For reference:
Thomas Hart Benton, the real deal.
And my American Gothic Poster:
The painting (American Gothic) portrays an idealized caricature of Americana and decontextualizes the implicit values associated with middle-class America, making an implied correlation to late medieval/early gothic religious iconography. What does that mean to us?
Well, first of all, I want to clarify that the glory of the Renaissance is a story made up by the Italians. No offense to Italians, but the renaissance isn't the pinnacle of art and intelligence we seem to think it is. The Middle Ages, however, seem to be shrouded in bitter disregard without further elucidation, left to a stock portrayal characterized by a wicked plague and even wickeder Crusades.
The trident in the hand of that maudlin farmer tells a similar story. The stoic, conservatively dressed, bird-faced man stands next to his presumed wife, far from brevity without the slightest hint of movement. Looking at the couple is like twentieth century anagogy: a stained glass nightmare intended for spurious prayer and feigned transcendence. A picture of what you don't want but tell yourself you do.
Today I sat in the library and skimmed over some poems I had already read. I sat facing the window for reasons I have yet to discern but as I let my eyes wander up from the page to the glass pane intermittently I began to imagine a cloud of yellow smoke devour the cityscape. Maybe a monster was triumphing through the town, breathing fire and Spitting Venom (Modest Mouse reference up in here), rejoicing in the cacophony of shrill screams that dissolve into the smoke-bomb haze. The lady in front of me was a sad goddess from some ancient civilization and I could see tiny moles crawling out of her pores. Tiny, blind MOLES.
I recorded this all in my notebook:
in response to "I thought of ships, of armies, hanging on..."
I hate the word juxtaposition/
juxtapose,
(and sweet John Belushi
is still a ghost)
I make up chances that I don't take
(in my head).
I could have told you
something, whatever,
but a chance missed
is the death of matter
(because) you didn't give
something, whatever,
the opportunity
to exist.
You can say
something took it's place, but
graves are just a reminder
of what isn't there.
I want you to understand what I'm saying but I'm too afraid to actually tell you, and far too lazy to explain.
(maybe god can't hear you, but you can hear yourself).
After all, who are you really praying for?
An ideal is a collective effort, a collective lie. We all collude to uphold a false notion because we're afraid that, if we don't, we will slip through the cracks of society (am I being cliché, or am I being serious?). So we become rats--essentially moles that can see. That lady was a symbol for something, and we're blindly digging ourselves out of something, into an umpromised afterlife.
If you're wondering why I brought up the Middle Ages, you probably missed the point, but that's okay. Everything we know about them is whatever we're all willing to believe, collectively. I can tell you that Grant Wood put that supple, I mean supplicating, house in the background with the pointy ass window that makes it look like a cathedral so we're left to ponder what's inside, but we all already know it's as empty as the eyes of that knockoff American couple. That's capitalism.
I mean that's religion.
We're sinners in the hands of an angry God,
like tribute money in the hands
of a starving martyr.
but I guess you can at least choose which God you want to believe in.
If you're not full of shit, you're not full.
I have a reproduction of American Gothic by regionalist artist Grant Wood on my wall. It's printed on cheap poster paper and held up by staples.
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