Asemic Writing and the Spirit of Shufa/Shodō

There are practices in the world that remind us how fragile and unique each moment really is. Shufa, or Shodō in Japanese, is one of them. In the sweep of a brush, in the inked breath of a single line, the teaching is there: everything is transient, and in that transience lies the unrepeatable uniqueness of every action, every manifestation.

The calligrapher enters this knowing through no-mind (mushin)—a state of selfless translucence. Here the ego dissolves, time falls away, and gesture fuses with moment. To write in this spirit is not simply to command technique, but to inhabit being itself. Technique matters, yes, but it is hollow without presence. The true line does not appear from skill alone; it appears when body and spirit become inseparable from the flow of the brush.

Asemic writing touches this same territory, though it travels a different path. I approach the page without the cultural weight of Chinese or Japanese calligraphy—without centuries of standards, ideals, and subtle codes shaping every stroke. My lines are not burdened with the obligation to conform to convention or to transmit fixed meaning. Instead, they move freely, unanchored to the necessity of language, released into a field where the mark can simply be.

Sometimes I write self-consciously, aware of composition and structure. Other times I enter that same no-mind stream, where the gesture writes itself and I am only its witness. Both states belong to the practice. The difference is not one of quality, but of orientation: I am not chasing mastery of a tradition, but cultivating attunement to the states of being that arise the moment the instrument touches the page.

In that sense, asemic writing is both sibling and stranger to Shufa and Shodō. It shares the spirit of presence, but it is not beholden to their cultural lineages. And because of this, I often feel I remain in a state of beginner’s mind—wandering, curious, unbound.

That, perhaps, is its gift: a reminder that the truest mark is not the one perfected, but the one alive.

I was poking around on the internet and happened onto an article that I completely forgot about. See the whole thing in its original form with images here: poemeleon.me/touchon-spotlight

This is an expanded version of that article.

What inspires you to create asemic texts?

As a child I spent nine years in Catholic private school. That is probably inspiration enough for learning to express oneself in a cryptic, unknowable manner. Who, after all, wants to risk being burned at the stake because their words were misunderstood by the ignorant - or worse, by the institution? I say that jokingly, but as with all such jokes, there is a kernel of truth buried inside. Growing up in that atmosphere instilled in me a double vision: both a fascination with sacred texts and an awareness of how words can be weaponized.

I was enthralled by illuminated manuscripts. The idea that writing could be so precious, so revered, that monks would devote their entire lives to the slow copying, embellishing, and preserving of texts - this left a permanent impression. Those manuscripts were not just books, they were acts of devotion, each letter a prayer, each margin a meditation. The pages glowed not only with pigment and gold but with the sense that human beings had chosen to pour their existence into safeguarding language as a vessel of the sacred.

And yet, even while I admired this, I also grew suspicious of it. Writing and reading, the whole business of knowledge-gathering and preservation, is one of humanity’s strangest peculiarities. Language fascinates me - its ability to crystallize thought, transmit vision, carry inspiration across centuries. But I cannot escape the other side: language’s shadow, its capacity to distort, to mislead, to enforce obedience, to shame, to manipulate, to cajole. With a turn of phrase, one can spark a movement or crush a spirit. With the wrong word, whole lives can be condemned.

This tension has stayed with me: the shimmering promise of language and its latent danger. Perhaps that is why asemic writing feels so natural to me - it acknowledges both the beauty and the treachery of words. It preserves the gesture of writing while releasing it from the snares of interpretation. It is script without sentence, illumination without doctrine, a space where the hand still testifies but the tribunal of meaning cannot pass judgment.

As a visual artist I often sense a wide gulf between what can be spoken and what cannot, between what is said and what endlessly goes unsaid. Poets are forever working at that threshold, trying to push language to the edge of its own capacity, testing how far words can bend toward silence or the unsayable. My own response, as a collage artist, has been to take language itself apart, to strip away its burden of meaning and reassemble it into something mute, something abstract. In this way I create texts that do not carry messages, and it is precisely in their refusal that they open into another register of experience. They become universalized statements - not of what is said, but of the very fact of saying itself. They remain as patterns, designs, artifacts, physical remnants of human communication without the oppression of meanings that press too heavily on them.

When we encounter a text, most of the time we do not actually see it. We look through it, straight to the meaning embedded inside, as if the letters and shapes were merely transparent carriers. The material fact of the text disappears, vanishes into utility, leaving only the message echoing in the mind. The alphabet, in this sense, is a kind of work animal. The letters are beasts of burden, tethered together into words and sentences, pressed into service to haul meaning on their backs. Their individuality is erased by the yoke of utility. Each one is conscripted into a system, carrying loads from one mind to another, endlessly repeating its task.

There is something wondrous in this. It is miraculous that scratches on a surface can bear such cargo across time and space, transmitting thought, comfort, beauty, knowledge. A single phrase can reach across centuries, bridging lives and cultures. But at the same time there is something deeply tragic in it. The letters themselves are invisible, their lives consumed in service to the message, their presence unacknowledged. It reminds me of workers in a vast machine, their bodies and hours purchased to carry the dreams of someone else’s design. The brilliance of language and its ingenuity is undeniable, yet it comes at the cost of invisibility for the carriers themselves.

Collage and asemic writing offer me a way to free the letters from this servitude. By breaking apart words, scattering fragments, or dissolving the burden of meaning altogether, I allow the letters to stand again in their own right - shapes, marks, gestures, patterns. They are released from obligation, allowed to be visible once more. In this liberated state, they can be appreciated not for what they say but for what they are: artifacts of human presence, traces of hand and voice, mysterious forms that remind us that communication itself is as much about being as it is about meaning.

On the Mystery of Asemic Writing

Asemic writing emerges for me out of the mark-making tradition, that primal impulse to leave traces, scratches, or gestures behind. Collage, my other primary medium, works by bringing fragments of the world into juxtaposition. Asemic writing, by contrast, begins with nothing but the hand, the body, the page. What it records is not content but gesture: the body language of writing. In this way it feels more like playing a musical instrument. Each mark is a note, each line a phrase, each page an improvisation in visual rhythm. Except instead of sound, the record is ink and stain, fossilized motion on paper.

When I practice, I watch my own impulses with the same attention I might bring to meditation. A movement arises, I follow it, I break it, I repeat it. Sometimes I find myself searching for flow, other times for disruption. I invent new abstract vocabularies, sometimes disciplined, sometimes erratic. The tools themselves shape the language: a frayed brush opens into feathered line; a stick dipped in ink leaves hesitant stutters; liquids pool, bleed, resist. Each session becomes a small experiment in what can happen when intention and accident conspire together.

Yet the persistent question hovers: Why make asemic work at all? Why me, and why so many others across the world, independently drawn into this strange, wordless writing? My answers are provisional, never final. At best, I gather possibilities.

One answer may be historical. Asemic writing can be seen as the continuation of abstraction into the last bastion of representation: language. In the twentieth century, painting shed the duty of depiction, sculpture abandoned the figure, music drifted from harmony into texture and pure sound. Language has been slower to yield, still burdened with meaning, still tethered to its utilitarian function. Asemic writing severs that tether. In this it joins artists like Henri Michaux, whose ink drawings resembled alphabets from an undiscovered civilization; Brion Gysin, whose cut-up experiments with language blurred sense and nonsense; and Cy Twombly, whose scrawls hover between script and scribble, ancient graffiti and lyrical notation. In China, Xu Bing’s Book from the Sky carried this impulse into monumental form, printing entire volumes of invented characters, every page legible in form yet unreadable in content.

Another answer may be cultural. We are shifting from a literate to a post-literate age. Once, print culture shaped consciousness itself; now, screens flood us with images, icons, fragments of text. Communication is increasingly visual, atmospheric, hybrid. In this environment, asemic practice feels less like an art-historical experiment and more like an evolutionary rehearsal: a way of writing beyond writing, of preparing for a world where the boundaries between text and image have dissolved.

There is also the mystical answer. Across traditions, writing has carried a sacred charge. Islamic calligraphy, stripped of figural image, made the written word itself an art of devotion. Kabbalistic texts saw letters as primal forces, each one alive with divine energy. Sufi mystics spoke of khatt, the line, as a trace of spirit. Even medieval marginalia - those playful, excessive doodles in illuminated manuscripts - remind us that the hand wanders where the mind cannot always follow. Asemic writing stands in this lineage, though its prayer is stripped of words. It is the gesture of invocation without dogma, a silent liturgy of marks.

And then there is the more surreal explanation. Perhaps asemic writing is a kind of virus, a contagious form of automatic writing released into the world. Like the Surrealists, who trusted the unconscious hand to bypass rational thought, asemic writers today let the hand slip free of meaning, discovering forms that arrive as if from elsewhere. There is a dreamlike contagion in this, a sense that the marks themselves want to proliferate, independent of our intentions.

Yet beneath all these explanations lies a deeper one. Asemic writing is, at heart, a response to awe. The universe is too vast, human culture too intricate, the mystery of being too profound for words to encompass. Language, brilliant as it is, collapses under the weight of existence. We are left speechless. But the hand does not stay still. It moves, compelled to leave a testimony even when nothing can be said. The page fills with traces: mute yet eloquent, silent yet insistent.

In this way, asemic writing does not escape language so much as return to its origin. Before alphabets, there were scratches on bone, ritual marks on stone, glyphs whose meaning was never fixed but always lived in gesture, ritual, presence. Asemic practice may be the contemporary echo of that impulse. Not a message to be decoded, but a sign that we are here: living, witnessing, inscribing what cannot be spoken.

you can see about 600 of my asemic drawings here: https://asemics.org

Originally this was a comment that I made in another post that was a response to a comment from Elizabeth Roper Marcus that I have developed here into an essay.

The Signature of the Hand

What my hand produces is always, unmistakably, my hand producing. Like a signature, it repeats itself - not by conscious design, but by natural inevitability. It’s in the line, in the motion, in the rhythm of gesture. And as with a signature, it carries something more than identification; it conveys a subtle, continuous self-disclosure.

I was asked: how early did this start to happen? Was it innate, or did I cultivate it over time, without realizing? Did I draw this way as a child? Or did repetition become refinement, and refinement give rise to identity?

When I observe the line quality in other artists’ work, I see it as a kind of psychological mirror. A single line can reveal so much - brashness, hesitation, decisiveness, impatience, sensitivity, precision, or even a wild kind of improvisational daring. You can sense whether the hand that made it was hurried or meditative, angry or serene, calculating or impulsive. In this way, the line becomes a diagnostic tool, revealing the temperament of the artist at the moment of making.

And in a single drawing, that temperament can shift. A confident curve may falter into doubt. A chaotic scatter may suddenly cohere into harmony. One part of the page might be methodical and technical; another might be emotionally reckless, almost vandalistic. There’s something alive in that variability. Drawing becomes not just depiction but a record of thought and feeling - embodied, spontaneous, and unconscious all at once.

