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Ghostly Sole (Wayne Ferrebee, 2019) ink on paper
I meant to post a weird evil clown flounder picture which I had (a “clownder”?), but, infuriatingly, I could not find it among my boxes of drawings. I suspect it will show up next year, during election season when we have forgotten all about evil clowns (rolls eyes). Anyway, for Halloween, I will just put up the drawing I was working on for All Soles Day, the biggest holiday in the flounderist’s calendar (?). It is a picture of a ghostly sole, on the bottom of the ocean surrounded by apparitions playing musical instruments and ethereal sea creatures and monsters. There are some other things in there as well. Hopefully it is becoming evident that my flatfish series of artworks represent an elegy for the dying oceans. Shed a pearlescent tear! But also remember: the oceans are in deep trouble, but they are not dead yet. Filled with plastic and floating Chinese fish factories and bleached coral and acidified warm water they still team with life. We could safe them and live together on a beautiful planet, but we will have to be better versions of ourselves. It is a chilling message for All Sole’s Day (and an unhumerous end to Halloween season) but it is the most important advice you will find on the internet, despite the fact that it is abstract and open-ended. Just look at the picture though, you wouldn’t want to live in a world with dead oceans would you…I mean even if you could.
Self Portrait With Masks (James Ensor, 1899) oil on canvas
Yesterday we sure had some…fun?…looking back at the evil clowns in the literature and music of yesteryore. Before we push through to the evil clowns of the twentieth & 21st centuries (and examine why they excite and disturb so may people), let’s take a break and check out some disturbing clown art from Belgium’s most famous artist! This is not Ferrebeekeeper’s first post about dark clown art–we already featured a controversial evil contemporary clown painting a few years back (it is funny–and maybe meaningful–to reflect that that post was from the last Halloween when I was a drinker!). But anyway, in today’s post, we are going to try to look at art which is not contemporary (since the art world these days sometimes seems like nothing but evil clowns), yet, moving back in time to look at James Ensor’s garish & phantasmagorical artwork raises a lot of disturbing questions.
Now whereas we know whether clowns of literature and opera are evil, things become less clear when we get to visual art–since all we have are visual cues. Clearly the wistful clowns of Picasso’ rose period, the clowns of Pigalle as seen through the eyes of Toulouse Lautrec, and the sad twilight clown of Watteau don’t belong here (gosh, artists really do like clowns!). Instead we are going to look at the decidedly mixed nihilistic clowns of James Ensor.
James Ensor (1860-1949) was a sort of outsider artist of the Symbolist era. He lived in his parents’ attic much of his life and rarely traveled. His mother owned a costume shop, so, one could argue that many of these “clowns” are really strange masks or ludicrous costumes. What is a clown though, but a masked costumed comic performer? Ensor’s art might be described as thriftshop existentialism: skeletal beggars and weird apparitions in fancy rags struggle through their days towards oblivion.
Two Skeletons fighting over a Dead Man (James Ensor 1891) oil on canvas
A more cutting argument might be that Ensor’s clowns are sad rather than evil. A lot of these clowns do look very sad indeed–like they are trapped with the three stooges in an Albert Camus novel. One of Ensor’s paintings (immediately above) features two bedraggled skeletons fighting each other for the corpse of a hanged person as a bizarre cast of ghostly outsiders look on. All of the figures are dressed weirdly and have peculiar makeup, but are any of them evil? Are any of them clowns? Are any of them living humans at all? Maybe??? It certainly doesn’t matter: the pitiable spectacle paints existence as a nihilistic and sordid tableau with such force that it doesn’t matter if I have betrayed the theme of today’s post by putting it up. It’s not like evil clowns are paying me for writing this anyway [evil clowns, if you want to pay me just drop a note in the comments and we can move the discussion to email]
King Pest (James Ensor, 1895) etching
Ensor was also a political artist. For some reason, he felt that the pompous masters of society were abusing and degrading the people below them in the social hierarchy. He was not however a romantic or an idealist: one gets the sense that the victims in these interactions would behave just as meanly if the roles were reversed. Ensor was also famously an atheist (although he sometimes painted Jesus as a sort of ultimate moral philosopher). The haunted queasy feeling of these works is thus a metaphor for ultimate oblivion.
