20 September 2008

Gettysburg in oil and canvas

When I was about 9 my family went to visit the Gettysburg Battlefield. Back in those days the crush of tourism and capitalism had not yet fully worked its magic. I still remember how awed I was by the gigantic circular painting of the battle called the Cyclorama. You have seen photos of it, perhaps without knowing it, in almost every book on the battle containing pictures. I wanted to be an artist to recreate every nuance of such a work. I wanted to be that artist. Actually it was a team of 20 artists but I thought one person had done it all.

In this Washington Post article the new fully restored Cyclorama is described. The journalist writing the piece can makes no attempt to hide his disdain.

Yet I remember it as something remarkable. Almost like standing in the middle of the battle.

But then I had never seen a computer, 3-D graphics, or anything more sophisticated than small, fuzzy black and white TVs that were less realistic by far than the painting.

progress.

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2 Comments:

At 20 September, 2008 14:54, Blogger jack perry said...

I thought you were exaggerating, but you're right. That reporter took far too much delight in sneering at the painting. I quite reading after the third paragraph or so.

My estimation of the Washington Post has been greatly diminished this last couple of weeks, and after seeing that article I'm wondering why I bother visiting their website at all anymore. I think I will write more about this when I have the chance.

 
At 20 September, 2008 21:07, Blogger Clemens said...

I'll look forward to what you have to say about the WaPo. I grew up with it and still like it - it's a lot more balanced than the NYTimes. I try to get the news from skipping around the blogs and news.google. By not watching TV though I seem to have put myself in a different universe than the rest of the republic.

Glad you agreed with me about the reporter. I thought - and still think- the painting was remarkable for its day and time. And my day and time, come to it.

 

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