In my own practice, I try to pay attention to how the hand wants to move. I study its limitations - not as faults to overcome, but as natural contours to understand. Every hand has its particular grace and awkwardness. I watch how speed influences smoothness, how hesitation makes a line go jagged, how overthinking freezes the gesture. When my drawing is fluid, it's often because I’ve surrendered control—not in the sense of being careless, but in the sense of allowing intuition to take the lead.

Sometimes I don't even look at what I'm doing. I follow the impulse directly, letting the hand respond before the mind can interfere. It’s not trance exactly, but there’s a kind of bypassing of the inner critic, the cautious censor. In those moments, the drawing draws itself.

I study different tools - pens, brushes, sticks, even the wrong end of a pencil - and the surfaces they move across. Each one offers a different resistance, a different friction. The tooth of a page will catch the ink in certain ways, make the line chatter or drag. These subtle feedbacks shape the gesture, and in turn, the gesture shapes the drawing. It’s a conversation, really - between material, muscle, and mood.

After making thousands upon thousands of drawings over the years - experiments in mark-making, attempts to break new ground, to range as broadly as possible - I’ve found that I return, inevitably, to a certain expressive range that feels native to me. Even when I try to push outside my habits, to adopt new techniques or imitate unfamiliar rhythms, I circle back to my own defaults. The hand always remembers its first language.

Still, I try to question that default. Not to erase it, but to stretch it, challenge it, broaden its expressive vocabulary. The goal isn’t to escape the signature, but to deepen it - make it richer, more aware of itself.

But here’s the paradox: I can’t really see myself in it. I stand at the epicenter of my own activity, and from that vantage point, I’m blind to what might be obvious to someone looking in from the outside. What does the work reveal about me that I can’t see? How do my habitual marks read to the stranger's eye?

In the end, we are all our own blind spot. The line tells the truth, but not always to the one who draws it. That, perhaps, is part of the mystery - and the humility - of being an artist. We leave traces of ourselves in every mark, and yet we never fully see what we’ve shown.

All of the above drawings were from the very early years and are among the survivors that I still have in my archive. There were many other experiments with ‘drip style’ abstract expressionist type works, pastels where form was developed between the lines. I was trying to move beyond just line. Experiments in gouache with more formal, late Kandinsky style works.

All of the above images were all explorations toward the idea of Visual Musicality.

And then, by the end of 1982, I started to becoming infatuated with collage which forced me to work with form and composition instead of line and off I went in that direction. I just today hit no. 4,300 in the collage series.

Though the collage work is what I have become the most well known for (if you look up ‘collage artists’ on google I show up in their top 50 list for some reason), all along I have continued, sometimes more sparsely, sometime more prolifically, with the mark-making and the exploration of visual musicality. But I think you can see, the ‘signature’ mark-making (and asemic writing) was there from the start. And I continue experimenting…

Here is a musical concept as a painting. I call it ‘Reversing Zigzag Ostinato’. In music, an ostinato is a motif or phrase that persistently repeats in the same musical voice, frequently in the same pitch.

My idea was to use only the reversing zigzag motif over and over across the canvas and then see what I could make out of it. While I like this painting, I think on a future variation of this idea I will make the zigzags bigger and not cover the entire canvas with them and leave more open spaces so it can sing a little more. As is, it turned into a kind of hum or texture.

In this painting from 2021 I made a spontaneous drawing of asemic writing in white on a deep gray background and then with a translucent white glaze highlighted between the lines to pull out forms from the negative space. In this experiment I wanted to maintain a clear view of the original white lines that inform the shapes. I really like how a lot of the white glaze fades into the black giving a strong feeling of depth and Smorzando - fading away into silence. I think I am using that word rightly.

I am starting to look at musical terms and thus the concepts that they embody that composers use when composing music to figure out a visual interpretation of them for my own use in these paintings.

I think of the linear white marks as the actual strike of the notes and the shading and highlighting as the vibrational space created around them. If there are different colors interacting and the glazes of colors pass over each other then that creates a kind of harmonic interaction.

In the last couple of years, thinking about this musical version of asemic writing, I see some interesting possibilities related to spontaneous mark making especially in linear progressions - such as below - on a large scale. My original idea was to think of the dark gray background color as a black board surface as if I am writing a mathematical formulae.

This idea encourages the viewer to see it as a multi line reading instead of an over all painting composition. This idea increases the possibilities of complexity in the work while maintaining an orderly viewing that would otherwise become overwhelmingly difficult to unravel. The little bit of silent space between the lines encourages the viewer toward a linear reading of the work going from line to line. This compositional strategy allows for the idea of moving the eye along the composition in a way that increases the use of time and memory in the reading of it. This gives the ability to play with motifs and variations across the compositional reading.

I have not done it yet, but sections from each line could then be isolated out and used as the basis for ‘blown up’ or magnified and developed individual compositions allowing a painting such as below to become a kind of database or codex from which to take inspiration for creating other future individual works.

The two images above are the same painting. The bottom image is the study of the image in experimental development actually using white chalk but this proved unstable as a base for the painting so I ended up painting a lot of it out as the image progressed. If you look closely and compare the two photos you can see remnants that survived in the more developed version but a lot of the information that I really liked was lost. I would have liked to have kept a lot of the ghost marks of the erasures. Maybe in the future I’ll figure out how to preserve that element.

Everything Starts with a Line

In the music paintings everything starts with a line. The line is the present moment when something happens. The line breaks the silence of the surface. Activity and influence emanate from the line. All around the line there is an aura of implied activity, an implied sense of light and shadow. The line’s influence extends all around it and leads the eye along its trajectory. A line is going somewhere, it is doing something. It might go in a straight line from point A to point B or it might meander over the entire surface going here and there, back and forth in curves or angles. It might skip along in a staccato of dashes. It might disappear and reappear or roll itself up into a dot. I have various ways to think about how to form lines, sometimes slow, deliberate and with care, sometimes with the fluidity of handwriting where only the hand itself knows what it is doing.

Each line divides the surface into two sides and in general my rule is to have one side light and the other side shadow. It is by light and shadow that all things become distinguished and located in space.

Line is the Original Sound

The next element is the intersection of lines, where they cross over each other. Every intersection had four sections. My rule is to have a highlight in one quarter and shadow in its opposite quarter and the remaining two quarters between them somewhere tonally in between.

With lines and repetitions of lines and the rhythm that can be created as they progress from one to the next, the spaces between can then be articulated in a variety of ways making positive and negative forms and spaces between them.

When looking at one of my paintings of this sort, the key is to identify the lines and follow them around watching how the spaces between are being affected and the forms that take shape between the lines. All tones of light and shadow, all hues from warm to cool emanate from the flow of the line. The line is the original sound emerging from the silence of the surface on which it is drawn. The tones and hues are the orchestration of the surrounding space applied to those lines according to the aforementioned rules.

The Motif in Visual Art and Music

According to my theory, the viewer builds an understanding of the relationships in the composition over time through identifying the various motifs used in the composition and exploring the progressions, harmonies, and variations created by the interaction of these motifs.

A motif in visual art as in music is typically a repeated element, a certain curve or a straight line or a zig zag pattern or series of loops for instance. In music this might be a harmonic motif, melodic motif, or a rhythmic motif. The motif in music is the smallest structural unit possessing thematic identity.

While I am not trying to paint ‘music’ I am taking note of musical principles, concepts and techniques and converting them into a visual counterpart with the intention to create a music-like flow in my compositions.

A Set of Keys for the Viewer

It remains a mystery to me how a viewer experiences these compositions and it is for this reason that I am trying to articulate my intentions in such a way as to give the viewer a set of keys for recognizing what they are looking at and how to approach the experience and unravel the composition.

While there are many other elements in my paintings such as surface treatment, brush work, passage and color palette, etc., the line itself is the main element upon which everything else rests. Drawing has always been the basis of my work in this direction. Other painters may focus primarily on painting itself and may not use drawing techniques at all which is perfectly fine and there are many great painters but this leads to a different set of approaches, practices and conclusions. As a young artist I always felt that drawing was my strong suit. I like the structure afforded me by using drawing as the basis for my experiments and hence the line is the main actor.

Line is Fluid and Dynamic

Line is fluid and dynamic in nature. The line has endless expressive qualities and provides a sense of musical flow. The line is open ended. When line coalesces into form and shape it becomes more static and less dynamic. Similarly, when line becomes too uniform in repetition, this also leads to a static state. A good example would be the meditative paintings of Agnes Martin.

This uniformity in repetition however has been use to great effect by minimalist composers such as Music for 18 Musicians by Steve Reich

To consider these developments in music my response has been something like the following collage on panel. I have made quite a few works along this line over the last 10 years and this is one of the more complex ones.

Cinema and Cubism

You might not think about it, but photography had been shaking up the image making world starting roughly in the mid-1800’s. By the late 1800’s film was a brand new idea coming into vogue at the time of Cubism.

Among the very first patrons of the nascent cinema in Europe were the painters Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque. In 1896, Picasso (in Barcelona) had attended the first showings of the new wonder; he was fifteen years old and an instant cinephile. Braque (in France) had also attended cinema from early on. As the new century moved in, a ubiquitous film culture developed. In France, cinema was declared part of the national patrimony by 1907. When Braque and Picasso met in Paris that year they were both already deeply engrossed in the city’s established cinema culture. Together the two artists realized that any new structure of vision (which was their mutual ambition) depended upon engaging movement, as proposed by cinema. Film’s sense of unrestricted possibility, its syntax of radical juxtaposition fostering freedom from spatial and temporal constraints so as to rearrange events at will—all these made cinema an irresistible challenge to painting. Picasso, Braque, and Early Film in Cubism 

1. The Idea of Multiple Perspectives

Film introduced the concept of capturing reality from multiple viewpoints by using different camera angles and editing techniques. Cubism, led by artists like Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque, mirrored this idea by depicting objects from several perspectives simultaneously. The ability of cinema to shift between various angles in a single sequence influenced Cubist artists to think beyond the traditional single-point perspective. They began to break down objects into fragmented planes that represented multiple viewpoints in one image.

2. Movement and the Representation of Time

Cinema's ability to depict movement and time provided artists with a new model for how dynamic motion could be suggested in visual art. In Analytical Cubism (1909-1912), the depiction of subjects in a fragmented manner reflects an attempt to show the passage of time and the experience of movement. This approach resonates with how film uses a sequence of frames to capture motion over time.

Cubist paintings, such as those by Braque and Picasso, often give the impression of overlapping temporal moments within a single static image, similar to how film uses techniques like slow motion, quick cuts, or multiple exposures to manipulate the perception of time. The Futurists, who were closely linked to Cubism in the broader context of modern art, took inspiration from both Cubist principles and cinematic motion, further highlighting the shared exploration of depicting movement.

3. Fragmentation and Editing Techniques

The fragmentation found in Cubism parallels the editing techniques used in film. Just as a film editor cuts and splices different shots to create a coherent narrative or evoke a particular rhythm, Cubist artists fragmented and reassembled forms on the canvas. This approach to breaking down and reconstructing visual reality was influenced by the early cinematic experiments with montage, where sequences were edited together to create new meanings and sensations.