Comical Repast: Banquet of the Starved( James Ensor, ca. 1917-18) oil on canvas
Ensor painted life as a meaningless clown show where social hierarchy was a rickety ladder of betrayal and corruption. In his world, everyone is a sad clown, but the aggressive, abusive, and domineering clowns are in command because of their mean tricks. It is not an uplifting view of existence, but he painted it with such bravura force and ghastly energy that his work has a sublime aspect.
Red and White Clowns Evolving (James Ensor, 1890)
There is a spirit of bitter mockery and unfulfilling vengeance which motivates these works about fin de siècle European society as it moves towards the Great Wars. Evil clowns in literature and art are all about vituperative nonbelief! James Ensor got that. His clowns are a cutting metaphor for cruel existential absurdity. And, to wrap up, here is Hop Frog again!
Hop-Frog’s Revenge (James Ensor,1896) Oil on Canvas
Though I had my doubts when I first started writing this, I now have to say, some of these clowns are not just sad, they are definitely super evil. Thanks James Ensor, you always come through!
The Assassination (James Ensor, 1888)
Ok! Well, evidently it’s evil clown week here at Ferrebeekeeper so I guess we better aim for the juggler and find some evil clowns to start with. As we will see later this week, clowns, jesters, mimes, buffoons, and comic/disturbing tricksters go wayyyyy back to the roots of civilization (and beyond?) in pretty much every civilization. Brother Jung really seems to have been on something…um, I mean onto something when he identified this as an enduring human archetype. However the definitive evil clown as a well-known literary trope is rather more recent. Our Western clown tradition descends from Ancient Greece and Rome. Comic buffoons were a mainstay in the bits of Roman comedy which have survived, yet, although the clowns of Terence and Plautus were lusty and sometimes violent, they are principally oafs who are not necessarily together enough or self-aware enough to be properly evil. The Roman clowns of antiquity were certainly grotesque and disturbing though (and we only have bits and pieces of Roman art, culture, and literature–it’s possible there were evil clowns we just don’t know about). This tradition of clowns as earthy, honest, and physical continued on through the dark ages. Medieval jesters, such as we find highlighted in the works of Shakespeare, were slanted characters: they are risible and rather sad, yet they can speak truth to the most powerful figures (and they seem to know some of the dark secrets of the grave as well). The Yorick scene from Hamlet does not involve an evil clown per-se, but it is a messed-up and gruesome scene.
To my (sadly incomplete) knowledge the first proper evil clown of our study is found in the works of Edgar Allen Poe. The grotesque cripple Hop Frog (from the 1849 story “Hop Frog”) is a small person and slave who is forced to serve as a jester and general punching bag for a cruel king (you can read the entire original story right here, and should do so now if you want to avoid spoilers). Hop Frog is a pitiable figure whose deformity pains him and who is unable to protect his one friend, the lovely small woman, Trippetta, as the grotesque narcissistic monarch and his seven wicked councilors torment them.
Poe’s brilliance is that he makes us sympathize fully with the dwarf (the literary antecedent to Oskar Matzerath and Tyrion Lannister) and despise the king. Indeed the evil king is practically an evil clown himself: he’s a showman who brutally insults and hurts people “as a joke” (this cruel, debauched, and loutish ruler seems weirdly familiar). We thus become complicit in Hop Frog’s scheme for revenge. And Hop Frog gets full vengeance! The trick he pulls on the king and the seven cruel ministers results in the death of all eight–in the most mortifying, painful, and public spectacle possible, while Hop Frog uses his upper arm-strength (and planning abilities) to escape with Trippetta. Hop Frog is quite sympathetic…at first but the reader’s sympathy is part of Poe’s own cruel jape. The way the little jester gets the king to conspire in his own demise (the murder seems like a staged prank–to such a degree that nobody helps the dying monarch and courtiers) is so hideous that, by the end of the story, the reader does not know what to think and has nobody to sympathize with. There is a room filled with charred bodies dangling on chains and the clown (and his paramour) are nowhere to be found.
The fame of Poe’s work (and the bourgeoning circuses of the rapidly industrializing 19th century) brought more evil clowns to prominence during that century! In Leoncavallo’s 1892 opera Pagliacci (which means “clowns”) the jealous and manipulative Tonio obtains revenge upon Nedda and her lover while dressed as a clown…inside a play…inside an opera.
