Our research volunteer, Daniel Taylor, thinks about Yoko Kondo Konopik's Red & Blue Duet, a painting that was on view in our galleries earlier this year in the exhibition Yoko Kondo Konopik: On Canvas.
It’s my first time on the UNLV campus and my uncle, a professor, was giving me a tour when we came across the Marjorie Barrick Museum.
When we entered the space it was so quiet that our voices had to be lowered and our footsteps made more gentle. My uncle, who is used to projecting his voice across a classroom, is not comfortable in spaces like this. But I am in my element.
First thing upon entering the space, we are surrounded by canvases of bright color and abstract shapes. My uncle is visibly confused, and I find myself struggling to explain the artwork to him.
“Okay, so this piece with the orange and blue is my favorite.”
“Why? I don’t know, I just like it. It’s got two very different colors side by side. One very loud orange, one very quiet blue. They’re connected by a white stripe curving across both canvases. It looks like a smile. I feel a sense of harmony. The colors are very different but they get along with each other. I’m not sure about the grey patch there, what do you think?”
I look at him expectantly.
He shakes his head. “I don’t get it. But I’m glad it makes you happy.”
It makes me very happy. The artwork gave me an opportunity to speak my mind. I haven’t had the chance to explain myself to him before. Whereas before I was just a listener, the artwork gave me a chance to share my thoughts.
While navigating the anxiety and uncertainty of arriving in an unfamiliar place, Konopik’s art gave me a moment of quiet and calm. It also gave me a moment of role reversal between myself and my uncle. For the briefest moment, I was invited to teach him something, instead of the other way around.
Barnett Newman’s "Who's Afraid of Red, Yellow and Blue III" is another painting made up of fields of color. In 1986, the painting was destroyed by a museum visitor who was, I suppose, afraid of red, yellow, and blue. Attempts at restoration were made, but critics have claimed that no other artists have been able to recreate the smoothness and depth of color of the original. Newman’s technique for painting solid colors was kept a safely guarded secret, and it is said that this craftsmanship is a mark of Newman’s genius. I have personally never seen Newman’s work, but I find that hard to believe. Konopik has created a perfectly smooth, bright field of color, which had a profound effect on me, whether secret techniques were involved or not.
Similar to "Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow and Blue III," Konopik’s "Red & Blue Duet" contains a contrast between two complimentary colors.
The brightness of the neon orange (even though the painting is called "Red & Blue Duet," it seemed more orange to me) and the dark deep blue makes me think of so many contrasting things. Anxiety and depression, anger and sadness, male and female, loud and quiet, childhood and maturity, human and machine, creation and destruction—the possibilities are infinite. There are so many binaries that seem to clash and conflict. The colors are on two separate canvases, as if they can’t even bear to be in the same place together. But that graceful arc of the curved line brings them together and makes them appear as one coherent piece.
I am reminded of the famous symbol of Yin and Yang, where black and white are separated by a graceful S curve. And just like the Daoist symbol, there is a little bit of quiet blue within the loud orange. The blue however, does not contain any orange. It contains a series of hand drawn charcoal lines. The lines are clearly not drawn with a ruler, and vary a little in width and straightness. It feels very human compared to the precision and smoothness of the rest of the piece. A little bit of gray makes the surrounding colors stand out even more. If you step back, the whole thing almost looks like a smile and a wink, the grey bar looks more like a closed eye.
We continued towards the back of the gallery, where there was a different exhibition. Women's Rights Are Human Rights. This artwork is bold, strong, confident, and speaks clearly. My uncle again asked me to explain the work, but this time I felt it had a voice of its own. I didn’t feel the need to speak on its behalf, because it spoke so clearly for itself, but also because it isn’t about me. I kept my mouth shut and we absorbed the artwork in silence.
Patriarchy is a paradigm that separates men and women. It forces women to a status below that of men, and forces men to a status above that of women. The forces of patriarchy, in myriad subtle and unspoken ways, blinds men to the obviousness of women’s suffering. Privilege is a kind of blindness, it causes those who are privileged to not only perpetuate inequality but also become unaware of it.
Perhaps Konopik’s artwork is unconcerned with the real world. It lives in a dream separate from reality. Perhaps that is why I connected with it so easily, because I live in a dream, and the dream of patriarchy is one that separates me from reality.
I could sit here for a long time trying to explain what the work means to me, but I’m not a professor, it’s not my job to teach people what to think. Abstract art deliberately avoids that kind of direct representation, it doesn’t tell you what you’re looking at, instead it asks you to think about it for yourself.
Art’s not something that can be written about or explained. Art is a mirror, it reflects back the attention you put into it. It’s not an idea that can be explained or taught, it’s an experience. You have to be there standing in front of it, to really feel it.
Image: Yoko Kondo Konopik, "Red & Blue Duet," 2003, Oil and charcoal on canvas. Photo courtesy Krystal Ramirez.