The influence of film's visual language can be seen in how Cubist works, like Braque's Violin and Palette (1909), present fragmented forms and overlapping planes. This effect is similar to how cinema uses cuts, fades, and superimpositions to transition between scenes, giving the viewer a sense of continuity and disruption simultaneously.

4. The Influence of Early Avant-Garde Films

The development of Cubism occurred alongside the rise of avant-garde films that experimented with abstract forms and non-linear narrative structures. Early experimental filmmakers, such as Georges Méliès, used techniques like stop-motion and trick photography to create visual effects that broke away from traditional storytelling. These innovations resonated with Cubist artists who were seeking new ways to represent reality beyond the constraints of naturalistic depiction.

Artists like Fernand Léger, who was associated with Cubism, took inspiration from cinema's ability to present fragmented, rhythmic sequences in films like Ballet Mécanique (1924). This film, with its mechanical rhythms and abstract compositions, reflects the Cubist fascination with the dynamic interplay of shapes, much like the fragmented and overlapping planes in Cubist paintings.

5. The Influence of Popular Culture and Technological Modernity

Cubism emerged during a time when technological advancements, including cinema, were reshaping society's experience of the world. The novelty of moving pictures and the spread of cinema as a popular form of entertainment introduced a new visual culture that impacted how artists perceived motion, space, and representation.

The rapid growth of cinema contributed to a broader cultural interest in mechanical movement, speed, and visual fragmentation, themes that are present in Cubist artworks. The fascination with modern technology, including film, inspired artists to push the boundaries of how reality could be depicted, leading to a more abstract and innovative approach to visual representation.

6. The Role of Picasso's Engagement with Film

Pablo Picasso, one of the pioneers of Cubism, was directly involved with cinema in several instances. He worked on set and costume designs for Jean Cocteau’s films and other theatrical performances that incorporated cinematic elements. This involvement exposed Picasso to the ways in which film could manipulate visual perception and representation, likely influencing his approach to painting.

Furthermore, Picasso's interest in film was part of a broader engagement with various forms of popular entertainment, such as photography and music hall performances, which shared cinema's focus on dynamic movement and shifting perspectives.

7. Parallels in Avant-Garde Art Movements

Cubism’s development was part of a larger movement in modern art that was influenced by cinema and vice versa. Movements like Futurism, Dadaism, and Surrealism also drew heavily from the visual possibilities introduced by film. These movements often overlapped with Cubism in terms of artists, ideas, and methods, contributing to a cross-pollination of techniques. The interplay of film and modern art thus helped to shape Cubism's approach to depicting fragmented reality.

Conclusion

While Cubism was not solely inspired by film, the emergence of cinema certainly played a role in shaping its development. The idea of presenting multiple perspectives, capturing the sense of movement, and exploring fragmented representations of reality were shared goals between early filmmakers and Cubist artists. The parallel growth of Cubism and cinema reveals a mutual influence where each medium borrowed from and contributed to the evolving visual culture of the early 20th century.

Here are some references that discuss the influence of cinema on Cubism:

Books:

1. Antliff, Mark, and Patricia Leighten. Cubism and Culture. Thames & Hudson, 2001.

   • Explores the cultural context of Cubism, including the impact of modern technology and cinema.

2. Golding, John. Cubism: A History and an Analysis, 1907-1914. Harvard University Press, 1959.

   • Discusses the visual innovations of Cubism and parallels with contemporary cinematic techniques.

3. Arnason, H. Harvard, and Elizabeth C. Mansfield. History of Modern Art. Pearson, 2013.

   • Provides a comprehensive overview of modern art movements, including Cubism, and their connections to cinema.

4. Elder, R. Bruce. Cubism and Futurism: Spiritual Machines and the Cinematic Effect. Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2018.

   • Examines how the fragmentation of form in Cubism relates to cinematic techniques and modern technological culture.

5. Richardson, John. A Life of Picasso: The Triumphant Years, 1917-1932. Alfred A. Knopf, 2007.

   • Covers Picasso’s engagement with cinema, set designs, and how these experiences influenced his artwork.

Journal Articles:

1. McQuillan, Nicola. "Cubism and Cinema: Fragmentation and Movement." Art History, Vol. 21, No. 3, 1998, pp. 312-335.

   • Analyzes the influence of early cinema on Cubist representation of movement and multiple perspectives.

2. Leighton, Patricia. "The White Peril and L’Art Nègre: Picasso, Primitivism, and Anticolonialism." Art Bulletin, Vol. 72, No. 4, 1990, pp. 609-630.

   • Discusses Picasso's exposure to new visual media, including film, as part of his artistic development.

3. Fraenger, Wilhelm. "Cubism and Cinema: The Relationship Between Painting and Film." Modern Language Review, Vol. 45, 1950, pp. 324-338.

   • Investigates how Cubist painters were inspired by cinematic techniques, including montage and multiple angles.

Documentaries and Films:

1. Picasso and Braque Go to the Movies (2008) - Directed by Arne Glimcher.

   • A documentary that explores the relationship between early cinema and the development of Cubism, featuring commentary by artists and filmmakers.

2. Ballet Mécanique (1924) - Directed by Fernand Léger.

   • An avant-garde film that reflects Cubist principles in its fragmented, rhythmic composition.

Online Articles and Resources:

1. Tate. "Cubism." Tate Modern, https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/c/cubism

   • Provides an overview of Cubism, with sections discussing the influence of modern media like cinema.

2. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. "Analytical Cubism (1909-1912)."

https://www.metmuseum.org

1. • Offers insights into how early Cubist artists interacted with new visual forms and techniques.

These sources provide a variety of perspectives on how cinema influenced the development of Cubism, addressing aspects like fragmentation, movement, and the representation of time.

Musicality and Time

We experience music over time. We think we see a painting all at once but not really. The thing about music is that we only experience it in the present moment. What we have already heard is fresh in memory and what we have yet to hear is tucked away and hidden in the near future. Our experience of music is always and only in the present moment. Every moment that we are not paying attention we have missed something. Composing, performing and experiencing music has its own possibilities and problems that are solved with a variety of theories and techniques.

A painting we seem to take in all at once and yes we do but only in a rudimentary way. Ninety five percent of our initial experience of a painting is with our fuzzy, blurry, out of focus, peripheral vision. To really see the painting requires that the focal point of our eye - which is very small - along with our careful attention must traverse the image little by little over time in order to actually see it and ingest it. We must look at a painting over and over again to see its patterns and correspondences and relationships in order to build the image in our minds.

This suggests that, as a reading, a painting has very similar possibilities, problems and solutions as music does, or film, or the reading of literature. Hence we can apply ‘listening’ to a painting albeit with the eye instead of the ear. We accept the fact that when we hold a book of literature that even though we can see all of the pages, we are only going to experience it one line at a time. The subject matter remains hidden from us until we arrive to it in our reading of it.

Looking and Watching

One thing that is different between experiencing a painting compared to, for instance, a movie, is that you look at a painting but you watch a movie. If a thing is sitting still you look at it, if it is moving you watch it. Looking is active, watching is passive.

With a painting, since it is just hanging there still on the wall, you have to actively look at it, you have to move your eyes around to study it and that looking takes time. This is the time element that can be exploited as the musicality of a painting.

Hearing and Listening

Continuing with looking at a painting, to take in a painting as a totality can be compared to hearing. Hearing means you are having a basic experience of sound vibrating on your ear drums but that doesn’t mean you are listening to that sound. Listening is a more sophisticated version of hearing.

Hearing and listening are often used interchangeably, but they involve different processes and levels of engagement.

• Hearing is a passive process. It happens when sound waves enter the ear and are converted into signals that the brain can interpret. Hearing is an automatic, biological function that doesn't require focus or attention. For example, you might hear background noise without really paying attention to it.

• Listening, on the other hand, is an active process. It involves not just hearing sounds but also paying attention, interpreting, and understanding the meaning of what is being heard. Listening requires focus, intention, and mental engagement.

The art of music is to use the process of hearing in order to listen. In the same way the the art of painting is to use the process of seeing in order to look at a painting. It requires the same effort as listening to a symphony. It requires the same attention, focus, intention, and mental engagement. Now, of course, interpretation and meaning in a painting, just like in a symphony, is indeterminant, it is open to the observer’s personal experiences. Every person brings something unique to the experience of a painting.

The artist, as the composer of the painting, has their own understanding of what they have created but very often a viewer can bring a whole new interpretation to the work that the artist themselves had never considered. I have had the experience of conversing with sophisticated viewers who have articulately pointed out things about my paintings that I only had an intuitive understanding of and I very much appreciated their perspective. But frequently it is difficult for a viewer to be able to verbalize their experience of a work of art beyond the fact that they like it or they don’t. If ask why, they couldn’t tell you. This might be for the reason that art, like music, is non-verbal by nature.

Time and Memory

Music depends on the unfoldment of time to experience it but it also requires memory and memory is sustained by things like melody, motif, harmonic progressions, rhythm and repetition in order to build recognition as a work of music progresses. A symphonic orchestra can range from 80-100 players and the music can become extremely complex. In order for it to be comprehensible for the listener the composer might use some of the following techniques:

1. Repetition and Recognition

• Repetition of Themes: Composers often use repetition to help listeners remember key musical ideas, such as motifs, melodies, or harmonic progressions. When a theme is introduced early and repeated throughout a composition, it becomes more memorable. This familiarity allows the listener to track the development of the piece and anticipate its structure.

• Variation on a Theme: By varying a recognizable theme, composers engage the listener’s memory while keeping the music interesting. The variations are grounded in the listener’s recollection of the original theme, making the new interpretations more meaningful and easier to follow.

Leitmotifs and Musical Signifiers

• Leitmotifs: In film scores, operas, and programmatic works, composers use leitmotifs—recurring musical phrases associated with specific characters, ideas, or emotions. These motifs rely heavily on the listener’s memory, as they gain meaning through repetition and association. Each time a leitmotif returns, it invokes the memory of previous occurrences, adding layers of narrative or emotional depth.

• Musical Signifiers: Certain sounds or chord progressions (e.g., a fanfare for triumph or a minor key for sadness) serve as musical symbols. These signifiers tap into collective musical memory and can evoke particular feelings or associations in listeners based on their past experiences with music.

Development and Transformation

• Motivic Development: Composers often introduce a simple, memorable motif and then subject it to various transformations—rhythmic, harmonic, or melodic changes. These developments create complexity but are still comprehensible because the listener can trace the changes back to the original idea. The memory of the initial motif provides coherence to the music’s evolution.

• Fugue and Canon: In forms like the fugue or canon, memory is crucial for understanding how voices interact. The same musical material appears in different voices at different times, and the listener’s memory of the material from one voice helps them recognize its return and transformation in another.

Expectations and Anticipation

• Musical Tension and Release: Music often plays with the listener’s memory by creating expectations based on previous patterns. For example, a composer might establish a harmonic pattern that leads the listener to expect a certain resolution. If the resolution is delayed or altered, the listener experiences tension. When the anticipated resolution finally occurs, it brings a sense of satisfaction or closure, which is only meaningful because of the listener’s memory of the previous material.

