Flying lines
Aleksandr Rodchenko. (Russian, 1891-1956). Spatial Construction no. 12. c. 1920. Plywood, open construction partially painted with aluminum paint, and wire, 24 x 33 x 18 1/2" (61 x 83.7 x 47 cm). Acquisition made possible through the extraordinary efforts of George and Zinaida Costakis. MOMA
It struck me today as the six year old talked excitedly about the plans for her brother's birthday to her grandmother on the phone that it's the stories we tell one another that keep family histories alive. The memories that are passed along orally, and repeated ad nauseam are the ties that hold us together. Perhaps the better you are at telling stories, no matter how far apart you are, the more cohesive your family feels?
I was flicking through a book on Constructivism in the bookstore today, killing time while the six year old was at a birthday party. Whenever I see this Rodchenko, it's like greeting an old friend. I first saw it in MOMA over fifteen years ago, but our family's link with it goes way back. My parents-in-law tell an amazing story about meeting Costakis in Moscow in the early 1960's. His apartment was lined with canvases, sculptures - all of them now priceless, but at the time he pretty much kept contemporary Russian art safe single-handedly when it was reviled by the authorities. Kandinskys were stacked on the floor several layers deep. Whenever that story is told, I imagine it as an Aladdin's cave. Wouldn't it have been incredible to see them? I know I'm biased, but living with original works of art improves your life. As an art consultant, I always advised people to buy a work because they loved it. If it's value increased, fantastic - but it's true value was in the pleasure it would bring them every single day. Costakis stockpiled and saved countless works of art - they in turn saved him, bought safe passage to the West. There, hanging from the ceiling of his simple apartment was the Rodchenko construction that now hangs in pride of place in MOMA.
One of the hackneyed arguments about modern art is that a child could do it. What do you think? For those of you still on the fence, perhaps the inimitable Baaad Dad's guide to the contemporary scene will help make up your mind. My father-in-law has often commented that he's loved watching all the grandchildren suddenly reach the point where scribbles turn into definite strokes - when suddenly they can colour within the lines. When I was little, Dad built an amazing pendulum that drew complex designs - like a spirograph but more complex. They were the best colouring sheets ever. It's like modern art - the most instantly appealing often has its roots in natural form. The harmony of a shell, the geometry of an oval or the instant appeal of a canvas whose proportions are based on the golden section - all are linked by an instinctive feeling that their forms are 'right'.
Remembering the hours spent producing sheet after sheet of incredible linear forms it seems like yesterday. Perhaps time flies by so fast when you are an adult because your mind is constantly elsewhere - worrying about the future, regretting the past, and as a parent the present is constantly fragmented by your children's schedules - terms seem to make the years shorter. It doesn't seem like three years since I sat in the lamplit hospital room rocking my newborn son as 'O Mio Babbino Caro' played softly on the radio and fireworks lit up the night sky. I wonder if the reason summers seemed longer when you were a child is that you were 100% there, living and enjoying every day? 'Childish' activities - colouring, playing, inspecting the world with fresh eyes and curiosity - all these ground you in the moment, and make it last.
TODAY'S PROMPT: What haven't you done for years? What was your favourite way to spend time when you were a child? Why not think back, and try something you used to love - spend time colouring with your children, treat yourself to an Airfix model, a 'comic', or take yourself off to a matinee at the cinema. Refuel, and recharge yourself. It's the weekend - take it easy, make the most of every moment.
