We live in an age of zeroes and ones. Pixels carry information. Drastically enlarge a Photoshop file, and you’ll find a mosaic-like grid. Change the view back to its intended viewing size, and you’ll see the subject of your photograph.
Look at the Rembrandt (25.0). His brushstrokes are meaningless when taken in isolation. Or see how Monet made his highlights by dragging a brush over the ridges of earlier strokes ((25.1; a technique called dry brush overpainting). Examine Gustav Klimt’s The Park (25.2). The top 90% is sheer pointillism.* Or check Chuck Close’s work (25.3): the mosaic’s intentions can’t be seen if scrutinized closely. The work is in the 86th Street subway station—whose name is called out in mosaic (25.3). We can see the tiles, but the larger information they impart matters the most to us.
Images, language, and music are encoded into pixels and bits to send them online. There are ways to correct for errors in transmission. See the work of Claude Shannon (1916–2001), mathematician, electrical engineer, computer scientist and cryptographer known as the “father of information theory” and as the “father of the Information Age”. Like your mailpersons, the engineers consider their work done upon delivery. What you do with what you get is not their concern. Whether you’re disappointed or have something you’ll cherish for life doesn’t matter to them. But for us, the picture isn’t there until your mind interprets all those bits of information.
Artists no longer limit themselves to resemblance. Instead, they allude to past art, world events, psychological states, and other concerns. A good artist holds thousands of images and hundreds of relationships in mind. They remember artists by historical groups, how creators were influenced by events and exchanges with other cultures, and how discoveries in pigments and materials changed expression. (Tang Dynasty tomb figures are in three colors because that’s all that was available then; more recent ceramics are more colorful because of the discovery of new pigments.) Multiple associations spring into the mind of an artist within a second.
Artists can’t be like anyone who came before them. This dynamic doesn’t seem to exist in other disciplines. If you play classical music well, you can be successful. If you can run an Olympic race and follow the rules exactly, you need only run a little faster than your competitors. If you are in business, you aim for a good return and increased profits. If you practice Taijiquan, you try to duplicate the movements of the masters. If you’re a chef, you can go far by cooking famous dishes. But none of this applies to art.
Could you paint another Mona Lisa? It wouldn’t be that hard if that was your aim. And then, at best, you’d be called a counterfeiter. Could you make a Michelangelo sculpture, such as his excellent Pieta? With computerized help, you could duplicate the sculpture exactly†—yet no one would credit much to you. Let’s say that you made another mobile like Alexander Calder. In fact, it’s a project given to schoolchildren, but no one could make a career by duplicating Calder’s work.
You can make a million identical iPhones, but if you make art that looks like other art, it isn’t acceptable. Certainly, you couldn’t build a long career on that basis. Take all the art you see in museums. Duplicate any style and no one will care.
That means that every artist has to find their own way. They need to know all that has come before them. They can reference other artists. They will have to accommodate traditional techniques and materials. They will have to show that they know composition, craft, and archival standards. And then they are supposed to surprise, shock, delight, and inform with something extraordinary.
But it can’t be too different! There must be some thread that leads from previous art to their art. In the end, that thread is supposed to lead to new territory, open the way to new art, and give the viewer an experience that they’ve never had before.
It’s a challenge to know all that has come before and yet show something never yet seen. That’s why it’s difficult for an artist to convey new information through their art.
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Self-Portrait. Rembrandt (Rembrandt van Rijn) (Dutch, Leiden 1606–1669 Amsterdam). 1660. Oil on canvas. 31 5/8 x 26 1/2 in. (80.3 x 67.3 cm). TheMet.
https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/437397
Water Lilies. Claude Monet. 1914-26. Each 6′ 6 3/4″ x 13′ 11 1/4″ (200 x 424.8 cm), overall 6′ 6 3/4″ x 41′ 10 3/8″ (200 x 1276 cm). MoMA.
https://www.moma.org/collection/works/80220?sov_referrer=theme&theme_id=5110
The Park. Gustav Klimt. 1910 or earlier. Oil on canvas. 43 1/2 x 43 1/2″ (110.4 x 110.4 cm)
MoMA.
https://www.moma.org/collection/works/78411
Kara. Chuck Close. 2017. Tumbled glass smalti. Fabricated by MOsaika Art & Design
86th Street Subway Station, New York.
https://new.mta.info/agency/arts-design/collection/subway-portraits