• Surprise through Deviation: Conversely, when music deviates from established patterns, the surprise is more effective because the listener's memory has primed them for a particular outcome. This manipulation of memory enhances emotional impact.

An Exhibition as a Symphonic Performance

• An artist might think of a series of works shown together as an exhibition comprising the idea of being a symphony in several movements with, perhaps the addition of supporting works like drawings, watercolor studies or other related works to be experienced together as if a singular work to convey a particular vision.

• Painters can and often do use a lot of these same musical techniques in paintings to achieve similar results through using repeated shapes and forms, painting techniques, motifs, signifiers, variations on these forms, shifting but related or complimentary color palettes, shifts in scale or relationship, the introduction of new elements or ‘voices’, etc. to build memory and familiarity in the viewer as they move from one work to the next in the series creating a recognition of the development of the themes in the body of work presented.

In all the the arts time and its unfolding is a continuously considered element in the construction and presentation of works of art. How the artist manages the experiencer’s attention and perception of a work of art is worked out through the careful organization of all of the elements at the artist’s disposal.

Yet, even with all of that care, an artwork is dependent on the viewer. It is therefore incumbent on the viewer to pay attention and to linger long enough - to spend enough time - to attempt to grasp and be affected by the effect of what is being presented.

Here are a number of related drawings. I am trying to capture a sense of movement with different types of lines and shapes repeating and interacting with each other and then look at the different shapes and forms that develop from the interaction - the harmonics - between their encounters.

In the sketches I am often looking for a fast way to capture a fleeting idea that comes to me while I am listening to music. I am not trying to draw the music but rather my interaction to listening to it. It is impossible really because music is so complex and moving much more swiftly than you can capture with a pencil.

There is what you can experience and then there is what you can draw. It is like speaking; you have to interpret a non verbal experience into words and linguistic structures. They are never going to match up or be an equivalent to each other. But while you are drawing you see new things, new suggestions of a trail, new possibilities to pursue.

Push and Pull in Painting: The Dance of Depth and Surface

Painting, as a form of expression, revolves around the delicate balance of various forces, with the concept of "push and pull" playing a central role in shaping the composition and emotional tone of a work. The term “push and pull” was coined by the painter Hans Hofmann, one of the most influential teachers and theorists of the Abstract Expressionist movement. Hofmann's ideas about spatial dynamics and the tension between advancing and receding elements became fundamental to understanding abstract painting. This essay will explore how the principles of push and pull influence painting, discussing visual depth, color theory, compositional tension, and how artists use these techniques to evoke emotions and guide viewers.

Hans Hofmann and the Concept of Push and Pull

Hans Hofmann's theory of push and pull is deeply rooted in the idea that a painting is not simply a flat surface, but rather an interplay of forces that create depth and movement. In his teaching, Hofmann emphasized the importance of opposing forces in creating visual dynamism. “The whole world, as we experience it visually, comes to us through the mystic realm of color,” he said, “Our entire being is affected by it. Thus, color is a means of exerting influence on the viewer and inducing various emotions and reactions” (Hofmann).

Hofmann believed that color relationships create movement and depth on a two-dimensional surface. The interplay between warm and cool colors, for example, is one of the most effective ways to create the illusion of depth. Warm colors, such as red and yellow, tend to "advance" toward the viewer, while cool colors like blue and green "recede." This is an essential aspect of push and pull—using contrasting colors to create spatial tension and movement.

Of course this idea existed long before Hofmann articulated it and has been a part of painting from the beginning. It was not a new idea but gave a way for painters and viewers to talk about the theory of implied depth in painting and how to use this observation in a conscious way.

Color and Spatial Dynamics

The concept of push and pull is not limited to color alone; it also encompasses the arrangement of forms and their relationship to each other. The placement of contrasting shapes, lines, and textures contributes to a painting's overall sense of movement. Hofmann once said, “In nature, light creates the color; in the picture, color creates the light.” This statement encapsulates his belief that the strategic use of color can generate a sense of illumination and space within a painting.

For instance, in Hofmann’s own works, we see how color blocks are juxtaposed in a way that some seem to advance while others retreat. The dynamic created by this juxtaposition results in a visual rhythm that guides the viewer's eye across the canvas, providing an illusion of depth that extends beyond the flat surface. Through these color relationships, the painting seems alive, pulsating with a rhythmic vitality that embodies the concept of push and pull.

Compositional Tension: Balance and Imbalance

In addition to color, compositional elements play a crucial role in the push and pull dynamics of a painting. The careful placement of shapes and lines can create a sense of equilibrium or imbalance, both of which can be used effectively to evoke different emotional responses. Hofmann described this as the "plasticity" of painting, a term that refers to the creation of a three-dimensional experience on a two-dimensional plane.

Consider a painting where a large, heavy form is placed off-center, counterbalanced by a smaller, more intensely colored element on the opposite side. This setup creates a tension that seems to "pull" the viewer's eye back and forth, challenging their perception of stability. The artist Wassily Kandinsky also spoke to the importance of compositional tension, noting that “an effective composition is one in which the elements are in dynamic equilibrium, where each part contributes to the sense of movement and balance.” The push and pull here come not only from color but also from the distribution of weight across the canvas.

Gestural Techniques and Aesthetic Energy

The physical act of painting also contributes to the sensation of push and pull. Gesture, brushwork, and texture can all serve to either push elements forward or pull them back into the depths of the canvas. In abstract expressionism, artists like Willem de Kooning and Jackson Pollock used energetic, sweeping brushstrokes that created complex layers of paint, with some elements pushing toward the viewer while others receded into the background.

Pollock’s drip paintings are a perfect example of how gestural abstraction can embody the concept of push and pull. His seemingly chaotic lines create layers upon layers of paint, with certain drips and splatters appearing to hover above others, giving the impression of a floating, three-dimensional space. Pollock once remarked, “I want to express my feelings rather than illustrate them.” The interplay of push and pull in his works creates an emotional resonance, an unspoken dialogue between the painting and the viewer.

Push and Pull in Representational Art

While the concept of push and pull is most often associated with abstract art, it can also be found in representational works. Traditional landscape paintings, for example, use techniques like atmospheric perspective to create depth. By softening colors and reducing detail in the background, artists create a sense of receding space—an example of the “pull” effect. In contrast, vivid colors and sharp details in the foreground serve as “push” elements that bring those areas closer to the viewer.

In his seascapes, the artist J.M.W. Turner often utilized light and shadow to create a powerful sense of movement and depth. The swirling clouds and waves in Turner’s paintings seem to move in and out of the canvas, creating a dynamic, almost cinematic experience for the viewer. The push and pull here is achieved through the interplay of light, dark, and the fluidity of his brushwork. John Ruskin, the art critic, praised Turner’s ability to “paint the air,” suggesting that Turner’s mastery of spatial dynamics was unparalleled in capturing the transient nature of light and space.

Emotional Resonance and Viewer Engagement

The push and pull within a painting is not merely a technical exercise; it serves to engage the viewer on an emotional level. By manipulating spatial dynamics, artists can create a sense of tension, movement, and energy that draws the viewer into the work. Mark Rothko, though not explicitly following Hofmann’s teachings, utilized fields of color to create a sense of emotional depth. The edges of his color blocks seem to vibrate, creating a subtle push and pull that evokes a sense of contemplation and introspection. Rothko once said, “A painting is not about an experience. It is an experience.” This experiential quality is, in large part, due to the spatial dynamics that push and pull the viewer’s attention, creating an immersive emotional landscape.

Conclusion: The Dance of Opposing Forces

The concept of push and pull is a fundamental element in painting that transcends style and genre. Whether through the bold, contrasting colors of Hans Hofmann, the gestural energy of Jackson Pollock, or the luminous landscapes of J.M.W. Turner, the interplay between advancing and receding elements creates depth, movement, and emotional resonance. Push and pull is a dance of opposing forces that brings a painting to life, transforming a flat surface into a dynamic, multi-dimensional experience.

As Hofmann articulated, “A work of art is a world in itself reflecting senses and emotions of the artist's world.” Through the mastery of push and pull, artists create not only visual depth but also a deeper connection with the viewer, inviting them into a world of shifting perspectives, vibrant energy, and profound emotion. It is this ongoing tension—this balance between the forces of push and pull—that makes painting such a powerful and enduring form of artistic expression.

Above, another painting experiment of mine exploring the single motif of perpendicular strait lines as the compositional element as in the previous article 'Passage' and Visual Dynamics.

Push and Pull in Analytical Cubism: The Visual Musicality of Form and Space

The concept of "push and pull" in Analytical Cubism can be described in terms of visual musicality, where the painting becomes akin to a musical composition. Just as a musical piece uses rhythm, harmony, and contrast to evoke a sense of movement and emotion, Analytical Cubism employs the dynamic interplay of planes, tones, and lines to create a rhythmic flow that guides the viewer's experience. This visual musicality, orchestrated through the push and pull of elements, turns a painting into an experiential journey, much like listening to a piece of music.

Rhythmic Fragmentation and Layering

In music, rhythm is created by the repetition and variation of notes, while in Analytical Cubism, rhythm is generated by the repetition and variation of fragmented forms. The fractured representation of subjects in Analytical Cubism has a rhythmic quality that can be likened to musical notes being played in a sequence. Each facet of an object, whether it be a violin, a guitar, or a human figure, acts like a musical phrase that is repeated, varied, and interwoven to create a composition that is rich with movement.

The interplay between advancing and receding planes establishes a rhythm of push and pull, where some shapes move forward, while others fall back, creating a visual cadence. This rhythmic flow can be observed in works like Braque's Violin and Candlestick (1910), where the repeated motifs of violin parts, fragmented and layered in different planes, evoke a sense of visual syncopation. The overlapping planes create a staccato effect, much like a series of musical notes played in quick succession, providing a lively, dynamic visual experience.

Harmonic Relationships and Tonal Variations

In music, harmony is created by combining different notes to produce chords that resonate with each other. Similarly, Analytical Cubism creates visual harmony through the relationship between overlapping planes and tonal variations. The limited palette of browns, grays, and ochres used by Braque and Picasso serves as the tonal foundation, while the subtle variations in light and dark create a visual harmony that echoes the concept of musical chords.

The push and pull effect in Analytical Cubism can be understood as a harmonic interplay, where the contrast between light and dark planes evokes a sense of depth and resonance. Lighter planes seem to advance toward the viewer, while darker planes recede, creating a harmonious balance akin to the interplay between high and low notes in a musical composition. This harmony is not static but dynamic, continuously shifting as the viewer’s eye moves through the composition.

In Picasso’s Portrait of Ambroise Vollard (1910), for instance, the tonal modulation between the different facets of the subject's face and body creates a sense of depth that feels almost melodic. The movement from lighter to darker tones has a flow that mirrors the movement of a melody, rising and falling in intensity, thereby producing a sense of visual musicality.

Counterpoint and Dynamic Tension

The concept of counterpoint in music refers to the relationship between two or more independent melodies that interact harmoniously. In Analytical Cubism, the juxtaposition of multiple perspectives and fragmented planes creates a visual counterpoint—a dialogue between different viewpoints that contributes to the overall sense of movement and depth. Each plane, with its own direction and tonal value, acts as an independent visual element, yet all the planes work together to create a cohesive composition.

