Author Archives: Jordan Moeny

City as Museum, Art as Interface: Mural Art in Washington D.C.

“Kindred,” mural commissioned by MuralsDC project in NW Washington D.C. Alberto Clarencia, 2017. Photo credit: MuralsDC.


In this project, I identify key ways in which the mural arts in Washington D.C. act as an interface to the city’s deeper identity by providing representation for marginalized groups and by highlighting the city’s history. Because not all viewers have the necessary context to make use of murals as interfaces, I also propose a concept for a mobile app that would provide better access to the information encoded in these murals.

Marilyn Monroe looms large in Washington D.C.

Literally, that is. On the wall of a hair salon in Woodley Park, a larger-than-life painting of the star overlooks commuters turning onto Rock Creek Parkway and a steady stream of tourists searching for a bite to eat.

The mural is one of hundreds in the nation’s capital that have sprung up since the 1970s. A 1994 New York Times article highlighted the importance of the art form in the city: Alex Simpson, then assistant director of the D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities, told the paper, “Murals provide a public service and add to the community. You find that the people raise a hue and cry if you try to take them away” (“In Washington” 1994). That mindset continues today, with countless organizations sponsoring murals across the city.

These murals provide artists with an opportunity to make visible the unseen or underrepresented parts of the city: its history, its values, and its identity. Here I address the specific ways in which murals can act as an interface to the city, and ways in which that interface can be improved through technology.

A Different Kind of Artworld

“Art in Bloom,” commissioned by the MuralsDC project on wall donated by Hi Market. Student artists, 2011. Photo: Elvert Barnes, 2013.

The traditional artworld is a network of institutions, actors, and norms that serve to reinforce the existence of Art as a defined category. Artists produce artworks that are evaluated by museums and their curators and are either deemed worthy of being displayed as Art to the largely educated, largely middle-to-upper-class public, or confined to the fringes of the artworld. If worthy, they are sold in galleries to educated, largely middle-to-upper-class consumers who can display them as a show of their social and financial capital. The nodes in this network all interact with each other constantly, reinforcing each others’ roles and affirming the existence of the system itself (Irvine 2018).

Mural art still exists in a network, but the key players are very different. Murals exist in the open air, rather than in ticketed museums; their audience is not just those who seek out Art but anyone who passes by, regardless of education or class. Instead of buyers purchasing artworks to own, you have funders—whether public, private, or somewhere in between—funding art for all. In lieu of museum curators determining what should or should not count as Art, you have a complicated milieu of stakeholders whose opinions are only sometimes considered: the property owner, nearby businesses, neighborhood residents, local governments. Perhaps the only constant is the artist; indeed many muralists, in D.C. and elsewhere, cross back and forth between the two worlds, showing their work in galleries as well as on the walls of the city.

(It is worth noting here that I am speaking of large-scale murals made with the approval of the wall’s owners, not of street art more generally, which is often underground or illegal—not because illegal street art is less meaningful or impactful than its legal sibling, but because it has a world of norms all its own that deserves, and has received elsewhere, separate attention.)

There are countless differences between the two networks, then, but a select few stand out. The first is the role of physical space. Much has been made of the “white cube” of the gallery space, as O’Doherty (1986) describes it: “The outside world must not come in, so windows are usually sealed off. Walls are painted white. The ceiling becomes the source of light. The wooden floor is polished so that you click along clinically, or carpeted so that you pad soundlessly, resting the feet while the eyes have at the wall.” It is hard to imagine a space further removed from that of the gallery than the urban street. In O’Doherty’s white cube, artworks’ “ungrubby surfaces are untouched by time and its vicissitudes,” but a muralist works with the knowledge that no mural will be ever look as pristine as it did on the day of its unveiling (15). She is unable to control the work’s visual, aural, or (alas) olfactory surroundings, or the ways in which others (people, animals, the elements) will interact with it. It is an inversion of the white cube: where galleries contain even the most disruptive art within a heavily mediated space, murals insert a carefully considered image into a chaotic one. Irvine (2012) describes it as a “turn[ing] inside out: what was once banished from the walls of the art institutions (schools, museums, galleries) is reflected back on the walls of the city. Street art is now the mural art of the extramuros, outside the institutional walls” (7).

Rather than providing a refuge from the outside world, as museums often aim to do, mural art inserts itself into everyday life. This ties into issues of access as well: Once freed from the constraints of opening hours and admission fees, artworks can reach a much larger audience. In the 1994 article, the New York Times interviewed longtime D.C. muralist G. Byron Peck. “Although he also shows his paintings in galleries, Mr. Peck prefers murals. ‘With a gallery opening, you’re there and you have this flashpoint for one night for a one-month duration,’ he said. ‘But this gives you almost daily exposure to a lot of people who don’t have the chance or the desire to go to a gallery’” (“In Washington”).

Posing in front of a wall near Union Market in NE D.C., a popular photo backdrop. The mural was created as part of the one-year anniversary of Michelle Obama’s “Let Girls Learn” initiative. Photo credit: Jordan Moeny, 2016.