With both Hop Frog and Pagliacci the murderous wrath of a costumed maniac is only part of the horror. Arguably the staged manipulation of different levels of verisimilitude is the truly disconcerting aspect of the works. Even in their earliest manifestations, the best trick of the evil clown was to stage manage the audience’s fear into something which crept through different layers of artifice into the real worlf. These tricks within tricks… inside plays within plays… become a dark hall of mirrors where the fears of social disorder metastasize into something darker… [to be continued]
The Old Kingdom of Ancient Egypt was the first great flowering of Egyptian civilization when the architectural and cultural trends which we regard as characteristic of Ancient Egypt became all pervasive. It was also a glorious golden era of ancient human culture and the accomplishments (and some of the individual figures) of the era are still well known. Although the Fourth Dynasty (2613 to 2494 BC) is perhaps the most famous period of the Old Kingdom thanks to the enormous pyramid shaped tombs which were built then, the subsequent Fifth Dynasty (2494 BC–ca. 2345 BC) was also an era of enormous wealth and success which witnessed a great expansion of trade and cultural connections (thanks to the development of large ocean-going boats).
A painting in Khuwy’s tomb displaying the graceful boats and gifted sailors of the 5th Dynasty (Ministry of Culture of Egypt)
All of this is back story to this amazing archaeological discovery which opened to the public earlier this year. This is the tomb of Khuwy, a Fifth Dynasty nobleman who seemingly had some sort of close connection to Djedkare Isesi, the penultimate pharaoh of the Fifth Dynasty. The tomb was discovered near Saqqara, a vast necropolis just south of Cairo in early spring of this year (2019 AD). Since the tomb was undisturbed for all of those centuries, the colors of the paint upon the wall are particularly fresh and vibrant (especially the reds greens and yellows).
Seated Khuwy accepting offerings
The L shaped tomb consists of a passageway to an antechamber. Beyond the antechamber lies the main chamber which features a painting of the seated Khuwy accepting offerings (above) such as the tasty cuts of beef which cattle farmers are cutting off of a slaughtered spotted cow in this vivid painting from 4300 years ago (below). The mummified Khuwy was present as well, along with canopic jars containing several of his favorite internal organs, however the jars and the mummy were broken.
So who exactly was Khuwy and how was he related to Pharaoh? Why are the paintings in this tomb executed in a fashion (and with fancy pigments) usually reserved for royalty? What happened to Khuwy’s mummy and why isn’t there a picture of that wrapped-up spooky fellow in this October blog post? The answers are not known yet but archaeologists (and others) are working on solving these ancient mysteries and Ferrebeekeeper will be sure to report if and when the secrets are revealed.
Self-Portrait of Theodor de Bry (1597) engraving
Uh, happy Columbus Day…maybe? Some holidays don’t age well, and the Italian-American festival of the European rediscovery (and colonial conquest) of the New World certainly seems to be under exceedingly stern re-evaluation. While other people are working on that project, let’s run away and check out some amazing and also quite problematic exploration-era art of the New World. The Flemish illustrator and engraver Theodor de Bry was born is Spanish controlled Netherlands in 1528. Both his father and his grandfather were engraver/illustrator/jewelers and they taught him the family trade (which he in turn passed down to his own son). Although born a Catholic, the religious controversies and reforms of his time moved de Bry to convert to Protestantism, which caused enormous trouble with the Spanish Inquisition (which was all-powerful in the Netherlands, since the low countries were then a part of Spain). Thus, in 1570, at the tender age of 42, De Bry and his family were permanently exiled from Spanish-controlled Liege, and all of his possessions were confiscated by the state/church.
A refugee, De Bry moved first to moved to Strasbourg. Then in 1577, he moved to Antwerp (which was then part of the Duchy of Brabant). Between 1585 and 1588 he lived in London, and then in 1588, De Bry and his family moved permanently to Frankfurt. To make ends meet, he illustrated books concerning the exploration and geography of the New World. If you reread the history of De Bry’s desperate scramble around Northern Europe, you may note that American destinations are notably lacking. His famous engravings of the New World, which influenced a generation of rulers, thinkers, explorers, and artists were made by someone who never set eyes upon the New World.