The push and pull effect is central to this visual counterpoint, as the overlapping planes seem to be in constant dialogue with each other. Some planes push forward, while others recede, creating a dynamic tension that is reminiscent of musical counterpoint, where different melodic lines converge and diverge to create a rich, layered experience. This interplay of opposing forces brings a sense of vitality and complexity to the painting, much like the simultaneous melodies in a fugue by Johann Sebastian Bach.

In Braque's The Portuguese (1911), the fragmented forms of the figure and the background create multiple points of focus, each vying for the viewer's attention. The result is a complex visual counterpoint, where different planes and perspectives interact to create a sense of movement and depth. This interaction of forms, advancing and receding, produces a dynamic tension that can be likened to the interplay of independent melodies in a musical composition.

Visual Tempo and Viewer Engagement

Tempo, the speed at which music is played, also finds its counterpart in Analytical Cubism. The fragmented nature of Cubist compositions creates a visual tempo, with the push and pull of planes setting the pace at which the viewer's eye moves across the canvas. Faster, more abrupt transitions between planes create a sense of urgency and movement, while slower, more gradual transitions create a more meditative experience.

Picasso’s Girl with a Mandolin (1910) exemplifies a slower visual tempo. The fragmented planes are arranged in a way that allows the viewer's eye to move more leisurely through the composition, lingering on each facet before moving on to the next. This slower tempo creates a contemplative experience, inviting the viewer to explore the depth and complexity of each plane and how it relates to the whole.

Conversely, in Braque's Violin and Palette (1909), the sharp angles and abrupt shifts between planes create a faster tempo, with the viewer's eye quickly moving between advancing and receding elements. This rapid movement generates a lively, energetic visual experience, akin to the brisk tempo of an allegro movement in a musical composition. The push and pull in this work is dynamic and immediate, with the overlapping planes creating a sense of urgency and excitement.

Crescendo and Visual Climax

The idea of a crescendo—a gradual increase in intensity—is also present in Analytical Cubism. The interplay of push and pull can create a visual crescendo, where the intensity of the composition builds to a climax, much like a piece of music gradually increasing in volume and complexity. In Analytical Cubist works, this crescendo is often achieved through the accumulation of overlapping planes and the interplay of light and dark.

As the viewer moves through the painting, the push and pull of the planes create a sense of progression, leading to a visual climax where the forms become most concentrated and dynamic. This crescendo effect can be seen in works like Braque's Woman with a Guitar (1913), where the fragmented planes become increasingly dense and complex around the central figure, creating a focal point that serves as the climax of the composition. The visual intensity builds as the viewer moves toward this central area, much like the swell of a musical crescendo.

Visual Syncopation and Disruption

Syncopation, a technique used in music to create unexpected accents by shifting the rhythmic emphasis, can also be seen in Analytical Cubism. The push and pull of fragmented planes create a visual syncopation, where certain elements seem to unexpectedly advance or recede, disrupting the viewer's expectations and creating a sense of surprise. This visual syncopation adds to the dynamic quality of the composition, keeping the viewer engaged and attentive.

In Picasso’s Ma Jolie (1911-1912), the fragmented forms of the figure are arranged in such a way that certain planes seem to suddenly push forward, while others recede, creating a sense of visual syncopation. This disruption of spatial expectations mirrors the use of syncopation in music, where unexpected accents create a lively, unpredictable rhythm. The push and pull in this work is not uniform but varied, with each plane contributing to the overall sense of movement and rhythm.

Conclusion: The Symphony of Analytical Cubism

The visual musicality of Analytical Cubism, achieved through the push and pull of planes, tones, and lines, transforms the act of viewing into an experience akin to listening to a symphony. The rhythmic fragmentation of forms, the harmonic interplay of tonal values, the dynamic counterpoint of multiple perspectives, and the visual tempo set by the advancing and receding planes all contribute to a rich, layered composition that engages the viewer on multiple levels.

Just as a musical composition uses rhythm, harmony, and contrast to create an emotional experience, Analytical Cubism uses the push and pull of visual elements to create a dynamic, multi-dimensional space that invites the viewer to engage, explore, and interpret. This visual musicality is what makes Analytical Cubism not only a groundbreaking artistic movement but also a deeply resonant form of expression, where the push and pull of elements create a visual symphony that continues to captivate and inspire.

Above is a little gift of music Stravinsky gave to Picasso to mark their friendship. Below is Picasso’s gift to Stravinsky.

While the two did not meet each other until 1917, they had both been working on revolutionary ideas in their respective fields that seem to have a strong resonance. Stravinsky wrote the Firebird in 1910, Petrushka in 1911 and The Rite of Spring in 1913 all contemporaneous with the height of analytical cubism.

Analytical Cubism Compared to Igor Stravinsky's "The Firebird" and "The Rite of Spring": A Symphonic Analysis of Visual and Musical Dynamics

Analytical Cubism and Igor Stravinsky's compositions "The Rite of Spring" and "The Firebird" share a profound emphasis on the dynamic interplay of elements that results in a powerful expression of movement, tension, and rhythm. In both Cubist paintings and Stravinsky’s orchestral compositions, the concept of "push and pull" later defined and articulated by Hans Hofmann is pivotal, generating a sense of energy and complexity that challenges traditional approaches to visual art and music. By comparing the visual musicality of Analytical Cubism to the symphonic innovations of Stravinsky, we can better appreciate the ways in which both art forms create layered, dynamic experiences that engage the audience on multiple sensory levels.

Rhythmic Fragmentation and Syncopation

Both Analytical Cubism and Stravinsky's compositions feature rhythmic fragmentation, which contributes to a sense of complexity and unpredictability. In Analytical Cubism, Braque and Picasso fragmented their subjects into interlocking planes, creating a rhythmic push and pull where forms seem to oscillate between advancing and receding. This fragmentation mirrors the rhythmic complexity found in Stravinsky's "The Rite of Spring," which is famous for its disjointed, unpredictable rhythms and heavy use of syncopation.

In "The Rite of Spring," Stravinsky disrupts the regularity of rhythm by using offbeat accents and asymmetrical time signatures, creating a sense of unpredictability that keeps the listener constantly alert. Similarly, in works like Picasso’s The Accordionist, the overlapping planes and fragmented forms create a visual syncopation, with different elements pushing forward or receding in an unexpected manner. This visual syncopation in Cubism can be likened to the way Stravinsky's rhythmic accents disrupt the listener’s expectations, producing an exhilarating sense of energy and movement.

Multiple Perspectives and Polyphony

Another significant similarity between Analytical Cubism and Stravinsky's compositions is their use of multiple perspectives and polyphonic structure. In Cubism, Braque and Picasso depicted subjects from various viewpoints simultaneously, which created a complex visual experience where different facets interacted to form a cohesive whole. This multiplicity of viewpoints is comparable to the polyphony found in Stravinsky's compositions, where multiple melodies are layered on top of each other, each contributing to the overall texture of the music.

In "The Firebird," Stravinsky weaves together different musical themes that overlap and intertwine, creating a rich, textured soundscape. This is analogous to how, in a painting like Braque's The Portuguese (1911), the fragmented planes representing different aspects of a figure are layered and intersected, creating a complex interplay of forms. The simultaneous presentation of multiple perspectives in Cubism is visually akin to Stravinsky’s polyphony, where the interaction of different melodies creates a dynamic, multi-dimensional experience.

Push and Pull as Dynamic Contrast

The push and pull effect in Analytical Cubism is characterized by the contrasting interplay between advancing and receding planes, which creates a sense of movement and tension. This dynamic contrast can be compared to the contrasts found in Stravinsky's orchestral compositions, where shifts in dynamics, tempo, and orchestration create a powerful sense of push and pull.

In "The Firebird," Stravinsky contrasts delicate, ethereal passages with sudden, explosive bursts of sound, creating a dramatic push and pull that propels the music forward. This is comparable to how, in Cubist works like Girl with a Mandolin (1910), Picasso contrasts light and dark planes to create a sense of depth and movement, where lighter areas seem to advance and darker areas recede. Just as Stravinsky's sudden changes in dynamics create an emotional impact, the interplay of tonal values in Analytical Cubism generates a visual tension that engages the viewer and creates a dynamic spatial experience.

Complexity, Layering, and Build-up: The Crescendo Effect

Stravinsky’s use of gradual build-up, or crescendo, is a technique that enhances the tension and release within his compositions. In "The Rite of Spring," there are moments when the music gradually builds in intensity, layering different orchestral parts to create a powerful, climactic effect. This crescendo effect can be compared to the visual layering in Analytical Cubism, where the accumulation of fragmented planes creates a crescendo-like visual climax.

For example, in Braque’s Woman with a Guitar (1913), the layered planes build towards the central figure, creating a focal point where the visual intensity reaches its peak. This effect is similar to how Stravinsky layers different instrumental parts in a crescendo, gradually increasing the musical tension until it reaches a powerful climax. The push and pull in both art forms contribute to this sense of build-up, where the interplay between advancing and receding elements generates a sense of movement that culminates in a powerful, unified expression.

Ritualistic Tension and the Element of Surprise

"The Rite of Spring" is often described as ritualistic, with its raw energy and intense, almost primal rhythms. This sense of ritualistic tension is also present in Analytical Cubism, where the fragmented depiction of forms creates an experience that feels almost ceremonial. The viewer is required to actively engage with the painting, piecing together the fragmented planes to reconstruct the subject, much like how the listener of "The Rite of Spring" must navigate through the dissonant harmonies and irregular rhythms to fully appreciate the music.

Stravinsky’s use of abrupt changes, dissonance, and unexpected accents creates an element of surprise that keeps the listener engaged and on edge. Similarly, in works like Picasso's Portrait of Ambroise Vollard (1910), the viewer is constantly confronted with unexpected shifts in perspective and tonal contrasts. The planes do not follow a predictable pattern, and the viewer must navigate the composition, experiencing a sense of surprise as forms advance and recede in unpredictable ways. This unpredictability adds to the dynamic quality of the work, much like the unexpected accents and dissonances in Stravinsky’s composition.

Harmony in Chaos: The Balance of Order and Disorder

Both Analytical Cubism and Stravinsky’s compositions strike a delicate balance between order and disorder, creating harmony out of seemingly chaotic elements. In Analytical Cubism, the fragmentation of forms and the interplay of multiple perspectives might initially seem chaotic, but they are meticulously arranged to create a balanced composition. The push and pull of planes are carefully orchestrated to guide the viewer’s eye through the painting, creating a harmonious whole out of disparate parts.

In "The Firebird," Stravinsky similarly balances order and disorder by combining complex rhythms, dissonant harmonies, and contrasting dynamics in a way that ultimately produces a cohesive musical narrative. The interplay of different musical elements, with their own distinct rhythms and tonalities, creates a sense of tension and release that keeps the listener engaged. This balance between chaos and order is mirrored in Analytical Cubism, where the fragmented planes and shifting perspectives come together to create a dynamic yet balanced visual experience.

