The Unknowable
There is a painting, not very big (just under 23"X29"), that hangs in the European galleries at the Worcester Art Museum in Worcester, MA. It is so unnerving that I view it with trepidation whenever I visit the museum. At first glance (see below), one could conclude that I was either highly neurotic or frighten easily, after all, it appears to be an unassuming picture. But, first impressions are not always definitive, and a longer look is required to discern its understated eeriness.
Its bisected canvas depicts two side-by-side rooms: the one on the right features a rather pleasant if not modest room, neatly arranged with a table and two chairs that sit next to just a hint of a window—the light source that illuminates the room, and casts warm and welcoming tones. The ceiling's cornice and raised panel wainscoting establish the depth and breadth of the room, suggesting it is somewhat longer than wide. On the back wall there is an upholstered settee and to the right of it a fern perched upon a pedestal in the corner, along with some innocuous decorative art on the walls, further defining this space as a cozy area likely used for relaxation and recreation. One can imagine taking tea in this room, while enjoying a game of cards, or perhaps partially reclining on the love seat reading a good book. All very ordinary, until it isn't...
Directly to the left is this other space that barely benefits from the abutting room's light source; in fact, it is completely dark with exception to a small area of the wide board floor whose earthy warmth fades in a hurry into blackness. And I don't mean dark bluish-black but impenetrable black. It is a space without dimension or aspect, and the hyper-gradation of pigment here seamlessly transitions the known to the unknowable. Even the door frame expands the mystery by providing only the side that delineates the two rooms.
Once these details are noted, then the enigma is afoot. You cannot be guaranteed if you were to, say, cross the doorway whether there's a tripping hazard directly in your unseen path, leading to sudden and painful injury. Or, for lack of sensory information, you may find yourself intuiting that there are possibly beings silently observing you, and in a best case scenario, at the ready to yell "Surprise!" nearly eliciting a coronary event in you. Or, you do not know if you were to walk into this room that you would free fall for eternity because not too far inside there is a gaping hole in the floor. Or, perhaps, with any luck, you can safely traverse the room. What is the intention of the darkness? Prognostics aside, you just don't know...
Image: Magritte, René (Belgian, 1898–1967). "The Voice of Silence", 1928, oil on canvas. Stoddard Acquisition Fund. The Worcester Art Museum, Worcester, MA.
At nightfall, weeping enters in, but with the dawn, rejoicing. Ps 30:5
Why does the unknown unnerve us so? This harmless plane fills me with dread, every time. I can hardly look at it, and yet I can hardly look away—it is, simultaneously, repulsive and magnetic. Are humans simply hardwired to respond this way, and if so, why does logic and familiarity not pacify us when an answer remains elusive? After a fitful night's sleep we are reassured by the sun, whose rays clarify the room, and almost immediately, our apprehensions evaporate, that is, until darkness falls, again. Likewise, when I walk away from this painting (skunked again), the experience closes. It remains, nonetheless, waiting for me until our next encounter.
Image: detail, "The Voice of Silence".
René Magritte (November 21, 1898—August 15, 1967), is the Belgian artist who painted "The Voice of Silence" in 1928. His primary objective was not so much to menace as to weaponize our response, creating a tactical breach into the realm of possibility. Even the painting's title poses its own paradox relative to the universal definition of silence.
"There is an interest in that which is hidden and which the visible does not show us. This interest can take the form of a quite intense feeling, a sort of conflict, one might say, between the visible that is hidden and the visible that is present." (Magritte)
Like this subtle painting, Magritte, himself, was unassuming in his appearance and demeanor (unlike fellow surrealist, Salvador Dalí), yet he conveyed some very extraordinary ideas throughout his career as a surrealist artist. All great art was contemporary at one time, and often initially shocked, and perplexed (even offended) the viewer, only to eventually be accepted and celebrated, and even considered tame over time. But Magritte's oeuvre is still provocative to this day.
Image: Magritte, René , self-portrait in front of his painting “Attempting the Impossible”, Le Perreux-sur-Mame, 1928, photograph. Courtesy of Gabriel Brachot Gallery, Brussels, Belgium.
One of Magritte's most famous works "La Trahison des Images" ("The Treachery of Images") was painted the same year as "The Voice of Silence". The inscription "Ceci n'est pas une pipe" (this is not a pipe) gives you pause; you know it is (a pipe) and yet it isn't (it's a painting). Think about that. The burden of reality. The title implies you can't always trust the truth (have you ever changed your mind about something you were certain was true?). But wait! Further indulge me for a moment. What if the object really isn't what we perceive it to be. What if that pipe is something else altogether? This relatively mundane object proposes some big ideas if you're open to exploring your own perception of reality. If we just shift our perspective slightly an entirely different meaning emerges. Magritte's winking at you in a knowing way. He wants you to be a skeptic of your own reality.
Image: Magritte, René,"The Treachery of Images", 1928-9, oil on canvas. The Mr. and Mrs. William Preston Harrison Collection. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Los Angeles, CA.
Magritte urges the viewer to abandon objectivity and embrace the subjective in the pursuit of truth, which differs in individuals. The buy-in with art is the suspension of "belief"; it allows you to enter into a relationship with what is, ultimately, an inanimate object. The viewer extracts ideas by taking what is being offered on the surface. It's no deeper than that and it's sheer magic. Consider "Le Soir qui Tombe" (Evening Falls): it is a painting within a painting (albeit shattered—like our reality) that suggests there are unanticipated dimensions in any given experience, and that we need only to remove the first layer to reveal the next, which, in this case, is a replica of the broken window (perhaps another window, or is it the actual landscape?). Can truth exist outside of ideology?
Image: Magritte, René,“Le Sori qui Tombe,” (Evening Falls) 1964, oil on canvas. Menil Collection, Houston, TX.
Magritte wrote: "I have nothing to express! I simply search for images, and invent and invent. The idea doesn't matter to me: only the image counts, the inexplicable and mysterious image, since all is mystery in life." In other words, his work doesn't mean anything concrete! It's left to you, the viewer, to decide what an image means.
If "The Voice of Silence" is about concealment then, in its own way, "La Grande Famille" offers revelation. There's more to it than just the unlikely juxtaposition of its symbolic images. Beyond the overcast sky, just above the murky cloud cover, there exists a perpetually lovely day in the stratosphere (which the sun has clarified from the night). It is our perspective only that makes any day a cloudy one when in reality it's always bright and sunny. In spite of ourselves, it's always a beautiful day. Until you reach the mesosphere, and we "invent and invent"...
Image: Magritte, René, La Grande Famille (The Great Family), 1963, oil on canvas. Utsunomiya Museum of Art, Utsunomiya City, Tochigi, Japan.
About the images: Tankful Travels makes every effort to adhere to identification, citation, and attribution best practices for the images that appear in our posts. If you find discrepancies or broader information than we have provided please contact us via email.