Michael Goldberg: Sardines (1955)
oil and adhesive tape on canvas (80 3⁄4 x 66 in.)
I.
Frank O'Hara's carefully crafted poem 'Why I Am Not a Painter' [1] continues to amuse readers interested in the ambiguous nature of the relationship that exists between those who, like him, choose to type words on a page and those who, like his friend Mike Goldberg [2], prefer to express themselves with oil on canvas.
Whether this reveals O'Hara's conviction that the pen is not only mightier than the sword, but also the palette and paintbrush, I don't know. And even if this is his belief, like many writers, he secretly wishes he could play with colours rather than words (he lets this slip in a casual aside in the short opening stanza).
For the latter can never quite capture the red-yellow essence of orange, even if you produce a whole page of descriptive prose or the most exquisite poetry; a picture, they say, conveys a thousand times more information than the word (in terms of size, shape, and colour of a sardine that's doubtless true).
However, sometimes - even on a canvas - images can become too much, too overwhelming, and a string of eight letters spelling out the word S-A-R-D-I-N-E-S is really all you need; particularly when you understand, as poets and philosophers understand, that no word exists in isolation; that each is connected to every other word in the language via a complex network of shared meanings, etymological roots, grammatical functions, figurative associations, and so on - even if, ironically, no word has any essential connection to the object it represents.
Probably most painters understand this too, which is why they still very often give their pictures a title; particularly the more logocentric amongst them for whom the Word remains the origin and most fundamental expression of reality; titles are rarely given purely for practical reasons.
II.
The phrase, oranges and sardines, has now become fixed (one is almost tempted to say a cliché) within the arts, as a phrase referencing poetry and/as painting.
Back in 2008-09, for example, the Hammer Museum [3] held an exhibition curated by Gary Garrels with this title, although, somewhat ironically, it allowed six contemporary abstract artists to reflect philosophically and poetically on their own work - their studio processes, their indebtedness to art history, etc. - without the need to consult any actual philosophers or poets (the show really should have just been called Sardines).
To be honest, I don't mind that so much. Although I'd probably challenge Garrels's slightly ludicrous assertion that "artists look at art with a focus and scrutiny, a criticality and level of engagement that few of us are able to summon with the same intensity" [4].
I mean, c'mon, I admire greatly those working within the visual arts - and I'm happy to admit that many have "a deep knowledge of art and art history and of the
intellectual arguments around art" [5] - but where's the evidence for this particularity of vision?
Having said that, however, I know conceited poets who believe they have a unique sensitivity to language; arrogant philosophers who think they are the only ones who know how to conceptualise ideas; and even affected fashion designers who imagine it is they who are solely responsible for determining our love of cerulean blue.
Notes
[1] Frank O'Hara, 'Why I Am Not a Painter', in The Selected Poems, ed. Donald Allen (Random House, 1974). Written in 1956, the poem can be found on poets.org: click here.
[2] Michael Goldberg (1924 - 2007) was was an American abstract expressionist, known for both his action paintings and still-lifes. He was a key member of the New York School, an informal group of poets, painters, dancers, and jazz musicians living it large in the 1950s and '60s, drawing inspiration from one another and from earlier avant-garde movements, such as the Surrealists.
Frank O'Hara was very much at the centre of this group, before his death, aged 40, in 1966, and Gary Garrels is right to note that he was "not only a poet but also a curator and critic who grounded his critical
approach to art not in theory or philosophy, but in a distinct appraisal
of the artworks themselves, the cultural situation of the time, and the
circumstances of the artists". See note [4] below for a link to the essay by Garrels from which I quote.
[3] The Hammer Museum is an art museum and cultural centre, affiliated with UCLA. Founded in 1990 by the entrepreneur-industrialist Armand
Hammer to house his personal art collection, the museum has since
expanded its scope and now hosts a wide array of free public lectures, readings, concerts,
and film screenings.
[4] Gary Garrels, introductory essay to Oranges and Sardines: Conversations on Abstract Painting (Hammer Museum, 2009): click here to read the essay on the Hammer Museum website.
[5] Ibid.
Bonus video: Frank O'Hara: Why I Am Not A Painter (Optic Nerve Ltd.): click here. This is one of seven excerpts from the film Frank O'Hara: How Terrible Orange Is/& Life (Colin Still / Optic Nerve, 1995).
This post is for the American figurative painter SJ Fuerst who kindly sent me O'Hara's poem.
