Art for the heart’s sake
Arabic calligraphy I find very attractive. It fits into a wholly pleasing aesthetic slot in my sensitivity. I don’t know what the words mean and I don’t feel the need to find out. This is restful, like sitting at a street café in a German-speaking country, enjoying guttural, familiar-sounding, but totally unintelligible speech. On
Arabic music makes me feel that I am not at home. Maybe I only really encountered it for the first time when I spent the winter in
So I’m thinking about the idea of being foreign, which, strangely enough, for an Anglophone living in
One thing that saved me was Dubuffet’s Jardin d’Hiver in the
From today’s Guardian:
“The Pompidou Centre's marvellous L'Atelier d'Alberto Giacometti is a retrospective featuring not only Giacometti's sculptures, paintings and drawings, but also the studio itself - what went on there, and what was removed after the artist's death, including sections of the walls on which he drew and painted. These were not so much murals as a palimpsest of stains, scribbles and scratches, among which loom faces, walking men and standing women: Giacometti's perennial subjects.”
I added the bold. I felt that was really creepy. Visions of vultures and the word cannibalistic come to mind.