Upon viewing the sculptor Alasdair Thomson’s flowing, dreamy garments, you might be transported to the sunlit meadows of a William-Adolphe Bouguereau painting filled with young, fresh-faced girls in flowing white sundresses. On second glance, however, the clothes reveal themselves to be carved from hard, cold marble. The artist, using hanging outfits borrowed from his friends as unusual muses, renders miraculously enlivened clothing from the durable material, dresses that seem to dance in the wind despite remaining entirely immobile.
Here, Thomson, who holds a Ph.D. in Art History from the University of Edinburg, reinterprets the Renaissance and classical treatment of marble; in the stead of Michelangelo’s strapping David or ancient tributes to mythological heroes, he presents simple, delicate, and feminine attire. The juxtaposition of soft content with sturdy material compels the viewer to consider deeper themes, and as these cottony sculptures hang convincingly from hangers, the everyday is elevated to a level as significant and moving as ancient mythologies. Notably, the clothes are also fetchingly modern; in the place of togas, Shine carves belted jumpers and strapless gowns.
While marble art historically has usually been used to express the powerful eroticism of both the male and female body, these hanging garments maintain a charming innocence. Seen in pale white and adorned with frills and ruffles, they wait to be inhabited by a body that will never arrive; limply, they fall and strain against the hanger. Indeed, the pieces are delightful, and viewers might be covetous them, if only they could actually be slipped over human bodies. (via Oddity Central and Colossal)
The sculptor Livio Scapella‘s shrouded figures seem to be in eternal conflict with their materiality, trapped like lost souls within the confines of stone. In this strange work, titled “Ghosts Underground,” the artist uses the aesthetic dialogue normally associated with classical Renaissance masters, establishing the suggestion of movement within the frozen busts; necks contort, and mouths hang open as if to speak. Visual weight is distributed uncomfortably, and like Michelangelo’s Prisoners, Scapella’s figures yearn for escape, gasp for air.
Like a moving, writhing funeral shroud, the fabric is rendered with the utmost delicacy and softness, affording the busts a ghostly significance, as if they were invisible men and women defined only by the cloth in which they are contained. Like those caught frantically between life and death, the haunting figures seemingly do battle with the elements of the natural world and its order. As they strain against stone, they are powerfully anchored by spectacular quartz and amethyst held steadfastly to their chest. Like an external representation of the soul or spiritual self, the burdensome yet magnificent gemstones lie cradled within the airy fabric above the heart.
In a particularly powerful diptych, the “white soul” sits beside the “black soul;” where the white soul rests, embracing her permanent and immobile fate, the black soul strives against eternity, his mouth open in a frightful scream. The male, art historically associated with the intellectual and rational, is in turmoil; the female, on the other hand, becomes unified with nature and with the elements from which she is constructed. Within each of us lies this powerful duality: will we succumb to death or will we struggle to escape it? Take a look. (via Hi Fructose and Juxtapoz)
I’m sure you recognize the reference here. In case you were in doubt, the Belgian artist Jan Fabre is reinterpreting the most iconic work of the renaissance, Michelangelo’s Pietà.
Michelangelo’s famous work of art depicts the body of Jesus on the lap of his mother Mary after the Crucifixion.
Fabre’s interpretation gets personal, a little macabre, and a bit controversial…
In his rendition, Fabre places himself as Jesus with a butterfly perched on the side of his mouth. The heavy, dead-looking body wears a crisp, classy but torn suite. A closer look reveals a scarab at the edge of his cuff that is slowly drifting off towards the artist’s lifeless hand, which is tenuously holding on to a human brain.
The Virgin Mary’s face is replaced by a skull, which many would say is a reference to the Vanitas, the universal symbol of death.
The work was shown in Venice in 2011. This was in close relation to, but not a part of the 54th edition of the Venice Biennale. Given the place and the country (a very religious one) in which it was shown, you can image the controversy it created. The artist commented on the matter:
“is not to convey a blasphemous or even merely or provocative message. This work represents a “performance sculpture” that illustrates a mother’s real feelings when she yearns to take the place of her dead son.”
Carlos Donjuan’s paintings combine his years of painting graffiti with the knowledge that he has gained in academia. By interweaving art history references with graffiti art’s history, Carlos creates a hybrid way of thinking made from art jargon and slang from the streets. His paintings work as narratives that are greatly influenced by everyone from Michelangelo to Alice Neel to Twist to Revok. There are elements in these works that deal with personal influences such as Catholicism, Mexico, Oak Cliff, illegal immigration, politics and family. The portraits not only tell stories, but also document several cultures and movements that these individuals are a part of. Movements and cultures such as skateboarding, fixies, turntablelism, street wear, sneaker heads, graffiti and Hip Hop.