When I was younger, I used to take fine art classes in which I would learn how to use oil paints, water colors, charcoal, and clay. While I have ultimately forgotten how to use most of these fine art mediums, there are some that I have purposefully removed from the crevices of my mind. Growing up (and to this day), I absolutely despised using oil paint. While this is many artists’ preferred choice of medium, I have to say that I find oil paint extremely unwieldy, messy, and unsaturated. One of the artistic genres I most commonly was tasked with applying oil paints to in my amateur art classes was still lifes, the practice of imitating a perplexing concoction of seemingly unrelated objects. By nature, still life painting requires artists to concentrate intently on the display which they are attempting to transpose onto their canvas. The artist typically arranges these ordinary possessions in a unique composition, which allows them to experiment with lighting, texture, and perspective. Although this provides an excellent opportunity for the artist to reflect on their creative process, I believe it detracts from what is being communicated to the audience.
The artist’s investment in the framing of both perspective and object arrangement makes it difficult for viewers to make their own conclusions about what is being communicated. Take, for example, a still life such as “Flowers and Fruits” by Claude Monet. While the intense saturation of the flowers and fruits contrasts well with the monotone background and the perfectly white tablecloth, I don’t appreciate flowers and fruits any more or any less than I did before looking at Monet’s painting. Regardless of the mundane subject matter, as the audience, I should be able to look at a piece and be able to look past the artificial perspective. I acknowledge Monet’s intense dedication to completing this piece likely created in the artist a deeper appreciation for the mundane objects on the table, but I feel like this work and still life paintings, in general, do the viewers no favors.
In 1972, the Japanese film photographer Daido Moriyama set out on a road trip across Japan — capturing a variety of candid black and white photographs, many of which are blurry, grainy, out of frame, or lack perspective. This collection would be known as “A Hunter,” his most famous photo book to date. While these photos seem about as skillful as accidentally taking a picture of the inside of your pocket with your smartphone, they speak to the unique nature of Moriyama’s style. Rather than intensely focusing on his subjects when shooting, Moriyama’s approach is detached and unemotional. He never even looks down the viewfinder of his film camera, which means that until the film is developed, Moriyama has no idea what he has captured. While this process does not produce the sharpest results, the images do the audience justice. Their ridiculous framing, negative space, and unique subjects make for an enjoyable observation of post-war Japan.
Most importantly, the viewers are given an opportunity to individually interpret what is captured. A great photo to reference would be Kariudo, an image from “A Hunter,” which depicts a subject wearing a summer dress scrambling down an alley lined with trash and corrugated steel. The black and white photo is very dark, the lightest object being the subject’s dress. As the subject runs into the alley, it is difficult to tell if they are male or female. Regardless of the ambiguity of the subject and location, the photo is organic and fully animated. As a result of Moriyama’s frantic photography, the image is completely up to interpretation. Is the subject running towards the darkness or away from the photographer? The subject is wearing a dress, a symbol of affluence and prosperity; why are they barefoot in a neglected alleyway full of trash? What lies ahead in the darkness of the alleyway? As a viewer, Moriyama’s detachment and lack of perspective allow me to question the subject matter and form my own conclusions about what is being displayed.
Having discussed Moriyama’s medium and style, I believe that the greatest pitfall of still life painting is its fixed perspective. While this works in some artistic genres, I believe it is difficult for an audience to truly interact with an artwork if an artificial scene is locked into a perspective. Even if the subjects of a painting are inanimate, an unattached perspective offers far more room for interpretation. Some genres such as pop art, effectively use this technique, taking everyday objects and framing them in a unique manner which allows viewers to explore the thematic message of the piece. Regardless, I think that every artist should take a page out of Moriyama’s book: “Without perspective, there isn’t always nothing.”