The Coast of Virginia (Theodor de Bry, ca. 1585-1586) engraving
All of this sounds pretty unpromising from a photojournalism perspective, and, indeed, De Bry’s works were criticized even in his time for inaccuracies. The indigenous people all look a bit like naked Walloon peasants (except perhaps for the most exotic tribes–who look perhaps slightly Mediterranean with some Native American bangles and props). The new world forts and seedling colonies are portrayed as though they were erected in a Baroque nobleman’s parterre garden. Also there are more frolicksome naiads, random Greek gods, and mysterious mythological beasts like sea serpents, dragons, and capricorns than was perhaps literally accurate.
Engraving of Columbus, the discoverer of the New World (Theodor de Bry, 1594)
Yet, despite, this (or maybe because of this) De Bry’s illustrations strike me as exquisite works of art. They pack enormous amounts of complicated yet comprehensible visual information into tiny narrative/didactic frames. De Bry did carefully read the primary source accounts of adventurers, natural historians, and other New World-involved folk. He collected artworks and studied curios and ethnological objects. Additionally, if you look closely at De Bry’s personal history, you may find reasons for him to dislike the Spanish masters of the Americas. I suspect if you look at the seething anti-European anti-Western diatribes of the internet today, you would be hard-pressed to find descriptions more lurid and anti-Spanish then some of De Bry’s works. The Spanish may frequently be the protagonists, but the cruel lords clad in velvet and armor are not exactly heroes, even as they travel through exoticized realms of peculiar cruelty and mayhem designed…to sell books.
For, as much as he was a pioneer of imagery of the Americas, De Bry was a pioneer of new media. Just as the internet has unleashed a torrent of exciting new ideas, robust philosophies, incomprehensible imagery, lies, half-truths, and heartfelt personal convictions upon an unexpecting world, the first great blossoming of the printing press in the 16th century saw a similar boom (upon societies even less equipped to handle this information than we are equipped to make sense of the info overload of today). I can’t tell you what to make of De Bry. Much of his work is more disturbing and more problematic than what I have included here. But I feel like it is all visual treasure which you should seek out (if you have a strong stomach). Of all the artworks about the mad crash of civilizations when America and Europe came together, his work burns brightest in my mind’s eye.
Their danses vvhich they vse att their hyghe feastes (De Bry, 1590) Engraving
9,000 year old Neolithic limestone mask found in the Judean desert
We are coming up to Halloween and, as always, we will have a special week of horrifying posts concerning a theme topic (like flaying, the undead, or the monstrous brood of Echidna). Before we get there, though, let’s take a peak back through time to look at some of the other faces that our forbears decided to put on in the ages before “Joker” or “It”. The greatest masks are astonishing sculptures, but they were more, too–masks lay at the crux of ancient cults and ancient drama. We will never truly know what the makers of that first mask up there were doing with it 9000 years ago (human sacrifice?), nor will we know what the Etruscans wanted with their Charun-like mask (human sacrifice?). We truly can’t know what the mysterious Moche wanted with their mostrous mask (human sacrifice?), and sadly, I couldn’t find out about the Bornean & Congolese masks. Yet on a deeper level we do know: our hearts tell us what each of these masks is about as surely as we can read a line of emoticons on a phone or know to jump away from a striking cobra. Some things are instinctual even for humans. Although I am sure an ethnologist would chide me, it is hard not to look through the empty eyes of masks, both sacred and profane, and see the familiar dark places always within the human heart.
Borneo Mask Indai-Guru Mask Borneo, Iban Dayak
Kumu Mask: Congo/Central Africa
Etruscan mask in Archeology Museum in Cagliari.
Moche Mask, Peru, 6th-7th century AD, Silvered copper, shell
As our republic shakes apart from corruption, incompetence, cowardice, and naked lust for power, I keep thinking about Gaius Sallustius Crispus AKA Sallust, a Roman politician who lived through the fall of the Republic. Although classicists rhapsodize about Sallust’s political (and stylistic foe) Cicero, I am no Classics Major. I studied history, so Sallust, the moralizing historian, interests me more than Cicero, the supremely self-satisfied orator. Sallust could certainly turn a phrase himself though. My favorite zinger from him is this jewel: “Those most moved to tears by every word of a preacher are generally weak and a rascal when the feelings evaporate.”