Another inversion of the artworld arises with regard to the capital—both economic and social—of art. Traditional artworks provide economic capital, in ideal circumstances, to their creators, and in this respect they are similar to murals. Muralists are (also in ideal circumstances) paid directly for their work, whether by the property owner whose wall they are adorning, by a nonprofit, by a local government, or by some other sponsor. The economic exchange is more direct than that in the traditional artworld, where it must be mediated by a dealer lest the artist seem to have “sold out,” but it is similar nonetheless. Social capital, however, is another matter. Traditional artworks lend social capital to those through whose hands they have passed: dealers, museums, buyers (Bourdieu 1993). The same is not necessarily true for murals. Many do not clearly “belong” to a particular business or person, and most are not clearly marked with the name of their funder. Instead, they provide capital to those who interact with them. They provide a level of status—often proportional to how new and trendy the mural is—to those who post Instagram selfies in front of them, and even moreso to those who live nearby. Murals are a form of art in which capital is distributed amongst the community, not kept to the individual.

Perhaps the most significant difference between the traditional and mural artworlds, however, is the role of the institution. Institutions exist in each system: museums and art schools in the one, governments and other funders in the other. Both act as gatekeepers for their networks: city-sponsored mural projects are often a major funder of large-scale murals, and receiving their funding requires creating something that can be approved of by politicians and bureaucrats. Even when not publically funded, murals with any institutional sponsor will go through some sort of approval process just as a piece in a museum might.

The key difference is that in the mural artworld, institutional control is far from complete. An artist can’t simply walk into the Louvre and hang up her painting, but with enough paint, a laddder, and someone willing to donate their wall, anyone can create a mural. From the sidewalk, it’s impossible to know which mural was financed by the city and which was created by a business owner with a love of color and an artistic friend. The city removes barriers between that which is authorized and that which is not, placing all murals on the same playing field.

Though street art more generally is not the focus here, it is worth mentioning that murals can seem like a sanitized version of underground street art—not defined by their quality or their messages, but by whether or not the artist asked to use the space first. Approving street art in advance removes the aspect of rebellion and the symbolic role of graffiti as an act of protest. In a city like D.C. in particular, it can come across as a gentrified version of “real” street art, like the luxury condos that bear the names of black artists and local pioneers while pricing out the people of color who made the neighborhood what it was.

But the analogy isn’t perfect. Where gentrification pushes out thriving communities, most murals aren’t hiding something like 5Pointz, a collage of artistically varied, aesthetically interesting artwork. Oftentimes, murals turn a purely blank wall into something more interesting. Other times, they take the place of a cycle of destruction and reconstruction wherein walls are graffitied, repainted, and graffitied again, ad infinitum until the wall is a patchwork of new paint on top of old. This cycle leads only to frustration among the property owner, the graffiti artist, and the community; murals offer a chance to break that cycle and put something more productive in place.

“Frederick Douglass,” mural commissioned by MuralsDC on wall donated by Bread for the City. Aniekan Udofia, 2011. Photo credit: MuralsDC, 2011.

Painting the Federal City

As the nation’s capital, Washington D.C. has a reputation for being stuffy, a city of bureaucrats in gray suits and politicians in black cars. The sites most associated with the city are, generally speaking, a collection of white marble neoclassical buildings and white marble memorials to long-dead white men.

Yet beneath the surface lives a thriving community that is far removed from the “federal city”: one that, like any other city, is made up not just of lawyers and office workers but of artists, cashiers, activists, baristas, actors, bus drivers, teachers, and more. According to the D.C. city government, 1.57% of area residents are “professional artists and creatives,” a percentage three times that of New York City (D.C. Cultural Plan 2018, 58). This isn’t a new phenomenon; in the early part of the 20th century, Washington D.C. was a hotspot of culture—particularly black culture—and played host to figures like Duke Ellington and Langston Hughes before they made their names in New York (Kovacs 2005). D.C. has always had an identity beyond its face as the nation’s capital and continues to do so today, but it’s not one that is easily seen in the tourist attractions. In an essay on the changing face of his hometown, Uzodinma Iweala (2016) writes, “[D.C.] is a city fractured by its infatuation with official remembrance (as seen in its monuments and museums), and its seeming indifference to the personal memories of the permanent residents whose lives have truly shaped it.”

Public murals offer one possible interface to those memories. The city recognizes this: The draft of the first-ever D.C. cultural plan suggests a strategy of “recogniz[ing] the role that murals can play in providing platforms for artistic entrepreneurship and expression of community heritage, enlivening space and creating opportunities for audience dialogue” and recommends strengthening mural-creation programs (74). Even in their current state, such programs are doing fairly well; MuralsDC, a project of the D.C. Department of Public Works, celebrated its 10th anniversary in 2017 and has to date produced 75 murals across the city (DC DPW 2018). The D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities funds additional murals outside of MuralsDC, and the nonprofit and private sectors more than keep pace. Perry Frank, who catalogs D.C.’s murals on a site funded in part by DCCAH, estimated in 2016 that there were around 600 murals across the city (Bahrampour 2016).

With that many murals, and more popping up regularly, it’s no surprise that there’s a fair amount of variety. Plenty are largely decorative, featuring attractive patterns rather than specific images. But others offer a link to different aspects of the community—particularly ones that may not be obvious to tourists or newcomers.

Carrying the Torch: Representing D.C.’s Black Community

“The Torch,” mural commissioned by MuralsDC on wall donated by Ben’s Chili Bowl. Aniekan Udofia with Mia Duval, 2017. Photo credit: MuralsDC, 2017.

