The first sentence is
almost a paradox. The not-quiteness lends it a little tang. The second is more
like an oxymoron, though it states a truth most of us recognize. Interesting
artists suggest. They apply paint with a small brush, not a putty knife.
What they leave out counts. On Twitter, Levi Stahl posted a favorite oil by
Fairfield Porter, Calm Morning (1961). When I see a small conifer
against a blank background – a lake, the side of a house – I think of Porter’s
painting. Two-thirds of the canvas is water, almost featureless.
The section of Porter’s Art
in Its Own Terms: Selected Criticism 1935-1975 (ed. Rackstraw Downes, 1979)
titled “From the Short Reviews [1951-1959]” looks on the page like a collection
of aphorisms. It reads that way too. The editor gives no context. The sentences
quoted at the top might have been inspired by any painter’s work. Despite the
enduring tedium of Romantic clichés, artists are cool-headed. They are
spectators at the creation of their own work. Porter’s sentences instantly make
me think, first, of the title of Nabokov’s short story “Cloud, Castle, Lake”(1941), which includes this sentence: “It was a pure, blue lake, with an
unusual expression of its water. In the middle, a large cloud was reflected in
its entirety.”
Both of Porter's sentences, the second
in particular, remind me of George Santayana, a natural-born non-participant, one
of nature’s spectators. On this date, Sept. 11, in 1941, he writes in a letter from Italy to Charles Augustus Strong:
“When people speak of ‘lightness’
and ‘clarity of design’ in Gothic churches, I feel that they are picking out
the faults: the true beauties are loftiness, intricacy, mystery, and tenderness
of detail, so that one lovely nook after another is found nestling in the vast
ill-defined whole. ‘Clarity’ should go not with ‘lightness’ but with elegance
and modesty on the human scale.”
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