Conclusion: The Confluence of Visual and Musical Complexity

The comparison between Analytical Cubism and Igor Stravinsky’s compositions "The Rite of Spring" and "The Firebird" reveals a shared emphasis on complexity, dynamic contrast, and the interplay of multiple elements to create a powerful, engaging experience. Both art forms challenge traditional notions of representation—whether visual or musical—by fragmenting their subjects and creating new, multi-dimensional forms of expression.

Analytical Cubism, with its dynamic interplay of advancing and receding planes, finds its musical counterpart in Stravinsky's use of rhythm, harmony, and dynamics to create tension and movement. The rhythmic fragmentation, polyphonic layering, dynamic contrasts, and balance between order and chaos are all elements that contribute to the sense of visual and musical musicality in both Cubism and Stravinsky’s works.

Ultimately, both Analytical Cubism and Stravinsky's compositions are symphonic in nature—complex, layered, and full of dynamic contrasts that create an immersive, engaging experience. By understanding the push and pull dynamics in Analytical Cubism through the lens of Stravinsky’s music, we gain a deeper appreciation of how visual and musical elements can work together to create a unified, powerful expression that transcends the boundaries of traditional art forms.

Here are some general sources that can be useful for further reading on the topics discussed in the essay:

1. Books on Analytical Cubism:

   • Golding, John. Cubism: A History and an Analysis, 1907-1914. Harvard University Press, 1959.

   • Richardson, John. A Life of Picasso. Random House, 1991-2007.

   • Cooper, Douglas. The Cubist Epoch. Phaidon Press, 1971.

2. Books on Igor Stravinsky:

   • Walsh, Stephen. Stravinsky: A Creative Spring: Russia and France, 1882-1934. Alfred A. Knopf, 2000.

   • Taruskin, Richard. Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography of the Works Through Mavra. University of California Press, 1996.

   • White, Eric Walter. Stravinsky: The Composer and His Works. University of California Press, 1979.

3. Articles and Essays:

   • Fry, Roger. "Cubism," in Vision and Design. Chatto & Windus, 1920.

   • Taruskin, Richard. "The Rite of Spring at 100." The New York Times, 2013.

   • Gendron, Bernard. "The Rite of Spring: Music of the Avant-Garde." Journal of Aesthetic Education, Vol. 11, No. 1, 1977.

4. Online Resources:

   • Khan Academy. "Picasso and Braque: The Cubist Experiment."

https://www.khanacademy.org

1. • The Metropolitan Museum of Art. "Analytical Cubism (1909-1912)."

https://www.metmuseum.org

1. • San Francisco Symphony. "The Rite of Spring by Igor Stravinsky: Program Notes."

1. Documentaries and Lectures:

   • Picasso and Braque Go to the Movies (2008) - Documentary that explores Cubism and its relationship to cinema and modern visual culture.

   • Leonard Bernstein’s Young People's Concerts: The Firebird, A Retrospective – A look into Stravinsky's music from a conductor's perspective.

I am writing this on Monday the 4th of November but you will be seeing it on Thursday the 7th. Here is a shot of the painting studio at the moment as I prepare for the next few months of winter darkness.

I will be taking my computer, a couple of books for research and my sketchbook and heading over to Texas this week to make it to exhibitions with two of my dealers who are having anniversary celebrations. On the 9th of November Laura Rathe Fine Art in Houston will be having her 25 year anniversary and the next weekend November 16th William Campbell Gallery in Fort Worth will be having their 50 year anniversary.

I will then spend some time with my kids and with my grandson Henry then we’ll head up to Saint Louis for Thanksgiving at my brother’s house and celebrate my mom’s 90th birthday. Then back to Texas and then back to the studio in ABQ. So I am going to be pretty busy for the rest of November.

Additionally, I just got off of a zoom call with Les Jones as we work out the details for the 2025 collage residency. It is looking very exciting and I hope you might want to join us in London for a hunt and gather collage safari.

Collage Residency Coming Up

Next late May or early June 2025 Les Jones of Contemporary Collage Magazine and I will be doing a one week gathering in London similar to the Collage Safari we did together in Brooklyn earlier this year.

If you are interested in joining us send Les a note at hello@contemporarycollagemagazine.com to be on the list and get the details.

Check out my instagram page: @ceciltouchon

Here is a little study of perhaps a timpani sound. Below are some notes from my journal talking to myself about how to work out various things in the visual musicality artworks.

Some journal notes this past week…

Oct 31, 2024

I need to figure out how to simplify the music paintings while maintaining the visual unfoldment that makes them musical. The time element, the transparency, the harmonics. More internal space. Fewer motifs mixed together. Minimal as much as possible. Not so tightly woven. Think about Miro.

I started thinking about color and the fact that I want luminescence and light but not brightness of hue except at rare moments. Hover around the gray zone. Gray down the colors or mix complementary colors together.

I spent some time looking through the racks and pulled out all of the older unfinished canvases that are music related. I’ll want to finish all of those up this winter and refresh my mind on those experiments. Maybe start planning out an exhibition.

I spent a couple of hours on ‘Composing Academy’ watching some videos on cinematic musical composition. I wanted to look at how a composer constructs an orchestral work. I guess everybody is using Cubase or some other similar software and sample libraries. Using these sound patches this can be thought of as collage with sounds.

Nov. 2, 2024

I woke up thinking that I need to think about structure but at the same time the asemic writing idea from the musicality point of view. From the spontaneous performance angle. But maybe build some structure in the first layer of the drawing. Hum, still thinking it out… Maybe determine the kind of gestures I am going to use first. But maybe not… I do need to figure out how to open the space more – not so dense.

One thing I wonder about with the multiple lines of activity in a large painting is the uniformity of the overall image or how to get crescendos and diminuendos – is this a shift is scale? - or think about minimal and maximal orchestration. Of course, it doesn’t have to be uniform, but it does need to be planned from a visual composition point of view I would think.

Like I have been thinking, I need to have pre planned a beginning, a middle and an end. Which means I need to have my palette worked out from the beginning which starts with the base surface treatment. But this has to be able to be manipulated by editing through the process. So, it seems the surfaces need to be a single color where the drawing can be edited by painting out things back to the base color. Maybe the final manipulation to the background surface has to wait to the end? That seems risky but so is the other way around. What gives me the maximum flexibility without getting bogged down?

I am trying to get to the point where everything is built in stages and when one is finished, I go to the next stage and don’t go backwards.

I want the final paintings to be complex but not overwhelming and open to endless expressive capacity where nothing ever happens twice even with repetition. But still, things need to maintain continuity as a body of work. I like the gestural approach. But I need to teach myself to keep things simple and as spatially open as possible.

I am thinking maybe I should mix up a warm grayish base color like a mixture of raw umber and #5 gray and maybe a bit of ochre.

I think I will take you through a journey over the next months if you will permit me. My life as an artist has been far ranging but I always come back to musicality.

In the summer of 1977 at the age of 21 after three years of community college in Saint Louis, Mo studying art I moved to Fort Worth, Texas and lived with my grandparents in an old farm house on about 5+ acres that was built in 1929 by my grandmother’s father. I spent many of my summers with my grandparents as a kid.

Next door was a several acre property that had been owned by my Grandmother’s brother that I had spent plenty of time with as a kid during the summers known as Uncle Doc. Brants who always had a cigar hanging out of his mouth and he chewed tobacco. He was a farmer by nature and his property had, at different times, been hen houses for egg production and later rental stables for horses. Beyond his property were other properties owned by other of my grandmother’s brothers.

My mom had a horse as a kid that was stabled at Uncle Doc’s place. I recall that he also had a few cows. He was not a doctor as far as I know and I am not sure what his actual first name was but he had already died when I moved there in 1977 and his house, while run down was still there.

One of my cousins - his grand daughter - was living in part of it and it was arranged that I could use one or two of the bedrooms at the other end of the house as studio. I spent many pleasant hours in that studio when I wasn’t working at a job, listening to classical music on used albums from 1/2 priced books on an old record player - John Cage - works for prepared piano, loved it, Carl Neilson - a favorite I listened to over and over was Symphony #5, Aaron Copeland, George Gershwin, Gustave Holst, Morrice Ravel, Igor Stravinsky, etc. - all 20th century composers and starting to figure out how to paint music. These are a few of the drawings I made in one of my sketchbooks. I even have one sketchbook call the ‘Farmhouse’ sketchbook from 1978. That one has many musical studies in it. I’ll get around to that later.

A variety of other small drawings from that time. I was already starting to think in horizontal lines for developing an idea.

At the same time I was doing a lot gestural drawings just responding to music as I listened to it. I was not really trying to articulate the musical forms but looking more for the improvisational response of my hand to the sounds I was listening to.

This painting is part of my musicality experiments, the idea here was to draw a series of randomly placed perpendicular horizontal and vertical lines with white pencil on a gray background and then flesh out the spaces in between with patches of color and tone.

I am thinking about light and dark, warm and cool colors pushing or pulling the space deeper into the gray or coming forward from the gray. According to my current theory the background color needs to be about a #5 gray or the equivalent in some other neutral color to represent a kind of silence or equilibrium from which the musical image emerges through an interplay of lights and darks.

With the idea of musicality you need to be able to locate shapes and forms in space related to other forms. This way you can have different sets of lines and movements be in the background or come to the foreground. In music there is a constant interplay between what is prominent like the melody and what is supporting or what might be a background texture. But musically they interpenetrate each other to make the harmonies. I am trying to represent this idea of transparency and interpenetration in the musical paintings so that, as one motif interacts with another they create new forms and colors and tones.

I am thinking about a book on the topic and want to lead a reader through the process of how to look at my visual musicality works. In this painting I am working with a single element - a series of strait lines - and then showing the kinds of things I can do with it to establish a simple motif, rhythm, space, color, tonality, etc.

This painting also explores the concept of ‘passage’. In Cubist painting, a "passage" refers to the technique of blending and overlapping different planes and shapes, creating a sense of fluidity between them. This approach breaks down the boundaries between objects and space, allowing forms to interpenetrate each other in a way that suggests multiple viewpoints simultaneously. The term often describes how colors, lines, and textures transition smoothly, making it difficult to distinguish where one element ends and another begins, contributing to the fragmented and dynamic quality characteristic of Cubist works.

Passage helps to destroy the sense of visual solidity and increase the sense of musicality or visual dynamics. The more solid and cohesive a visual object appears the more it slows down the visual speed and fluidity of the dynamic quality. The eye needs to be led around a musical painting to allow the mind to acquire the image over time instead of in one instantaneous fell swoop. This type of painting is depending on the movement of the focal point of the eye around the painting to gain a ‘reading’ of it and let it build up in your mind like we do with orchestral music.

One experiment in this painting was to use the same color in a variety of different surroundings and contexts to see the shift in how that color interacts under these different conditions. For instance look at the light blue color patches and see how they shift and change based on their surroundings.