Washington D.C.’s history is one of diversity. The city’s African-American population peaked at 71 percent in 1970, a high-water mark in half a century of a black majority in “Chocolate City.” That majority slipped away only in 2011, and black residents remain the largest racial group (Tavernise 2011). The D.C. region is home to the largest Ethiopian population outside of Africa (Schwartz 2016), and the second-largest Salvadoran population in the U.S., after Los Angeles (Terrazas 2010).

Yet as the 21st century moves forward, the city is growing whiter. While the black population is growing, the white population is doing so as well, and at a faster pace (Hudson 2017). Even though the overall population is today about 49 percent black, among native Washingtonians that number jumps to 80 percent. In a recent article about the subject, WAMU’s Ally Schweitzer (2017) points out that this too ties into the federal/local divide:

“No one is from D.C.” is one of those things you hear in “official” Washington—land of Congress, the White House and K Street. Go to a happy hour in official Washington and you’ll meet people from everywhere except D.C. But in hometown D.C.—where people have lived, learned and raised families for generations, usually beyond the bubble of politics—it’s a given that your next door neighbor grew up here and maybe even went to high school with you. In hometown D.C., people don’t utter such ridiculous things as, “No one is from D.C.”

Even in neighborhoods like U Street—once known as Black Broadway—that have become increasingly expensive and increasingly white, murals offer a reminder of the city’s roots. One of the city’s most famous walls is that of Ben’s Chili Bowl, a local institution that has been called “a symbol of the city’s resilience,” having survived six decades in a neighborhood once devastated by riots and neglect. A previous mural featured Bill Cosby, among others; though the owners claim that the decision wasn’t based on charges of sexual assault against Cosby, they decided in 2017 to give the mural a complete overhaul. Both the new mural and the original were sponsored by MuralsDC and painted by local artist Aniekan Udofia (Lefrak 2017).

The new version features 16 individuals, living and dead, all black and many connected to the city. At one end, Barack and Michelle Obama grin at passers-by and Harriet Tubman provides the mural’s title (“The Torch”). Toward the other end, D.C.’s non-voting Congresswoman Eleanor Norton Holmes stands in front of the skyline, a D.C. flag streaming over her shoulders like a superhero’s cape as she looks off into the distance. Featuring national celebrities like Prince and a young Muhammad Ali alongside local ones like longtime news anchor Jim Vance, the mural is an unapologetic reminder of D.C.’s status as a capital of black culture (Lefrak 2017).

“Work It, Gurl”: Queering the City Landscape

Side of Whitman-Walker Elizabeth Taylor Medical Center. Painted by No Kings Collective, 2017. Photo credit: Ted Eytan, 2017.

Just down 14th Street NW is a tribute to another side of D.C., past and present. The city boasts a larger LGBT population, proportionally speaking, than any state in the country (8.6 percent in 2015-16) and a long and storied history of queer activity and activism (Cooper 2017). In summer 2017, queer-friendly clinic Whitman-Walker decided to mark the start of a major redevelopment at their Elizabeth Taylor Medical Center with a new paint job that took over not just all exterior walls but the parking lot adjacent to the building. With the phrase “Work it, gurl” splashed over a background inspired by the pink-and-blue trans flag, the highly Instagrammable mural is an ode to the trans and gender-nonconforming community that Whitman-Walker has served for decades. Elsewhere, a black-and-gray pattern frames“members of the Whitman-Walker family,” whose portraits fill the building’s streetside windows (Jackson 2017). Though many of the facility’s patients are still stigmatized—particularly those who are HIV-positive, a group Whitman-Walker works with frequently—the display serves to humanize them and remind the clinic’s neighbors of the large role the queer community plays in the city.

Work on the redevelopment started in October 2017. Each day on my way to work, I walk past the Whitman-Walker building, now sitting at the edge of a massive construction site. Though the historic facades are staying put, the interiors have been gutted to make way for a 155,000 square foot mixed-use building that will include an expanded facility and office space for the organization (Chibbaro 2017). In a city full of construction, where cranes and scaffolding are a daily sight for most people, this isn’t unusual. What is unusual is that the murals are still there, the parking lot boldly reminding me to work it, gurl. A large development of that type has the potential to be an eyesore for the community and an ugly reminder of how fast the city is changing. Instead, the murals provide a pop of color and cheer that distracts from much of the construction. From behind the construction fencing, the faces of Whitman-Walker watch over 14th Street, as if to say, “We’re still here, and we’ll be here when this is all over.”

Building History: An Interface to the Past

“28 Blocks,” mural commissioned by D.C. Department of General Services. Gavin Baker, 2017. Photo credit: Amaury Laporte, 2017.

On the side of an unused building in Northeast D.C., another mural added this summer draws attention from pedestrians, cyclists, and visitors passing by on the train from New York. From afar, the grayscale mural seems to focus on the Lincoln Memorial, but as viewers get closer they see that the true subjects of “28 Blocks” are the larger-than-life figures of the men who built D.C.’s most popular tourist attraction. Black workers—only 50 years removed from the end of slavery—quarry and transport the 28 marble blocks that make up the statue of Lincoln, while Italian immigrants carve those same blocks into the President’s likeness (Stein 2017).

