Dots have always fascinated Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama, who continues to create art at the age of ninety-six. As a child, she experienced hallucinations where dots often appeared, and soon she began making art with polka dots.
She said the use of dots was a way to confront and gain control over the terrifying hallucinations. What better way to deal with trauma than through art?
Kusama also sees polka dots as a representation of infinity. “Our earth is only one polka dot among a million stars in the cosmos,” she has said. She believes the repetitive use of dots leads to “self-obliteration,” a process of dissolving the ego into the universe.
Esoteric, abstract stuff. We had a chance to see her work in San Francisco earlier this year, and on a recent trip to my hometown, we visited the Buffalo AKG Art Museum, where a special exhibit of Kusama’s work was on display in the new Jeffrey E. Gundlach Building. Gundlach is a Buffalo native who made it big in finance and donated $65 million for the expansion of the former Albright-Knox Art Gallery.
Even before its expansion, the museum was a world-class gallery. I hadn’t been there in some years, and it was many, many years ago that I walked through the spacious halls and sequestered rooms of the Albright-Knox, where a number of its paintings inspired scenes in my upcoming novel, Still Life.
The novel centers around a young painter, Vincent, and his struggles with his art, his love life, and a troubled relationship with his father. An early scene in the book takes place in the Albright-Knox, when Vincent and Jane visit the gallery together.
. . . In one of the halls is The Yellow Christ, by Paul Gauguin, a crucifixion scene with three forlorn women kneeling in front of the cross.
“That’s an unusual background,” Jane says. “It doesn’t look like Mount Calvary.”
Rather than barren and brown, the background in the painting is rolling green and yellow hills and a few trees, with a couple of houses and a rock wall, straight out of France.
“He used Brittany as the setting,” I tell her. “And the face of Christ is the face of Gauguin.”
“He painted himself as Christ?”
“He believed he suffered for a great and noble cause—in his case, art. He was yet another painter who had no financial success during his lifetime.”
Jane sighs. “Is it a prerequisite for all artists to suffer this way?” She’s referring to my own situation.
I shake my head. Jane doesn’t know many artists. “No, suffering is not a prerequisite. I don’t think it’s even helpful or inspiring.”
In another room are two Jackson Pollock paintings, frenzies of dripping, swirling energy staring each other down from opposite walls. They make my heart pump. Then on the far wall, a Rothko to break the tension, a rich and soothing color field painting of yellow and orange. I could snuggle up to that one; I’d like a blanket so warm and comforting. Jane stands in front of it for a long time.
Being an artist is not a job, it’s not a career, it’s not a way to make money. It’s a vocation, compelling you to toil ceaselessly to fulfill your calling.
