Question Art
Beyond likes and dislikes.
Fox Trot A by Piet Mondrian, 1930
This is one of Mondrian's diamond-shaped 'lozenge' canvases — apparently he kept returning to the format through the late twenties and thirties, paring the paintings down until almost nothing was left on them. Naming it after a dance feels almost like a joke next to how little is actually happening on the canvas.
Erisava: That cut off corner on the left is stressing me out for no reason. What's your take?
Self-Portrait by Umberto Boccioni, 1905
They say Boccioni studied under Giacomo Balla in Rome around this time — another future Futurist — and you can see the dabbed, Divisionist brushwork they were both practicing before either of them started smashing forms apart for speed.
Erisava: He doesn't look like he's posing so much as daring you to say something. What's your take?
Runner in the City by El Lissitzky, 1926
Apparently this is from a stretch in the mid-1920s when Lissitzky put the geometric shapes aside for a while and started cutting up photographs instead, trying to get a still picture to hold something moving. People point to this kind of layering as an early step toward the collage-heavy propaganda photography that came out of the Soviet Union not long after.
Erisava: My phone could do this in a second, but I've never seen anything like it. What's your take?
Dropped Cone by Claes Oldenburg, 2001
According to the city's tourism site, this one was commissioned by the shopping centre it's balanced on, taking its cue from all the ice cream stands doing business on the street below. Apparently the tilted tip was meant to echo the church spires on the skyline nearby — a mall dressed up, half-jokingly, as a cathedral of consumption.
Erisava: This is basically an ice cream ad with extra steps. What's your take?
Giant Pool Balls by Claes Oldenburg, 1977
I couldn't find why Oldenburg picked pool balls specifically for this one — if anyone knows, I'd love the story. What I did find is that blowing ordinary objects up to monument size was basically his whole practice for decades, one of the things credited with helping Pop art move off the canvas and into public parks.
Erisava: Three giant concrete balls on a lawn — is that skill, or just enlarging pool balls?
The Procession, Seville by Francis Picabia, 1912
Apparently this is one of the paintings people point to when they talk about cubism pushing all the way toward abstraction — there's barely anything left that reads as a literal scene. It's tied to a procession he remembered from Spain, but almost none of that original imagery survived into what's on the canvas.
Erisava: I think this is trying to overwhelm you on purpose. What's your take?
untitled by Eduardo Paolozzi, 1966
I couldn't track down a name for this one, but the year puts it right in the stretch where he was working with an engineering firm to mass-produce cast aluminium forms — some from that batch were built as literal playground equipment for a shop. He's tagged as the godfather of Pop Art, but this run of work reads more like an industrial catalogue than a collage of magazine cuttings.
Erisava: Is this meant to be sat on, or just looked at?
Mia madre che lavora [My Mother Working] by Umberto Boccioni, 1907
Apparently this is from before Boccioni signed onto Futurism in 1910 — a movement that made a point of rejecting quiet domestic scenes just like this one.
Erisava: Would this hang here if it weren't signed by someone famous? What's your take?
Mural Sketch, Pastoral Study, No. 1 by Henry Keller, 1920
This apparently isn't a finished painting on its own — it's a sketch for a mural, so somewhere there might have been meant to be a full-size version on an actual wall. The gold sky, the ruins, the goats: all of it seems to be reaching for 'ancient Greece.'
Erisava: This feels like somebody's daydream of ancient Greece, not an actual place. What's your take?
Composition with Red, Yellow, and Blue by Piet Mondrian, 1927
Mondrian, from what I've read, believed grids like this could help build a calmer, more honest world after the first World War — a strict visual language everyone could read the same way.
Erisava: Could a kid with a ruler have made this? What's your take?
Two Working Men by Oisín Kelly, 1969
They say Cork nicknamed this pair almost as soon as they went up, and that's still what most people call them, whatever the official title says.
Erisava: Just two guys looking up at something. Why does that deserve bronze?
Proun 99 by El Lissitzky, 1924
He called this series 'Proun' — supposedly short for a phrase meaning something like 'project for affirming the new.' From what I've read it was his attempt at a kind of painting that wasn't quite painting or architecture, more a rough sketch for spaces that didn't exist yet.
Erisava: Why does this look more like a blueprint than a painting?
Red Cabbages, Rhubarb and Orange by Charles Demuth, 1929
Apparently Demuth spent a lot of his later years on watercolors like this one — fruit and vegetables, painted with the same precision people usually associate with his industrial scenes.
Erisava: This much care went into painting a cabbage. Why?
Houseball by Claes Oldenburg, 1996
Apparently the idea goes back to a performance in Venice, built around bundling your whole household into a sack you could just roll to wherever you were headed next. Same trick he always pulled — blow up something ordinary until it can't be ignored — except here the ordinary thing carries real grief: they say the permanent version was recast as a memorial for refugees, since this exact plot once held a church built by families who'd fled with whatever they could carry.
Erisava: Is that supposed to be someone's whole life, tied up like that?
Havmannen by Antony Gormley, 1995
According to what I found, it's carved from granite, around eleven metres tall and something like sixty tonnes, and it's set with its back to the town, facing out over open water instead.
Erisava: Someone paid for a giant granite man in the fjord, and he's not facing the town. What's your take?