At any rate Sallust was a populare…which is to say that, although he was born in an aristocratic family, he sought the support (and broadly advocated for the welfare) of the plebiscite. As a youth, Sallust was a famous sybarite known for excesses of sensual depravity, but he became famously moral and censorious later in life. This strikes me as humorous on many levels, but particularly because the high point of his political career was his term as governor of Africa Nova (what is today the coastal portion of Algeria and parts of Morocco and Tunisia). To quote Wikipedia “As governor he committed such oppression and extortion that only Caesar’s influence enabled him to escape condemnation.” Hahahaha…so much for all of that talk of ascetic virtue and the excesses of aristocracy.
At any rate, what really interests me about Sallust is what he did with the stolen wealth of North Africa…which he used to build a timelessly famous garden in northeast Rome between the Pincian and Quirinal hills. The Horti Sallustiani “Gardens of Sallust” contained a temple to Venus, a vast portico, and an array of beautiful and famous sculptures–some of which have survived or been unearthed and are among the finest examples of Roman art. Here is a little gallery of the most famous pieces. As you can immediately see, they have had an enormous impact on western sculpture.
“The Dying Gaul”(A Roman copy of the lost Greek original)
“The Borghese Vase” excavated from the site of the gardens of Sallust in 1566. Napoleon bought it from his brother-in-law Camillo Borghese in 1808
The Ludovisi Throne, an enormous chair of contested origin which was discovered at the site of the Gardens of Sallust in 1887
An aulos player on the wing of the Ludovisi Throne
The Gardens of Sallust passed to the author’s grand nephew and then became the property of the Roman emperors who kept them opened as a public amenity and added many features across a span of four centuries! Even today, some of the original buildings and features are still extant.
After four centuries, the gardens enter history one more time–or history entered them. When the Goths sacked Rome it was still walled and heavily defended. Alaric’s men laid siege to the eternal city three times. The first two times, they were rebuffed by walls, defenders, and shrewd political guile, but the third time they gained access to the city through the Salarian Gate…which opened into the Horti Sallustiani. Imagine the barbarians among the mausoleums, sarcophagi, and funereal urns outside the city, and then, by treachery or by Germanic ingenuity somehow, after 800 years they were within Rome itself among the pleasure pavilions and flowers and ornamental trees of the Gardens of Sallust.
I Can See You (Christian DeFillipo, 2019) Flashe on Canvas
Here are a couple of lovely pigeon-themed paintings by my friend, Christian DeFillipo, a Queens-based artist who studied at Rhode Island School of Design. Christian’s intimately sized paintings are made with flashe, a vinyl-based paint which dries in homogeneous opaque layers. The effect combines the best aspects of screen printing, paper cutting, and acrylic painting. Christian’s works all seem to exist in a world of warm summer colors and ingenuous happiness. The flattened forms and decorative foliage makes one imagine of a more innocent Matisse. Although Christian’s work does not always have the pastoral simplicity and winsomeness of these two particular canvases (some of his other works delve into Indonesian and marine motifs, for example), they are usually comparably carefree in tone and delightful in warm vibrant color.
Both these paintings focus on pigeons, which are emblematic of freedom and happiness. The painting at top is titled “I Can See You” and the courting icterine doves put me strongly in mind of the doves in Boucher or even in Roman artworks (for doves were sacred to Venus). I stupidly failed to write down the title of the second work, but the single white dove flying away from the painting, likewise gives the impression of a divine visitation–but not for scary eschatological purposes–just a pleasure visit. Christian’s works are likewise a beatific miniature vacation–a daytrip to a park in summer where it feels like the doves and the trees are secretly smiling with us. You should check them out at his online gallery (and thanks, Christian, for letting me use the images).
Let’s talk about the most difficult lesson I encountered in class in grade school. To be honest, I feel like I never really mastered it…or perhaps the lesson is still ongoing. It might not just be me…
“These are the times that try men’s souls…”
Although I had no natural affection for numbers, I was always successful at middle school because I read everything insatiably and yet still wanted to know more about existence. School isn’t really set up to sate this desire (except for the IB program, which is amazing and would solve all of America’s problems in a generation if only it were adopted everywhere). Sadly, success at school generally involves the same sort of things which bring workplace success: showing up on time, giving people the answers which they want to hear, and completing tedious busy-work tasks. But, back then, I was competent enough at doing those things, because I knew it was mission critical to getting into a good college–which was the ultimate culmination of existence.
