The importance of flatness and self-containment in the visual arts
Tom Ludwig

In the best art, the image triumphs over the narrative; the visual triumphs over the cerebral. The best art is unafraid to effect a benign barrier to full understanding, whether the work of art is considered representational or non-objective. The concept of anonymity, of non-emotionalism—so often rejected by both artist and viewer—is actually essential to the realization of these goals. In order for art to be properly appreciated, the viewer must be able, and willing, to filter the many bits and pieces of information about the work and its creator to which he is continuously exposed. The viewer must also be able to discern which of this information is useful to his interpretation of the artist's work, and which is not.

The admittedly trite phrase "familiarity breeds contempt" is particularly pertinent to this discussion. The desire to learn more about the art and artist with which we may be infatuated is understandable, but the viewer who seeks this information must remember that he may not like what is learned—especially if the viewer has a low moral tolerance for adultery, alcoholism, bigotry, misogyny, pedophilia, and any other perceived transgressions which characterize the personal lives of many of our most brilliant artists, both living and dead. This idea of anonymity in art has less to do with how much understanding the viewer is able to absorb, than with how much knowledge is actively sought by the viewer— how much he chooses to discover. The viewer must, for all intents and purposes, enter into a partnership with the artist, and with the art being viewed, to ensure that the artist's desire to retain some modicum of anonymity, of blankness, is respected.

Art and understanding

For art to be properly appreciated, it must not be fully understood. This idea, seemingly antithetical to the commonly accepted attitudes about the way in which art should be experienced, has nothing to do with the work of art being representational or abstract. Instead, it has to do with the viewer concerning himself with certain issues that may dilute the ability to respond to the work's visual immediacy.
Art should be used for whatever purposes the viewer wishes. Even if a work of art is strictly representational, depicting a specific time, place, or activity, the viewer will usually assign the work's contents a role that is specific to the established literature that comprises his life. The best art leaves many questions unanswered, and retains a quality that can perhaps be best described as neutrality. If this principle is adhered to, it negates any attempt by the artist—usually misguided— to thrust upon the viewer his or her own personal beliefs. This entire concept, which may be mistakenly interpreted as a sort of creative elitism, is actually intended to reinforce the fact that the artist and the viewer each have separate and distinct functions in the experience of art. Importantly, the viewer must resist the temptation to enter the narrative of the artwork (this idea of entering a work of art undoubtedly has its origins in the Renaissance discovery of linear perspective, a subject which will be discussed further later on in this essay.)

To fully experience visual art, there should actually be a barrier between viewer and viewed object. This statement is not as paradoxical as it seems. Once the viewer enters the scene, and places himself in the action or narrative of the work of art, he agrees by extension to abide by the conditions set forth by the artist as a kind of unwanted "entrance fee". But if the viewer keeps his distance from the narrative of the work of art, he remains free to interpret the work in his own way. He remains free to focus his intellectual energies on the aforementioned visual immediacy so critical to the proper viewing of a work of art. If viewers of visual art are concerned only with what the work of art looks like (or sounds like, in the case of music), they can avoid the common pitfall of their attitude towards that work being damaged by an awareness that the artist who created the work is a distasteful human being, as it pertains to the viewer's moral or ethical codes. The morality of the artist is pertinent to this discussion because many viewers of art assign to the creator of the work the role of moral hero. If this is done, the viewer who learns that the artist engaged in certain types of behavior that is deemed morally or socially unacceptable may actually feel obligated to offer a disclaimer when expressing positive opinions about that artist's work. For example, it is not difficult to imagine someone apologizing for appreciating the power of the music of composer Richard Wagner, lest the listener be perceived as aligning him or herself with Wagner's well-known anti-Semitism.

Andrew Wyeth and the "Helga" series

Another illustration of this idea is the 1986 episode in the career of Andrew Wyeth, a personal favorite of the author of this essay.

I was dismayed, not elated, when Wyeth announced the existence of his so-called "Helga Series", a collection of 246 drawings, watercolors, and temperas of Helga Testorf, a German immigrant who was hired as a sort of nurse by Wyeth's neighbor and frequent model, Karl Kuerner. Much of the news media's reaction to the announcement of this series of works was predictable ("Andrew Wyeth's Stunning Secret" was the tabloidian headline which appeared in the episode of "Time" magazine which appeared the week after the Helga works were uncovered.)[1] The immediate reaction of the popular media was that Wyeth, whose personality and body of work seemingly represented the essence of New Englandic restraint, had been guilty of extramarital impropriety with Helga throughout the course of the series' creation. From the start, the fascination with the series originated less with the actual artistry or craftsmanship of the series, which, when compared with the rest of Wyeth's oeuvre, was impressive but not remarkable. Instead, it originated primarily from its voyeuristic appeal, and perhaps from the images it may have evoked of an aging, patriarchic artist sequestered in his studio with a mysterious young woman (incidentally, the perception that Wyeth was taking liberties with a young, naïve waif, although common, was inaccurate: Helga was forty years of age when she first posed for Wyeth in 1970; she was nearly fifty-five at the time of the completion of the final Helga picture.)

Left: August 18, 1986 issue of Time Magazine featuring coverage of the Helga series.
Right: "Overflow", one of 246 Wyeth paintings and drawings of Helga Testorf.

Notes to page 1:

1. Time Magazine, August 18, 1986

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