For artist Gavin Baker and the D.C. Department of General Services, which commissioned the mural, the image represents all of the unsung work that has gone into creating not just D.C., but the United States. Baker says that it is intended to highlight “The hands and the struggles, the hopes and the dreams that went into building this country, and all of the immigrants and slaves and sons and grandsons of people who were brought to this country in chains and are now free men and women” (Trull 2017)

“28 Blocks” shows how murals can offer an interface to the city’s history. The stately marble memorials on the National Mall were created to seem timeless and seamless; for the casual viewer, the Lincoln Memorial may as well have emerged from the earth fully-formed. Standing next to the 19-foot statue, it is hard to imagine that it was created by ordinary men. The mural provides a dose of reality, reminding viewers of the work that went into the city around them. So far, it seems to be working: “It’s beautiful,” one viewer told the Washington Post. “It’s very creative. Now I’m thinking I need to go back and look up all this history” (Trull 2017).

Developing the Cultural Encyclopedia Through Technology

Mural of Marvin Gaye in NW Washington D.C.. Aniekan Udofia, 2014. Photo credit: Elvert Barnes, 2016.

Understanding art, whether in a museum or on the street, requires drawing upon a cultural encyclopedia of knowledge (Irvine 2016). Without the proper context, a viewer may not realize that the soulfoul singer on a wall in Shaw is Marvin Gaye, let alone that Gaye was a native Washingtonian. Murals can be a tool to teach viewers about the long and nuanced history of the city, but their lessons often go unnoticed.

While a museum can often provide that context through wall labels and curatorial statements, that option isn’t always present for murals, where small signs may be missed or may wear rapidly in the elements. Several alternatives exist already: DC Murals, Perry Frank’s website, offers an partial catalog of local murals, and one organization offers occasional tours of murals in the U Street and Shaw neighborhoods. Both, however, require citygoers to seek them out, when one of the great benefits of the mural as an art form is that, unlike museums and galleries, it is accessible to all people whether or not they make a point to track it down.

A potential opportunity is a mobile-friendly website or app that would make information about murals more quickly and easily accessible to those who pass by. To be succesful, such an app would need to involve several components:

1. Location, Location, Location

A map showing local murals is a good start, but with modern GPS technology, an app could easily notify users if they are within a few blocks of a mural. Settings could allow users to select their own level of interaction by choosing whether or not they want to receive such notifications, and if so how often. Constantly? Only on the weekends or after work? Only on the first time they pass a specific mural? Giving users the ability to adjust the number of notifications they receive could keep more casual users from deleting the app in frustration, while providing hardcore mural-hunters with the information they’re seeking.

This also at least partially solves one problem of street art: that without titles, not all are easily identified. Without the help of a label, viewers might not catch the artist’s name, or might not remember later which business the wall belonged to. A map with a location function would allow users to pull out their phones and quickly see which mural is closest to them, keeping them from having to try to look up more information by Googling “DC mural flowers photo.”

2. Entries in the Cultural Encyclopedia

While Perry’s website offers some information on the works listed there, the details are often sparse. Other murals are featured on their artists’ or funders’ websites or in local media, but the information is scattered and requires more research than a casual commuter might be willing or able to conduct. A well-designed app could consolidate such information, presenting it in one place. One affordance of an app is that images can also be interactive; users could tap various points to identify, for example, who each musician in Shaw’s “DC Jazz Heroes” mural is.

3. Public Input, Private Research

With hundreds of murals across the city, the key to the success of such an app would be public feedback. Users would be able to submit suggestions for murals to be added, ask questions about murals already in the app, and submit more information about a murals whose entry is still lacking.

However, public feedback cannot be the only source of information, and this is where my proposed app diverges from previous attempts. In 2010, the ArtAround app was launched in D.C. to identify local artistic sites—murals along with monuments, statues, galleries, and more—but while the project expanded to other cities, it ultimately fell short of its goals (Sollinger 2013). Crucially, it relied too heavily on the community to generate its content. While crowdsourced projects can be successful, new additions often become less and less frequent, which in turn discourages new users. The most recent D.C. murals on the app were created in 2015, and before that in 2013. Apps that rely solely on crowdsourcing are also at risk of being incomplete to the point of irrelevance. Even well-known murals like the Ben’s Chili Bowl mural are missing from ArtAround’s map, and the descriptions are generally no more than a few sentences, if that.

This is where private research comes into play. A researcher tied to the app could consolidate information from multiple sources to provide thorough descriptions of murals’ subjects, artists, and histories. Given sufficient time and funding, the app could even become a platform for unique content like interviews with muralists, property owners, and community historians.

Murals as a Rallying Cry for Identity

Mural of Marilyn Monroe on the wall of Salon Roi in Woodley Park, Washington D.C. John Bailey, 1979 (refreshed 2001). Photo credit: Adam Fagen, 2012.

Irvine (2012) writes on street art that “The city location is an inseparable substrate for the work, and street art is explicitly an engagement with a city, often a specific neighborhood” (4). This is clear in Washington D.C.’s murals, where the images reflect the history and culture of the city on whose walls they are painted.

The painting of Marilyn Monroe in Woodley Park is one of the murals that doesn’t have a clear connection to the city’s history. The salon’s owner, Roi Barnard, was a fan of Monroe’s and had a friend paint the mural to brighten up the “bleak” building for his 40th birthday in 1979 (“In Washington”). Since then, the mural has become something of a local landmark. In 2001, neighborhood businesses contributed funds to restore the fading mural and illuminate it after dark (PoPVille 2014).