All of that is backstory for explaining the most difficult lesson I ever had in grade school. It is one which I still struggle with, because it involves some paradoxes at the heart of knowledge, meaning, and success. It also bears on life’s true lessons (the fact that I was a bookish twerp lacking popular esteem was probably the true lesson of middle school, but it was extracurricular, whereas this particular failure was enshrined in a report card). Back in the 1980s I had a blithesome free-spirited art teacher. She was a good art teacher and I still recall the assignments she gave (copying a bird exactly by means of a grid; making a random squiggle and then expanding it to be a drawing; watercolor on a wet paper; exactly copying a piece of money). Her opinion was also valuable to me, as I am sure any good student (or 15-year-old boy with a pretty teacher) will understand.
Now I worked harder in art class than at any class because I loved it, but a lot of students regarded it as a sort of free period where they could chat, flirt, and maybe doodle a bit if they felt like it. Back in those days I was still smart and hard-working. At the end of the semester, it was time for grades, and the teacher gave us a last strange assignment: give yourself the grade which you feel is appropriate. Now I was a 15 year old lad, but I had read enough fables to recognize a trap. “This must be a lesson in how to behave with modest decorum!” I gave myself a B plus, because, although I tried extremely hard (much harder than the louts who spent every class socializing), and although my drawings were better than most everyone else’s, I had never succeeded at the level which I wanted. I could see every feather out of place on the sea eagle I drew (and the overworked beak with an unsatisfactory little hook). I can still see that sea eagle, damnit.
The oafs (who didn’t even complete the art assignments!) naturally gave themselves perfect marks. I assumed that the degree to which I had tried (which was substantial) and my abilities as compared to my classmates (also substantial) would be recognized by the teacher who would correct everything into a familiar bell curve. This was an unwarranted assumption.
The final report card revealed that the teacher gave us all the same grade we had given ourselves. The teacher said: “art is about what you think of yourself!” My horrifying B+ became a finalized part of my permanent record! The oafs all got A pluses which they are probably still savoring (in workcamp, prison, General Electric, or the White House) to this very day.
Anyway, I survived that 9th grade “B” in art class. Thanks to my parents’ profound generosity and to my love for reading and writing (which was probably also a gift from my parents), I ultimately got out of school with a “golden ticket,” a degree with general honors from the University of Chicago! Of course, instead of becoming a crooked hedge fund manager and basking in the world’s envy, I ripped up my ticket and I live as an insolvent artist.
“Art is what you think about yourself.” It is a terrible definition of art. Yet it somehow passes muster in New York’s contemporary art scene which is more self-involved than a Kanye West song. I have tried to master that sort of pure self-involvement (just look at this essay), yet I still can’t think of art as merely a solipsistic musing on self-identity (nor as a badge of hierarchical status).
Success in America is defined as making a huge amount of money. It is humorous how often people cite this completely inaccurate definition to explain things: “Oh it was my job” or “We made a great deal of money” as though this has anything to do with wisdom or knowledge or what is useful or right. Society is having a great deal of trouble comprehending what is wise, useful, and right. I blame our education system (though perhaps I should instead blame artists…or myself).
In lavish Hindu weddings, the bride and groom are (unofficial) royalty for a day. This beautiful Mughal crown from the late 18th century is probably a wedding crown for a groom. Manufactured from a solid piece of cast silver with gold leaf upon it, the piece features peacocks which, among other things, were sacred to Saraswati (wise goddess of patience kindness and compassion). The birds represent protection, good luck, and prosperity for the newlyweds. Of course 1780 was a long time ago, so it is also possible that this crown is actually a votive crown for a long lost statue of a veda (a Hindu deity). Each god in the Indian pantheon is associated with a “vahana” a special sacred emblematic animal which they ride. The peacock is the vahana of Kartikeya, god of war. So is this a wedding crown or a religious crown or something else entirely? Objects come down through time stripped of their original purpose, but it hardly looks like a sacred war object to me. Whatever purpose it serves, it is a lovely example of northern Indian silversmithing and a wonderful work of art.