The above experiment is the repetition of small negative circles making holes with concentric larger positive circles making shapes that kind of look like overlapping cymbals of various sizes. These are paired with a set of strait diagonal non-intersecting lines highlighted on the top side and shaded on the bottom side interacting with the cluster of cymbal forms. The whole image is shaded and highlighted to give a strong sense of space. Looking closely you will see a wide variety of different approaches to dealing with the interactions between the forms and the diagonal lines leading to many different variations. On the outsides of the cluster are some of the small negative holes without concentric circles that just interact with the lines.

Because of the limited number of elements the composition is highly dynamic yet cohesive and seems orderly while creating an incredible amount of variation.

Different Mediums Lead to Different Imagery

The difference between making studies for paintings using collage and making studies from drawings leads to completely different outcomes. During the 1980’s and 90’s, I gradually made a switch to using collage as my way to generate imagery for paintings and that led away from certain ways of working and chains of thinking that had been influenced by drawing as a way to generate and think out my imagery.

It is actually just in the last two or three years that I had the insight that there is a fundamental and significant difference in outcomes in terms of what kind of trail an artist will follow based on the use of different mediums for exploring an idea. In fact even the ideas change into other ideas based on the practicalities and responses to a particular medium.

The way I work out my main experiments related to visual musicality is through drawing rather than collage. So as I work on my visual musicality winter project I’ll be posting a lot of drawing studies and the resulting paintings.

Western style painting up until recent decades typically started with making studies and preparatory works to work out ideas and composition on paper or in sketchbooks since the time of Cimabue and Giotto in Florence when the first Italian paper mills were getting started in Fabriano in the 1260’s and soon the sketchbook was invented. It could be argued that artists sketching in affordable and accessible paper sketchbooks was the technology that allowed artists to experiment and develop their artistic skills at a much faster pace through drawing and sketching from nature and this set the stage for the Italian Renaissance in art.

Fabriano celebrated their 750 year anniversary in 2014.

Brief History Italian Paper Making

In both drawing and collage, paper is an extremely important element so I thought it might be fun to research paper a bit. Paper in the western part of the world starts in Italy. The history of paper in Italy is deeply intertwined with the broader development of paper manufacturing in Europe. Paper itself was invented in China around 105 CE and spread along the silk road through the Arab world before reaching Europe. Italy, particularly the regions of Fabriano and Amalfi, became significant centers of paper production in the medieval period, playing a key role in shaping the European paper industry.

Early Introduction (8th–12th centuries)

Paper arrived in Italy via trade routes from the Islamic world, particularly through Sicily and Spain, where the Moors had established paper-making industries. The first recorded paper mill in Italy was in Amalfi, a port city with strong connections to the eastern Mediterranean and the Arab world, during the 12th century. Paper at that time was still rare in Europe, with parchment (made from animal skins) being the dominant material for writing.

Rise of Fabriano (13th century)

The most significant development in Italy’s paper history occurred in the town of Fabriano, located in the Marche region. By the 13th century, Fabriano had become a leading center of paper production in Europe. The paper makers of Fabriano introduced several important innovations:

• Water-powered mills: The use of water wheels to power hammers that pulverized the linen and cotton rags, which served as the primary material for paper.

• Wire mesh molds: Fabriano artisans perfected the use of wire mesh molds for shaping and drying paper, making the sheets more uniform and durable.

• Watermarks: Fabriano craftsmen invented the watermark, a design embedded in the paper during its production, initially used as a form of branding and later as a security measure.

Renaissance and the Spread of Printing (15th century)

The development of paper production in Italy coincided with the advent of the printing press in the mid-15th century. Italian paper was prized for its high quality, and it became the preferred medium for books, manuscripts, and artworks during the Renaissance. Venice, one of the major trading hubs in Europe, became a center for book printing and publishing, relying heavily on paper from Fabriano and other Italian mills.

Paper also played an essential role in the flourishing of Italian arts during the Renaissance, including works of prominent artists such as Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, who used high-quality Italian paper for their sketches and designs.

Later Developments (17th–19th centuries)

By the 17th century, paper production in Italy had spread to various regions, and the Italian techniques had been adopted by other European countries. However, with the industrial revolution in the 18th and 19th centuries, new methods of paper production, such as the use of wood pulp and machine-made paper, began to supplant traditional hand-made paper techniques.

Despite this shift, Italy maintained its reputation for high-quality artisanal paper production, particularly in regions like Fabriano, where hand-made paper mills continue to operate to this day, preserving centuries-old traditions.

Modern Times (20th century–present)

Today, Italy remains a respected producer of high-quality paper, particularly for art and archival purposes. Fabriano paper is still renowned worldwide for its craftsmanship, especially among artists, printmakers, and calligraphers. The town of Fabriano was even designated as a UNESCO Creative City for Crafts and Folk Art in recognition of its historical and cultural contributions to paper-making.

Conclusion

Italy’s role in the history of paper is significant not only for its early adoption of paper-making techniques but also for its innovations, such as watermarks and mechanical improvements. The legacy of Italian paper continues to influence the art world.

In my own case I have consistently use Fabiano paper for many years as well as Arches watercolor paper as mounts for my collages. Arches paper also has a storied history dating back to 1492, when the Arches paper mill was established in the village of Arches, in the Vosges region of France. This makes it one of the oldest and most renowned paper mills in the world. The mill initially produced paper for books and manuscripts, and it quickly gained a reputation for its exceptional quality.

The paper gained prominence in the 19th century, when artists such as Eugène Delacroix, Édouard Manet, and Vincent van Gogh began using it for watercolor, sketching, and printmaking. The paper’s superior quality, durability, and ability to hold pigment made it a favorite among artists, and it became widely used for fine art, especially watercolor and printmaking.

Here is the Wikipedia article on History of Paper

When thinking about Cubism I thought it would be good to get an idea of what was inspiring Picasso and Braque to invent Cubism and what was the driving force in the idea. Paul Cézanne was clearly an important influence on the two artists who saw his works in Paris. Here are a couple of short articles edited with ChatGPT on the subject.

What was the Influence of Paul Cézanne on Cubism?

Paul Cézanne is often considered a key precursor to the development of Cubism, particularly through his revolutionary approach to form and perspective. Though Cézanne was never a Cubist himself, his exploration of how to depict three-dimensional objects on a two-dimensional plane laid essential groundwork for artists like Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque, the founders of Cubism.

Key Aspects of Cézanne’s Influence on Cubism:

1. Breaking Objects into Geometric Shapes: Cézanne famously said he wanted to "treat nature by the cylinder, the sphere, and the cone." His technique of reducing objects into basic geometric forms directly inspired Cubists, who took this idea further by fragmenting objects into multiple planes.

2. Multiple Viewpoints: Cézanne often depicted objects from slightly different perspectives in the same painting, which foreshadowed the Cubist practice of showing multiple viewpoints at once. This idea of abandoning traditional, fixed perspective was central to Cubism.

3. Structure and Form Over Realism: Cézanne's focus was on the underlying structure of the objects he painted, rather than their exact outward appearance. This abstracted treatment of form became fundamental to Cubism, where the emphasis shifted from realistic representation to an exploration of form and spatial relationships.

4. Flattened Perspective: Although Cézanne still used some traditional perspective techniques, his work increasingly flattened the pictorial space, which Cubists expanded upon. Picasso and Braque took this flattening of space to a new level by collapsing foreground and background into interlocking planes.

5. Brushwork and Surface Treatment: Cézanne's brushwork, which emphasized the materiality of the paint, was an important influence on Cubist surface texture. The Cubists’ use of collage and textural experimentation can be seen as an extension of Cézanne’s thick, layered application of paint.

In short, Cézanne’s innovative ways of organizing form, space, and perspective were crucial for Cubism, providing a bridge between 19th-century realism and the abstract visual language of the 20th century.

What did Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque Say about the Influence of Paul Cézanne?

Both Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque acknowledged the profound influence Paul Cézanne had on their work, especially in the development of Cubism. Here’s what they said and how they reflected on Cézanne’s impact:

Picasso on Cézanne:

Pablo Picasso had deep admiration for Cézanne and often spoke of him as a foundational figure in his artistic journey. One of his most famous quotes about Cézanne is:

• "Cézanne is my one and only master... He was like the father of us all."

This statement highlights how Picasso saw Cézanne not only as an innovator but as a pivotal figure whose ideas shaped modern art, including his own. Cézanne’s approach to breaking down forms and reconstructing them in a more abstract manner greatly influenced Picasso’s early forays into Cubism, particularly in works like Les Demoiselles d'Avignon.

Picasso also acknowledged that Cézanne had given artists a new vocabulary, saying:

• "Cézanne was the first to have broken into pieces the ordered world of the Renaissance perspective, which then enabled others to experiment with different dimensions and perceptions of space."

Braque on Cézanne:

Georges Braque, often regarded as Picasso’s closest collaborator during the formative years of Cubism, similarly credited Cézanne with inspiring his work. Braque admired Cézanne's focus on the simplification of forms and his innovative treatment of space. He once said:

• "Cézanne was the first to introduce the doubt into painting, and doubt is the mother of invention."

This remark reflects how Cézanne’s deconstruction of traditional perspective and form encouraged experimentation and a more analytical approach to painting, something that Braque pursued rigorously in his Cubist works.

In interviews and reflections, Braque often spoke about how Cézanne’s exploration of multiple perspectives within a single scene directly influenced the way he and Picasso approached the fragmentation of space in Cubism. Braque also noted:

• "Cézanne gave us a fundamental basis to work from. He was searching for a logical method of expressing reality."

Cézanne’s insistence on structure and form, even in his most abstract pieces, inspired Braque to develop his own structural experiments with shape and depth.

In Summary:

Both Picasso and Braque saw Cézanne as a pivotal figure whose experiments with form and space gave them the conceptual tools to break away from the traditional techniques of representation. Cézanne was seen as the artist who laid the groundwork for their exploration of multiple perspectives, geometric forms, and the breakdown of objects into abstracted planes—cornerstones of Cubism.

When did Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque see Cézanne's Paintings?

Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque were exposed to Paul Cézanne’s paintings at critical points in their early careers, with Cézanne’s influence becoming central to their artistic development, particularly leading up to the birth of Cubism.

Picasso’s Encounter with Cézanne:

Picasso first encountered Cézanne’s work in the early 1900s after he moved to Paris. He became familiar with Cézanne’s paintings through several avenues:

• 1904-1906, Paris Art Scene: By the time Picasso settled in Paris around 1904, Cézanne’s reputation was growing in the avant-garde circles. Picasso’s circle of artist friends, including Henri Matisse and other modernists, were deeply influenced by Cézanne’s innovations. Picasso likely saw Cézanne’s work at the Salon d'Automne, particularly the 1904 and 1905 exhibitions.

• 1907, Cézanne's Posthumous Retrospective: Cézanne passed away in 1906, and a major posthumous retrospective of his work which included 56 works as a tribute to the painter who died in 1906 was held at the Salon d'Automne in 1907 in Paris. This retrospective is considered a turning point for many artists, including Picasso, who was profoundly influenced by it. Picasso was working on his iconic painting (and never finished) Les Demoiselles d'Avignon at the time, and Cézanne’s treatment of space and form helped guide Picasso’s shift toward Cubism.