Like most of D.C.’s murals, it’s hard to find much information about the painting—there’s certainly no consolidated source for it. It takes some digging to discover that unlike other stars who grace the city’s walls, Monroe never lived in Washington D.C. But her image has come to represent a side of the city that isn’t reflected in the monuments and memorials: a vibrant city with a creative identity, where history is important but symbolism isn’t always the point, and where anyone with a wall and some paint can add their mark to the city’s landscape.

Works Cited

Art and Interfaces, Agatha Christie-style

If there is one thing that has been made clear over the past months, it is that there is a broad range of interfaces, some of which are more helpful for interpretation than others. At one end of the spectrum, you might have an isolated artwork. Particularly in modern and contemporary art, it can be difficult–sometimes impossible–to uncover the meaning of an artwork without knowing its context. On the other end you have the kind of information often presented in art history textbooks: not only a deep dive into the circumstances surrounding an artist or artwork, but a straightforward assertion of meaning: X symbol/image/painting represents Y.

A well-designed interface has to find a balance. When done poorly, you end up with a very limited interfaces–something like Google Arts and Culture or the Hirshhorn 80s exhibit, which offer some context but not quite enough to be useful. When done well, the interface exposes the nodes in the network surrounding the artwork and explains the connections between those nodes, as the Phillips Collection’s Klee exhibit did. It provides enough context to make the artwork accessible: Who are the major players? What was going on in the artworld at the time? What events in the world was the artist reacting to?

What it avoids, however, is the didactic presentation of interpretation as a given. A good interface is like a good mystery novel: you have all the clues you need to figure everything out, but it takes some thought to put it together. If you’ve followed along well, the meanings–just like the solution to a whodunnit–will be clear by the time you reach the end of the interface.

That said, to continue the metaphor, an ideal interface would give the option for further guidance. Sometimes a reader would rather follow along as Hercule Poirot solves a murder than solve it themselves; similarly, not all art viewers are interested in teasing out the meanings in each piece. This is where digital interfaces can come in handy, as they allow users to choose just how much information they want, unlike a gallery context where the space prohibits using too much text, or a museum catalog where it’s hard to get just a surface-level view. A series of options on a website or an app can offer viewers exactly what they need: an analysis of an artwork from an expert, or just enough context that they can pick up the magnifying glass and start investigating for themselves.

Food Photography Through the Ages

William Henry Fox Talbot, A Fruit Piece calotype, 1844. Image via Project Gutenberg.

One of the earliest food photographs—if not the earliest food photograph—comes from a book of prints generally considered to be the first commercially available book with photographic illustrations. Written by the inventor of an early form of photography, The Pencil of Nature included 24 calotype images pasted into the book. Talbot’s goal was “to place on record some of the early beginnings of a new art, before the period, which we trust is approaching, of its being brought to maturity by the aid of British talent”; while he saw photography as an art form in itself, he also explicitly ties its goals and styles to those of painting (Talbot 25).

While some of the images include commentary on their genres or contents—copies of drawings and text, portraits, photographs of buildings—this image is one of several accompanied by a description of the photographic process, specifically the fact that (unlike the daguerreotype) the calotype was reproducible. The process created a negative, from which “a very great number of copies can be obtained in succession, so long as great care is taken of the original picture” (64). From this, we can note two things. First, that the still life of fruit was so recognizable as a genre that it could serve as a prototype in an introductory book, yet the actual contents of the image were so irrelevant to said genre that they required no elaboration (unlike many of the architectural photos in the book). Second, that even from the very start, food photography has been linked to reproduction and reproducibility.

Irving Penn, Frozen Foods, 1977. Image via Vogue.

Fast forward 130 years and things have both changed drastically in food photography and stayed the same. Irving Penn is best known for his fashion photography, but in his years at Vogue he photographed a little bit of everything. A version of this image originally accompanied a short article on iced soups, including recipes, and though that stretches the limits of the term “documentary” photography, I couldn’t resist discussing this photograph because of the way it plays with so many of the genres and codes of the medium.

A brief Vogue retrospective of Penn’s food photography notes his training as a painter and “Vermeer-like” eye (Borelli-Persson). When you open a fashion magazine like Vogue, you expect a certain elegance to pervade throughout. Where food is concerned, an over-the-top extravaganza won’t do*; even the most practical food has to be striking, edgy, and chic. The minimalist still-life structure of the composition codes it as something closer to Art than “mere” illustration, to the extent that a signed limited-edition version sold for $106,250 in 2015.

*Penn’s work wasn’t exactly standard for 1970s food photography, but even the laughably garish spreads we more often associate with the era have plenty in common with Talbot’s image—note the still life with cheese pineapple from the article linked above.

Jordan Moeny, untitled Instagram photo, 2017. Taken with Pixel 2 phone.

My sister and I have a regularly scheduled “cake day” where we bake a cake for no reason other than because we want to, so cake has unintentionally become part of my “personal brand” lately, if you will. Even though I’m a casual baker rather than a food blogger, photos like this reflect the food blog photo “type” or genre, which overlaps to an extent with professional food photography but is both more relaxed and more limited than what you might find in the glossy pages of a food magazine. (Few food bloggers, for example, would go for the abstract style of Penn’s photo, but they’re also allowed a measure of personality and playfulness that magazines often avoid.)

