The Peggy Guggenheim Collection in Venice has this sculpture of an apparently aroused man on a horse in the back garden:

The horse has a look of desperation. Here’s a close-up of its head (note that there is a light reflection that makes it look like the horse is looking downward, but if you look closely, you’ll see his pupil as an indentation in the eye – he is actually looking upward):

I always feel out of my element in art museums because I don’t know anything about art. I know I like modern art best, but I rarely feel as though I have any understanding of the point the artist is trying to put across.

When I was in high school, I would argue in English class about poetry. The teacher would always interpret the meaning of the poem in a certain way, typically weighty and metaphysical, which I would dispute.

I wasn’t convinced that poets always had a deeper meaning when they wrote. I thought that maybe Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening might just really be a poem about a guy out riding his horse.

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

When I first saw this sculpture I laughed. It seemed goofy, the sort of thing I see in art museums and don’t understand, like Frost’s poem in high school. So I photographed it.

But this sculpture has stuck in my mind, more than any other artwork I think I’ve ever seen. So without knowing a thing about it, I will attempt an interpretation of it, which I will then compare to an interpretation by an expert, if I can find one. Here goes.

The sculpture shows man’s willingness to subjugate others even as he himself is ruled by a higher power (or a belief in one).

The man’s arms are extended in the form of a cross, and he looks upward. His expression is resolute but also supplicant, as though he is asking for something only god can give him but is steadfastly certain that god will do so. He is dependent but also filled with confidence.

His head faces one way but his penis points in a different direction – “the spirit indeed is willing but the flesh is weak” (Matthew 26:41). Like his relationship with god, his relationship with his penis is characterized by dependency but it also drives him forward – thrusts him forward, you might say.

Beneath all this, the horse is suffering. He is driven forward by the man on top, but he enjoys none of the confidence that the man does, because he has no faith in the man. He is unable to escape his fate and knows it will likely be grim.

The horse represents both nature and man’s domination of it, and man’s domination of those people that are weaker than him.

That’s my take, now let’s see what others have to say. The sculpture is called The Angel of the City (L’angelo della citta ) by Marino Marini (try saying his name out loud, it’s pure honey). Here’s a description of some his work:

The evolution of the subject of the horse and rider reflects Marini’s personal response to that changing context. The theme first appears in his work in 1936, when the proportions of horse and rider are relatively slender and both figures are poised, formal, and calm. By the following year the horse rears and the rider gestures.

In 1940 the forms become simplified and more archaic in spirit, and the proportions become squatter. By the late 1940s the horse is planted immobile with its neck extended, strained, ears pinned back, and mouth open, as in the present example, which conveys the qualities characteristic of this period of Marini’s work – affirmation and charged strength associated explicitly with sexual potency.

Later, the rider becomes increasingly oblivious of his mount, involved in his own visions or anxieties. Eventually he was to topple from the horse as it fell to the ground in an apocalyptic image of lost control, paralleling Marini’s feelings of despair and uncertainty about the future of the world.

That’s about all I found. I’m not sure if my interpretation holds up or not. In the process of seeking meaning in this piece, however, I think I’ve learned a little bit about art.

[tags]modern art, art, sculpture, guggenheim, Venice[/tags]

This trip to Europe is thoroughly enjoyable, but I feel an uneasy guilt as the mountainous terrain near Florence flashes by the windows of the train.

We arrived in Europe by plane, of course, a form of transportation that is bad for the environment, particularly in its production of greenhouse gases. Now we’re getting around by train, which is less harmful but still not great.

The source of my unease is the papers I have with me, The Guardian and The International Herald Tribune, both with stories emphasizing my personal contribution to the planetary problem of global warming.

The Herald Tribune carries a story about environmental criticism of airlines (as it turns out, I can’t find the paper, I must have thrown it out). Air travel is by far the worst form of transportation because of its massive fuel consumption, and now an environmental group has started a campaign on the issue.

In The Guardian, Madeline Bunting writes a wistful piece set on November 6, 2046, looking back 40 years and attempting an explanation to an imaginary grandson for the folly of our times:

The problem was that we were intoxicated with an idea of individual freedom. With hindsight, that understanding of freedom was so impoverished that it amounted to nothing more than a greedy egotism of doing whatever you wanted whenever. We understood freedom largely in terms of shopping and mobility (we were restless, and liked travel of all kinds).

Harsh words, and like many of the people who’ve read them, I’m sure, I sit here trying to think of why they don’t apply to me.

Truthfully, I don’t understand freedom as shopping or mobility, nor do I agree with Bunting when she goes on to say that the “most precious freedom of all” is “freedom from fear”. The most precious freedom is freedom to be as one is, and to grow; it’s true fear is a potent inhibitor of this freedom, but one can be lulled or seduced into its loss too, unafraid.

Travel, for me, is not this seduction of thoughtless pleasure, it’s an unfolding of new experience that I hope will change my perceptions in some way. If it weren’t for the environmental issues I am only now becoming aware of, I would recommend that everyone travel abroad to experience other ways of life.

Paradoxically, these ways of life often teach environmentalism by example. I’m thinking of the superb waste management of The Netherlands (they have no landfills), the dense, functional and vibrant city centres all across Europe, and the excellent transportation systems in cities like Paris.

The water conservation techniques of arid countries in the Middle East also come to mind, although I’ve never seen these first-hand. This is a good lesson, because none of the things other countries do better than Canada require travel to understand. For the average person who doesn’t read about urban planning or recycling facilities in their spare time, however, travel powerfully illustrates the possible.

In the end, for me these are nothing more than rationalizations. I enjoy non-fiction. For now, I’m left committing myself to buying fluorescent light bulbs and maybe some more insulation. And I wonder how many trees it would take to absorb the carbon I’ve burned this trip.

Maybe I’ll switch to one-ply?

Outside this little Venetian Internet cafe, I can hear the bells tolling as local churches attempt to attract the faithful to Mass. Presumably, they hope to attract some tourists – and their money, every church here sells candles and other items, and some even have gift shops – since the only Venetians left here seem to be the ones who support the tourist industry, and they’re always busy.

Today, our second day here and our first full one, we hope to visit some of the places less-traveled, if there are such places in a centuries-old city that was once the greatest in Europe. It’s beautiful here but the sensation that this is a gilded amusement park instead of a functioning, productive city is unmistakeable.

It’s a real contrast from Tuscany, the region we just left, where we stayed in a villa just a few kilometres from San Gimignano. The name of this place has been so difficult for my travel partner that I suggested she call it San Jimmy-G or just San G, which I think is better than San Gimme-Gango (if I knew how to write pronunciation symbols, I would tell you how it’s properly pronounced, or just ask an Italian).

The villa we stayed at, and in fact the entire region we were in, is dedicated to the production of Chianti. Where there aren’t vineyards, there are olive groves. The little space that goes unused is a dense brush, full of thorns and ivy (I tried to go for a cross-country hike, bad idea).

It’s a farming region that is not unlike the Niagara Region, but much more hilly and more picturesque. The view from our villa, and many other points in the region, naturally draws your eye to San Gimagnano, situated on the highest hill around. For centuries the view of this medieval town was a comfort to travelers, our travel book tells us, who were weary from their long trek to Rome.

Time is almost up now – less than 1 minute left! – so time to go. More to come soon, hopefully, if not, then pictures when we return.

[tags]Italy, travel[/tags]