Braque’s Encounter with Cézanne:

Georges Braque was also introduced to Cézanne’s work in the early 1900s, around the same time as Picasso:

• Salon d'Automne, 1907: Braque, like Picasso, was deeply moved by Cézanne’s retrospective at the 1907 Salon d'Automne. This exhibition had a transformative effect on Braque, who had already been experimenting with Fauvism at the time. Seeing Cézanne’s work encouraged him to explore more structured and analytical ways of depicting objects, eventually leading to his partnership with Picasso in developing Cubism.

• Exposure through Parisian Galleries: Before the 1907 retrospective, Braque likely saw Cézanne’s work in various galleries and exhibitions in Paris. Cézanne’s influence was being absorbed by many avant-garde artists of the time, and Braque’s exposure to this environment introduced him to Cézanne’s radical ideas on form and perspective.

Cézanne’s Influence Leading to Cubism:

By the time both Picasso and Braque encountered Cézanne’s works in depth around 1907, they were ripe to absorb and extend his ideas. His approach to geometry, perspective, and the structure of objects played a crucial role in their collaborative efforts to break with traditional artistic norms, leading to the development of Cubism from 1907 to 1914.

In short, Cézanne’s 1907 retrospective at the Salon d'Automne was a significant moment for both Picasso and Braque, cementing Cézanne's lasting impact on their move toward Cubism.

To celebrate One Year I am offering a 40% discount on annual subscriptions (use this link only) through November 13th. So, a great time to become a contributing subscriber to help support the production of this publication.

Workshop Coming Up

Next summer 2025 Les Jones of Contemporary Collage Magazine and I will be doing a one week workshop in London similar to the Collage Safari we did together in Brooklyn earlier this year.

If you are interested in joining us send Les a note at hello@contemporarycollagemagazine.com to be on the list and get the details.

Check out my instagram page: @ceciltouchon

Here is one of the earliest paintings that I made in 1977 which would fall under the category of asemic writing 20 years before there was a name for it but this work also has a musical quality to it.

Visual Musicality: The Harmony of Sight and Sound in Art

The idea behind visual musicality is the synthesis of visual and auditory elements, where visual artworks evoke the qualities of music—such as rhythm, harmony, movement, and emotion. Artists explore these qualities by translating the intangible and temporal aspects of music into tangible, static forms. This concept creates a new language that speaks not only to our eyes but also to our sense of rhythm and feeling, creating a harmonious experience akin to music.

Visual musicality is an artistic attempt to harmonize disparate sensory experiences, fostering an immersive experience for the viewer. Music is characterized by movement in time, with notes, melodies, and rhythms creating a temporal journey. Visual art, in contrast, exists in spatial form, offering a single moment captured in time. However, artists throughout history have found ways to infuse movement and rhythm into their visual creations, transforming a static medium into something dynamic and alive. This process involves elements like repetition, flow, and contrast—concepts familiar to both music and visual art. By employing these tools, visual artists create an effect similar to a melody playing out across a canvas.

Abstract art offers some of the most profound examples of visual musicality. The works of artists like Wassily Kandinsky and Paul Klee, each resonate with a musical essence.

Kandinsky, for instance, was fascinated by the relationship between music and painting, believing that colors and shapes could evoke musical notes and emotional responses. His paintings are filled with rhythmic forms and dynamic compositions that seem to dance across the canvas. The idea of using abstraction to capture the ethereal nature of music allows the audience to experience a painting as if they were listening to an orchestral piece. The bold colors, sweeping lines, and carefully arranged forms evoke emotional states, reminiscent of a musical score that builds and crescendos.

Paul Klee, a contemporary of Kandinsky, often spoke of his desire to "take a line for a walk," which speaks to the rhythmic aspect of visual art. His playful use of line and form captures an intuitive sense of melody and improvisation, similar to a jazz musician exploring a tune. Klee's art is characterized by a balance of spontaneity and structure, an echo of the improvisational yet disciplined nature of music. His pieces often contain a whimsical quality that suggests a visual interpretation of a musical phrase, allowing viewers to feel as though they are witnessing a song in physical form.

In the following video Jonathan Posthuma makes a lovely musical interpretation of a little Paul Klee painting "Twittering Machine (1922)" from Paul Klee: Painted Songs Jonathan Posthuma, 2011

Visual musicality is not confined to abstraction alone. In representational art, such as painting or photography, visual musicality can be found in the careful arrangement of elements within the composition to create rhythm. For instance, the repetition of forms, the play of light and shadow, and the interaction of colors can create visual beats that guide the viewer’s eye across the artwork. The tension and release found in the juxtaposition of contrasting colors or shapes can evoke a sense of harmony, much like a well-resolved chord progression in music.

The influence of visual musicality extends beyond the canvas to architecture and sculpture. The architecture of Antoni Gaudí, with its flowing lines and organic forms, can be experienced like a piece of music—every curve and detail contributing to an overarching sense of harmony. In sculpture, the use of repetitive patterns and spiraling forms evokes a sense of rhythm and motion.

Visual musicality ultimately speaks to a deeper connection between the senses and human experience. By using the principles of rhythm, harmony, and movement, artists are able to create works that transcend the limitations of individual senses. This synthesis creates a holistic experience, one where viewers can feel as though they are "hearing" the visual world and "seeing" the abstract qualities of music. This intersection of sight and sound invites us to consider the ways in which our perceptions overlap, and how art can create a space where boundaries between senses are blurred. The Sufi Mystic and musician Hazrat Inayat Khan once said:

“The work of the senses is to experience, to taste, smell, touch, hear, and see; but besides these senses there is the inner sense which is one sense. It is by experiencing through the different organs of the senses that this one sense becomes many senses. It is the same sense which hears, smells, tastes, feels, touches; but because it experiences life through different organs, man divides one sense into five senses. The depth of that sense which is the inner sense is more subtle than one can imagine. When that sense finds a free expression it not only experiences life more keenly through the organs of the senses, but it becomes independent of the organs of sense.” (Vol. 1, The Soul, Whence And Whither? - Jinn)

and “ I wish to direct the attention of those, who search for truth, towards the law of music which is working throughout the whole universe and which, in other words, may be called the law of life, the sense of proportion, the law of harmony, the law which brings about balance, the law which is hidden behind all aspects of life, which holds this universe intact, and works out its destiny throughout the whole universe, fulfilling its purpose.
Music as we know it in our everyday language is only a miniature: that which our intelligence has grasped from that music or harmony of the whole universe which is working behind us. The music of the universe is the background of the little picture which we call music. Our sense of music, our attraction to music, shows that music is in the depth of our being. Music is behind the working of the whole universe. Music is not only life's greatest object, but music is life itself.” (Vol. 2, The Mysticism of Sound and Music - The Music of the Spheres)

In essence, visual musicality brings a sense of life and dynamism to visual art. It draws us in, urging us to engage not only with our eyes but also with our emotions, memories, and sense of rhythm. Just as music has the power to evoke deep emotional responses, so too does visual musicality allow a painting to touch us in profound and often unexpected ways. By understanding and embracing the interplay between visual elements and musical qualities, artists and viewers alike can find a richer, more nuanced appreciation of art, where every line, form, and color contributes to an ongoing, visual symphony.

To celebrate One Year I am offering a 40% discount on annual subscriptions (use this link only) through November 13th. So, a great time to become a contributing subscriber to help support the production of this publication.

Workshop Coming Up

Next summer 2025 Les Jones of Contemporary Collage Magazine and I will be doing a one week workshop in London similar to the Collage Safari we did together in Brooklyn earlier this year.

If you are interested in joining us send Les a note at hello@contemporarycollagemagazine.com to be on the list and get the details.

Check out my instagram page: @ceciltouchon

I have been working on and dragging this painting around since about 1995, working on it here and there when I had time or a new element or color came to me. At times it was taken off of the stretcher and rolled up to move it or store it in a tube for a while. It has gone through a number of transformations over the years but after about 20 years I finally decided it was probably finished back around 2015. I guess it is finished because I have not worked on it since. This painting has still not been varnished, registered or given an inventory number. This is a personal painting where I have worked out my theories about visual musicality over the years to find a cohesive way to make what I call ‘symphonic paintings’. Symphony more or less means various sounds acting as one voice.

You would not believe how many hours over the years I have spent slowly contemplating the idea of symphonic painting and how to work out various ideas especially related to interweaving motifs that can be worked together to create harmonies and counterpoints to create new unexpected shapes, forms, spaces and colors but with a certain predictability of laws that govern the construction of the compositions. I have also been constantly creating new vocabulary, a kind dictionary of forms that can work well and that can express different types of ideas I hear in music.

It took a while to figure out for myself that I am not trying to interpret music into visual forms but rather to make visual forms that can work with the nature of seeing in the way that music works with hearing. And it is possible to study music and constructive concepts in musical composition that can inspire a visual way to reach a similar experience. But of course there are completely different sets of problems between composing music and composing paintings.

Typically I can work out the skeletal line drawing on the canvas in a spontaneous and fairly rapid way but the time consuming part is then working out the 1,000 other decisions about how to flesh out the forms and spaces and color and light and movement and how to direct the eye around the composition giving emphasis to one thing and then to another. All along the way I am working out the rational, the technique, the logic of it. It is very engaging to me.

The above drawing are all of the elements contained in Symphonic Variations #5: wavy lines, reverse zigzag, zigzag, arabesques, large curved lines, strait diagonal lines and overlapping oval lines and the repetition and interplay of these motifs . That is all.

After that it is a matter of shading and highlighting and coloring and then deciding how to move the focal point around the painting: what is in front, what is behind, what is opaque, what is translucent, what interacts with what, what dominates, what is subordinate or complimentary, enough quiet space counter-balanced with enough density. It can only be figured out in the making of it even though I have established many rules of how things are going to interact but it still involves thousands of decisions as it is designed and painted. Then your ideas evolve as you go along when you see new possibilities. This can change your decisions as you get new insights in the process.

So this kind of symphonic painting idea has always had to remain on the back burner in favor of the other works of art I make which move along much faster and have clearer beginnings, middles and ends. This other work, like collages and typographic abstraction paintings has always stayed on the front burner all these years. I do work out a lot of the musical theory in this other work and all of my work is deeply informed by the idea of visual musicality. But I would really like to spend a lot more time on this symphonic idea.

Like I have mentioned previously (below), in the winter, when I have completed all of the works I need for the galleries and all is well, I spend a few months every year working on the symphonic style works or works related to musicality in general trying to get to the point that this type of work can become fast moving enough and predictable enough to become a ‘settled style’ and part of my general body of work for public consumption.

To celebrate One Year I am offering a 40% discount on annual subscriptions (use this link only) through November 13th. So, a great time to become a contributing subscriber to help support the production of this publication.

Workshop Coming Up

Next summer 2025 Les Jones of Contemporary Collage Magazine and I will be doing a one week workshop in London similar to the Collage Safari we did together in Brooklyn earlier this year.

If you are interested in joining us send Les a note at hello@contemporarycollagemagazine.com to be on the list and get the details.

Check out my instagram page: @ceciltouchon