sells for considerably more than $6.50. I can only appeal to the curators at MOBA to make an exception for works of the caliber of the ten masterly trainwrecks I present for your viewing pleasure this beautiful Saturday night:
The Twilight of Briareus, by Richard Cowper - not only does this masterful composition feature a screaming acid yellow frame that's guaranteed to trigger migraines, there's a screaming red fetus thing emerging from a supernova/black hole/nebula. If this isn't enough to turn the viewer off 3D ultrasounds of theoretical offspring for life, nothing will.
Retief of the CDT, by Keith Laumer - Keith Laumer's Retief of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne was supposed to be an elegant, educated diplomat with a strong resemblance to Cary Grant. Why the publisher thought he tootled about bare chested in a Roman helmet is a good question that must remain forever unanswered along with such burning questions as "does Superman go commando under his uniform?" and "just what is the ultimate meaning of life, the universe, and everything?"
Mind Pump: The Psychology of Bodybuilding, by Tom Kubistant, Ed.D. - no, this is not a Powers of Matthew Starr novelization. Nor is it pornography designed to appeal to the gym queen lovers among us. It's actually a look at the mindset of bodybuilders.
Really.
The Big Coloring Book of Vaginas, by Morgan Hastings - not only is this a flawless example of 1970s bad taste masquerading as political correctness, there isn't a single vagina anywhere in evidence. Bait and switch, my friends? What say you?
The Other Side of Paradise, by Elia Esparza - this is not a searing investigation of the horrible side effects of wearing too much makeup. It's not even an homage to Gustave Courbet's The Preparation of the Dead Girl, that crowning masterpiece of the Smith College Museum of Art's collection. It's actually a romance novel...and just why did the art director who commissioned this think it would entice anyone into reading it?
An Unwanted Hunger, by Chiana Stone - Is the "unwanted hunger" a longing for hot tubs? Scantily clad babes? Floating male ghosts/spirits/vampires who are HAWT HAWT HAWT HAWT despite being transparent? Buy this book and find out!
The Doctor's Dilemma, by Janet Lane Walters - Somehow I don't think "which twin has the Tony?" is necessarily what the cover artist had in mind.
How Green Were the Nazis?, ed. Franz-Joseph Bruggemaier, et al. - this seems to be a serious academic tome about the environmental practices of the ruling party in 1930s Germany, not a double homage to Earth Day and Springtime for Hitler. One wonders just how many copies were sold to hipsters who thought they were getting the latter....
The Practical Pyromaniac, by William Gurstelle - there's a man out in the Midwest who made a practice of lighting his barbecue grill using rocket fuel to see how quickly it would be reduced to his component atoms. Guaranteed to give property insurance agents PTSD for life.
Going Steady, by an anonymous scribe who probably got paid $100 and carfare back to Carroll Gardens for penning this tripe - Hey girls! Want a hobby? How about BOYFRIEND HUNTING? This book will teach you everything you need to know about bagging your very own boyfriends, killing them fast enough to preserve that wooden smile, and mounting them in a nice little heart-shaped frame you made in Shop Class! Collect them! Trade them! Send in your box tops! FREE STUFFED ANIMAL WITH EVERY PURCHASE WHILE SUPPLIES LAST!!!!!
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So, gentle readers - what are your favorite MOBA-worthy book covers? Links are welcome! Come and share!
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Readers & Book Lovers Series Schedule
DAY |
TIME (EST/EDT) |
Series Name |
Editor(s) |
SUN |
6:00 PM |
Young Reader's Pavilion |
The Book Bear |
Sun (hiatus) |
9:30 PM |
SciFi/Fantasy Book Club |
quarkstomper |
Bi-Monthly Sun |
Midnight |
Reading Ramblings |
don mikulecky |
MON |
8:00 PM |
Monday Murder Mystery |
Susan from 29 |
Mon |
11:00 PM |
My Favorite Books/Authors |
edrie, MichiganChet |
alternate Tuesdays |
8:00AM |
LGBT Literature |
Texdude50, Dave in Northridge |
Tue |
10:00 PM |
Contemporary Fiction Views |
bookgirl |
WED |
7:30 AM |
WAYR? |
plf515 |
Wed |
8:00 PM |
Bookflurries Bookchat |
cfk |
THU |
8:00 PM |
Write On! |
SensibleShoes |
Thu (third each month, beginning 9/20) |
11:00 PM |
Audiobooks Club |
SoCaliana |
FRI |
8:00 AM |
Books That Changed My Life |
Diana in NoVa |
SAT (fourth each month) |
11:00 AM |
Windy City Bookworm |
Chitown Kev |
Sat |
4:00 PM |
Daily Kos Political Book Club |
Freshly Squeezed Cynic |
Sat |
9:00 PM |
Books So Bad They're Good |
Ellid |