still life

(If you're not in the mood to read today, the Carnegie Museum of Art in Pittsburgh has a meditation opportunity using the above Morandi painting as its focal point. You can do that here if you'd rather do that: Meditation on Stillness.)

The other day, a man walked into a gallery at the museum. He pushed a toddler in a stroller. A woman and a older man flanked him. His eyes landed on the first sculpture in the middle of the gallery, a modernist piece, and with an air of exasperation, he said, "I could do that!" The woman and older man gave a chuckle and the group kept walking.

I was not in that gallery for the piece they dismissed. I was there for the one work of art from the Italian-artist Giorgio Morandi (the painting pictured above). Morandi made still-life paintings for most of his life, focusing on household items on a flat surface. Though he had the talent to paint them as hyper-realistic, he choose not to. I've read a handful of articles that attempt to explain why, but there's never a satisfying answer. I wonder if Morandi even knew why he was creating what he created. In his words:

I am essentially a painter of the kind of still life composition that communicates a sense of tranquility and privacy, moods which I have always valued above all else.

I'm going to park images of a few of his paintings below this. Notice how some of the same items end up in multiple paintings, and how they look different each time.

If you have the time and the desire, go back through the images – all the way to the top – and just look at the table: the surface that the items rest on. Some look solid, as if they hold the weight of the items. Others don't seem real and the items seem to float. Shadows fall on a few, while others lack them. The one at the very top, the only one I've seen in person, has a table that feels more like a large ball of dough, spongy and porous. The items seem to sink into its surface.

In that gallery, after the "I could do that" comment and the family were long gone, I decided to look at the Morandi painting again, to look harder. I realized that that, to me, was the point. It was all about slowing down and looking closely. It took a lot of intention and a lot of effort to just stop and gaze at one artwork.

I swept my vision over the piece's entire surface and thought thoughts, but also let my brain go quiet. I tried to see through the items to the metaphysical world behind them, to what Morandi might have saw in them. At some point, my breath caught, which caused me to notice it. I inhaled deeply, then I exhaled. After that brief moment, my senses felt sharper, my mind clearer. He had tried to paint tranquility and privacy – vague ideas – but was that what I was feeling?

Morandi was an explorer of sorts. He was in search of something through his process. He was doing it over and over. When my time was up, I left the painting there on the wall. But I also carried it with me as I walked away. A playful thought cycled through my mind as I tried to make sense of what happened to me as I stood there: I definitely could not do that. To walk by and say, "I could do that," is not doing it. The only way to do something is to do it. The man who made the comment could not – and did not – do it. But Morandi did.

indoor animal is curated by a human: Tim Papciak. On Mondays, he shares one link to one music video to help spark creativity in himself and in other creative types. On Thursdays, he recommends a book, movie, show, art piece, or link to some dusty corner of the internet that he believes either 1.) adds to the human experience, or 2.) serves as a coping mechanism in the year 2025. Note: this is not, and never will be, self-help content.