Hallmarks of the genre include the shallow depth of field close up and the over-the-top, attention-getting image; glitter, sprinkles, and lettering are also very “in” right now in the food blogging world. Like Talbot’s images, these photos are designed to be replicated, reblogged, Pinned, and shared. That is, to an extent, the nature of Instagram more generally as well: the app’s algorithm favors photos that get a lot of interaction (likes and comments) so users are encouraged, either explicitly or implicitly through comparison to the other images on their feeds, to get the perfect shot every time—even if that means taking 20 photos of your sister holding a cake.

“Fox Talbot’s Pencil of Nature.” Glasgow University Library. Accessed March 27, 2018.

“Irving Penn’s Unforgettable Food Photography in Vogue.” Vogue. Accessed March 27, 2018.

Talbot, William Henry Fox. The Pencil of Nature, 2010.

Theory is in the Eye of the Beholder

Using at least two of the readings for combining concepts, discuss how developing a theory of media and mediation is essential for understanding how art and all forms of cultural expression can be presented in an interpretive framework or interface.

If there is one theme that arises from our readings this week, it is this: everything changes. Art changes: “By the mere fact of its birth every great art modifies what arose before it; after Van Gogh, Rembrandt has never been quite the same as he was after Delacroix” (Malraux, Irvine 13). Technology changes: “The once-revolutionary industrial obiect… once it is withdrawn from circulation, transmits only pastness” (Debray 54). And most of all, theory changes. In comparing this week’s readings, we see shifts and differences—some subtle, some large—that emphasize that theory is never universal and so, I would argue, not strictly necessary.

Malraux makes the point that, despite the flaws introduced by reproduction—the degradation of a work’s uniqueness, the elimination of proportion, the loss of context—reproduced art still maintains a certain arty quality and contributes to society in a similar way. “Diverse as they are, all these objects… speak for the same endeavor; it is as though an unseen presence, the spirit of art, were urging all on the same quest…” (Irvine 12).

Benjamin, on the other hand, treats reproduction as a sort of numbing force, the new opium of the masses. His treatment of film as an art of distraction is more than slightly disdainful; he refers to it as inviting “the liquidation of the value of tradition in the cultural heritage” (254). (The specific reference to Shakespeare here is laughable, particularly the idea that countless film adaptaions have somehow destroyed the culutral value of Shakespeare more than any other development since 1600.)

Debray, in fairness, calls out Benjamin and the scholars in whose footsteps he follows, writing, “Their humanist diatribes against industrial alienation are animated by a classically instrumental view of technology conceived as the sum of mere props and nonessential tools at the disposal of a cause that far surpasses them” (25). Yet he is nearly as scornful toward the idea of communication.

All of these scholars have, buried in the core of their arguments, the idea that art means something, that art can convey a message and values that were put there by its creator; this is the idea of art as an interface. It is not an idea that demands theory, but rather a modicum of critical thought; though they might not use the same terms, I imagine that many people—most people, even, particularly those with some education—recognize that art is generally not just a pretty picture. And this is something that Malraux, Benjamin, and Debray can all agree on, despite differences in their other attitudes.

Returning to the question at the top of this post, I’ll note that it involves a little bit of circular logic. The idea that “art and all forms of cultural expression can be presented in an interpretive framework or interface” is in and of itself a theory of media and mediation. If the goal is to discuss how a broader, more overarching theory is necessary to understand the more specific theory of art as an interface, then my answer is this: it’s not.

Questions on “Pierrot”

Looking through the works featured on the website for Ten Americans, After Paul Klee, my attention caught on a work by William Baziotes, Pierrot (1947). As I started considering the many facets of the painting, I felt a draw to start looking into the background and context surrounding it more–but for the sake of this post, I’ll restrain myself to the questions I came up with to guide future research and interpretation.

Does Pierrot fall easily into one genre of painting, or does it draw on multiple genres? How do the choppy brushstrokes and use of subdued colors play with the visual codes of that genre (or genres)? What about the use of both geometric shapes and seemingly identifiable images (the eye at the top)? Are the shapes meant to be iconographic, symbolic, or both, and in either case, what are they representing?

What was happening in the art world in 1947? What other artists were doing similar work, and how well exposed to them was Baziotes? What artists might he have (consciously or subconsciously) drawn on as inspiration? How did his fellow artists respond to Pierrot?

Where does Pierrot fall in the work Baziotes? Is it connected, in topic or style, to other works of his, and if so how? How does it fit into the themes of his work more generally? What is his general approach to art and its creation?

The work’s title refers to a classic French character generally portrayed as a sad, naïve clown. (This is in fact what drew me to the painting initially.) What connection does Pierrot (the character) have to modern art movements? What other artworks (visual, stage, literature, and others) featured Pierrot in the early-to-mid 1900s? How is this work a (re)interpretation of the character, and how does it echo, resist, or expand upon other interpretations?

What was happening outside the art world in 1947? Is this piece commenting on the post-WWII world (at least, any more than modernist art as a movement does)? If so, what is it saying?

Most of these questions are expansions on a more general one: What message or meaning is Baziotes trying to present in this piece, and how does the format of his art convey and contribute to that message? I have some suspicions, but as I noted, I’ll hold off on those… for now.

