I know about Art, and I still know what I like!

On sunday I had a wonderful afternoon visiting the blockbuster 'Impressionists' exhibition which is currently on show at the National Gallery of Victoria, in Mebourne, Australia. My mother came along too, and enjoyed the show, though I think at first she was a bit shocked that I criticised some of the pictures.

Mum is of the 'I don't know about art, but I know what I like' school of art criticism. She feels uncomfortable around showily 'artsy' types. Interestingly, we were often drawn to the same pictures, and disliked the same ones. I know about art, but I still know what I like. Van Gogh's 'Starry Night on the Rhone' attracted me like a magnet. I could barely tear my eyes away from the luminescent canvas.

A popular painting was Jean Beraud's 'A Party', a tour-de-force of painting that was constantly surrounded by a throng of viewers. The painted gas lights seemed to glow, even from across the room - an effect acheived in part, I think, by 'knocking back' the key of almost every other value in the painting, so that the lights by contrast seemed intensely bright. Tissot's Le Bal was another crowd-pleasing delight. The tiny reproduction fails to convey the brilliant use of light and contrast in this picture - the mass of pale faces in the backround, and the brilliant golden dress against the black tuxedo.

Once I'd commented on dodgy drawing and a poorly painted dog (the dog at Berthe's feet on the Balcony), my mom got into the swing of things and enjoyed observing that the shadows in Monet's haystacks were wrong (each going in different directions) and that she didn't like the Nabis. (Not my favorite movement either). I observed the lack of drawing in some paintings - most of the impressionists were good colorists, but several of them couldn't draw at all - Degas being a notable exception, his firmly modeled musicians and intriguing composition a delight to behold. I was surprised at how flat and shapeless the Renoir figures looked 'in the flesh' compared to reproductions.

Now, don't get me wrong - the odd criticism didn't mean that I disliked the show. On the contrary, it was wonderful, and I'll try and fit in another visit before it ends. But knowing that even the great masters can mess things up on occasion is immensely encouraging. With the perfect glossy reproductions and artspeak-rich critical analysis of art history, these people are set up to be the superheroes of art. But they weren't. They were just artists, just like us.