Morse, Metapainting, and the Museum Interface

By Adey Zegeye, Dina El-Saharty, and Jordan Moeny

Morse’s life and work is a useful case study because of his contributions to art, education, and science. Arts and sciences are connected and need to use each other in order to progress. This is displayed not just in how Morse’s relationships with other scientists and artists influenced his inventions, but also in his work. Morse chose to highlight the importance of museums and art as a system of meaning, to bring ideas to America, and to educate others on how to understand the art within a historical context, as demonstrated most in his piece Gallery of the Louvre.  Morse’s identity, practices and ideas connect because they are all uses of perspective, representation, transmission, and systems of meaning. Daguerreotype photography, the electromagnetic telegraph, and metapainting are all examples of systems of ways to encode and transmit meaning and representation through time and across distances (Irvine, 1).

Morse was a part of a group of thinkers who reflected on their place in history in their works. Irvine writes, “The reflexive or meta turn in a representational medium is possible by converting the idea or question of representation itself into the subject matter of the representation. The gallery metapaintings use the system of representation in a painting genre to reflect back on the function of representation in collections of paintings themselves” (6, emphasis added). Using the Louvre as his foundation and reference point, Morse reflected the subject of art itself in his painting. While many early gallery paintings were used as a form of self-promotion by wealthy patrons—a means of showing off the grandeur of their collections—Morse was one of a group of artists who turned the genre into something more egalitarian. He specifically aimed to inspire others to learn, using Gallery of The Louvre to bring arts education to the US and as a foundation for what he hoped would be the future of education in the arts. Roach writes that “Morse’s contribution to the genre was not the concept of rehanging a gallery to convey a message, but rather the specific message he crafted for the American audience” (47).

Morse’s earlier painting, The House of Representatives,shows a similarly idealistic approach to its subject matter. Using the camera obscura to trace his painting, Morse accurately replicated the architecture of the space, but also presented an idealized version of the House of Representatives. Here, the dualities of “mechanical imitation” and “intellectual imitation” are largely at play. Gillespie quotes Morse as saying, “ A picture then is not merely a copy of any work of Nature, it is constructed on the principles of nature. While its parts are copies of natural objects, the whole work is an artificial arrangement of them.” (102) In other words, the painting imitates reality using “mechanical imitation” in order to be relatable and true, but also serves as a space for artists to construct their own reality (i.e. “artificial arrangement”), ultimately serving as an interface of transmitting new ideas of progress. The National Gallery overview of the painting notes that the House at the time was “often raucous and factional—debating major legislation such as the Slave Trade Act of 1820 and the Missouri Compromise of 1821.” The Corcoroan Gallery catalogue has a similar commentary: “The House of Representatives is not a picture of Congress as it was but Congress the way Morse wanted it to be. His compulsion to depict it as harmonious, courteous, and tranquil, to stress institutional civility, spatial clarity, and architectural magnitude, was an effort to vanquish the present and recuperate the past” (Cash 71). By depicting a Native American leader, alongside Supreme Court justices, legislators and the President of the United States, in a peaceful moment, his representation exudes a sense of national harmony, and epitomizes his hope for a better America. While the depiction of the House of Representatives has been mechanically imitated, its intellectual imitation stemmed from Morse’s optimistic vision for America at the time. As with Gallery of the Louvre, Morse depicted a fictional version of the world in the hope that it would inspire the public to make it a reality.

Morse recognized that a museum—and Art more broadly—is not just a collection of aesthetically pleasing images, but a place where we learn how to shape ideas and how to organize our society and culture. The museum is one place where we build our “cultural encyclopedia,” while also being a place that is difficult, perhaps impossible, to comprehend without having access to that cultural encyclopedia in the first place. As a viewer of art, anyone can make their own meanings from something, but they have to be a member of the “subculture” in order to have the background context that helps them connect the dots.

Many of the major paintings and inventions of Morse’s time overlap each other in spaces and social contexts, indicating that they were part of a larger context and cultural conversation. This is also why the museum as an interface is particularly helpful in understanding 1) how artists were influenced, 2) the historical context, 3) how layered art can be in terms of what meanings we derive from them and how they shape our society, ideas, and exchange of culture. Morse’s work—both his metapainting and his version of the House of Representatives—illuminated the importance of this context and network. This connects back to the main themes of our class work. Just like a daguerrotype or a telegraph, the museum is an interface: a transmitter and translator of information. The understanding of the translation comes from knowing who the artist is and what message they were trying to convey at the time.

Cash, Sarah, ed. Corcoran Gallery of Art: American Paintings to 1945. Washington, DC: Corcoran Gallery of Art; Hudson Hills Press, 2011.

Gillespie, Sarah Kate. “Morse and ‘Mechanical Imitation.’” In Samuel F. B. Morse’s “Gallery of the Louvre” and the Art of Invention, edited by Peter John Brownlee, 100–109. New Haven: Yale University Press and Terra Foundation, 2014.

Irvine, Martin. “From Samuel Morse to the Google Art Project: Metamedia, and Art Interfaces.”

Roach, Catherine. “Images as Evidence? Morse and the Genre of Gallery Painting.” In Samuel F. B. Morse’s “Gallery of the Louvre” and the Art of Invention, edited by Peter John Brownlee, 46–59. New Haven: Yale University Press and Terra Foundation, 2014.


What are the values of the Artworld?

Museums mediate not only artworks—through exhibiting them, with all that exhibition involves—but also Art itself. Buren describes the mystical role of a museum, which lifts works and artists to the status of Art; in doing so, the museum defines and reinforces the cultural understanding of what Art is (189). Putting certain pieces in the hallowed halls of a recognized institution defines them as Art, and in doing so defines everything not included in museums as not-Art. The museum, thus, is not only an interface to artworks but also to, as our prompt describes them, “the ideas, concepts, and values of the Art System.”

One of the values that seems to be most in flux is that of the museum as a place of respite or a place of engagement— should a museum take us away from everyday life, or, as Newark’s John Cotton Dana would insist, force us to contemplate it? Edward and Mary Alexander describe these two modes as the museum as a “temple” or as a “forum.” They write that the forum model now dominates, but McClellan seems to suggest otherwise, with vignettes spanning from outrage at the Metropolitan Museum’s “Harlem on My Mind” exhibit (53) to a surge in attendance at that same museum following 9/11 (59). He writes that “Politics compromise the quality of disengaged aesthetic contemplation that the public has come to value and that the museum’s sponsors are content to pay for” (61, emphasis added).

Yet isn’t being “apolitical” inherently a political choice? People of all backgrounds are certainly capable of enjoying the work of Vermeer or Pollack, but it takes a certain kind of privilege to say that it is inherently apolitical to show primarily works depicting white, upper-class men and women and/or created by a white male pool of artists—that is, the kind of works that still make up the vast majority of art in most museums.* Or to take a recent example, consider the two exhibitions that the National Gallery of Art recently cancelled after the artists involved were accused of sexual harassment by multiple women. Ignoring the allegations and exhibiting the work of the two men would have been “apolitical”; it would have kept Art separate from more worldly concerns. But it would have sent the message that women’s discomfort is less important than artistic achievement, which is itself a political statement.

Certainly some things are clear about the values and functions of the Art System. There is clarity from within the system: museums are meant to provide the public with access to Art and to educate both future artists and future art enthusiasts. There is clarity looking in at the system: Art is, in itself, defined by the Artworld; there is no inherent “Artness” that exists in some works but not others (Irvine). But the role of politics, or lack thereof, demonstrates that there are some values of the Art System that are less stable, for better or worse.

*Interestingly, the Harlem exhibit McClellan describes as being too political for its time was also protested, among many other reasons, for not being diverse enough—the exhibit included no art by Black photographers and no writing by Black art historians in the exhibit catalog.

Edward P. Alexander and Mary Alexander, Museums in Motion: An Introduction to the History and Functions of Museums, Second Edition (Mountain Creek, CA; London, UK: Altamira Press, 2007).

Andrew McClellan, The Art Museum from Boullée to Bilbao. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2008.

Martin Irvine, “Introduction to the Institutional Theory of Art and the Artworld.”

Daniel Buren, “Function of the Museum.” In Theories of Contemporary Art, edited by Richard Hertz, 2nd ed., 189–92. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1985.

Vermeer at the NGA: Conversation and Commercialism

By Jordan Moeny

I have two main thoughts as I reflect on my visit to the National Gallery of Art. The first is that, despite being referred to as “the Vermeer exhibit” by everyone I’ve heard mention it lately, the exhibit didn’t really highlight the works of Vermeer in particular. While there were a few exceptions, for the most part the Vermeer paintings were spread throughout the gallery without distinction from the rest of the works. In a way, I thought it provided a commentary on how we as a culture (and particularly those of us who are just casual/occasional observers of art) view great artists. While Vermeer may be the only Dutch painter most Americans can name, in his time he was part of a community of artists who were in constant dialog with each other. In putting Vermeer on a level playing field with his contemporaries and highlighting the similarities in their subjects and styles, the exhibit reminded viewers that art doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It provided a level of context that isn’t really possible when viewing the work of just one artist.

My other, rather different, observation regards the very end of the exhibit—that is, the gift shop. While this certainly isn’t exclusive to this exhibit, I’m fascinated by the interaction of culture and commercialism that happens when museum-goers are spit directly from a carefully curated exhibit into a gift shop. This one had every sort of Vermeer-related souvenir you could buy, including many featuring paintings that weren’t even in the exhibit (like “Girl with a Pearl Earring”). It was an interesting contrast: I started in a contemplative space in which I as the viewer was reminded that Vermeer, though justly celebrated, was one of many Dutch painters whose works are just as worthy of being remembered and studied. I ended in a space in which I was given the opportunity to buy scarves, notebooks, stickers, and postcards featuring whatever limited art I recognized when I entered in the first place, as if I had absorbed nothing of the exhibit I had just come through. (To be fair, I have no real opposition to this approach to gift shops, given that a free museum needs to fund its activities somehow.)

There’s a commentary here on how museums must cater both to those who wish to engage with art and those who wish to consume it—with the recognition that those two groups may or may not overlap. Which, perhaps, makes my two interests above not so different after all. Both demonstrate that the museum-going public may not be particularly concerned with more than a superficial visit to see the “great” artists. The difference is that while the gift shop embraces this, the exhibit itself challenges that superficial approach to art.