Berger's Ways of Seeing Stood

Berger's Ways of Seeing stood transfixed before Stella's "Old Brooklyn Bridge." I must have stared at it for longer than it took to walk through the previous two rooms. Keeping in mind what Berger had written about art as I wandered through the Museum of Fine Arts, I knew this was the one: this was the painting that would teach me different "ways of seeing." "Old Brooklyn Bridge" is positively aglow with color and light; the painting is alive and active.

Its linear composition is stellar and the palate reminiscent of the industrial age in which it was born. I couldn't help but notice how Stella was remarkably able to reproduce the texture, tint, and feel of steel using paint. John Berger would appreciate this moment of communion between Stella, the bridge, and me. First we must allow the bridge to speak. A massive feat of modern civil engineering and visually impressive in its own right, the Brooklyn Bridge impacts the eye and mind of all who see it.

I don't know if the bridge is any less stunning in the year 2004 than it was in 1940 when far fewer cars crossed it each day. However, I do surmise from Stella's work that the artist was so moved by its sight and its import that he spent however many hours of his life to complete this work of art. Second we let Stella speak. On more than one occasion Stella stared at the Brooklyn Bridge.

He finally said to himself, "I must paint that thing!" He did not want a photograph; Stella wanted to project that which lingered in his mind's eye onto the canvas. Whether or not Stella intended his painting to be on display for thousands or millions to see is irrelevant. The artist stamped the images in his mind onto the canvas permanently. Barring fire or other disaster, the painting will survive countless centuries and could potentially outlast the bridge itself. Third, I am the final observer.

Like all others who appreciate "Old Brooklyn Bridge," I am truly seeing in this moment the magic of fine art. At once I understand what Berger says about the difference between the original piece and its reproduction. "In the original the silence and stillness permeate the actual material," whereas reproductions "destroy the authority of art," (125; 126). I'm not sure if the title of the painting distracted me or helped me relate to it. Having seen the Brooklyn Bridge I had some foreknowledge of the object being portrayed here.

Yet Stella's rendition was so personal and powerful that it made me wonder whether or not I had ever truly seen the bridge or not. Had I not known what the title of the painting was, I am not even sure I would have known it was a bridge at all. Yet once I read the title I could no longer return to my original way of seeing. Now I saw the painting with increased awareness and a deeper understanding of the artist's intent.

"Old Brooklyn Bridge" represents an image that, in Berger's words, "became a record of how X had seen Y," (108). Reflecting further on Berger's "Ways of Seeing," I recalled his section on perspective. One of the most remarkable aspects of Stella's painting is its linear perspective. The lines representing the suspension cables of the bridge converge in space. The most notable conversion occurs at the very top of the canvas, where at least two of these beams intersect.

Had I not known they were suspension cables I might have thought they were beams of light or just abstract lines. Yet although Stella approaches an abstract rendition of the Brooklyn Bridge, this painting is not what I would call abstract. My encounter with Stella's "Old Brooklyn Bridge" demonstrates the "reciprocal nature of vision," (Berger 107). Looking at the painting, I was able to perceive its secrets. It revealed itself to me as a lover to the beloved. But Stella's painting was not shy.

When it gazed back at me it asked me as many questions as I asked of it. Its probing lines and bold colors leapt out from the two-dimensional space it occupied and "Old Brooklyn Bridge" came to life for me, in that instant. Why are you red in the center and down below?" I asked. I was forged from steel, red and hot. Have you ever been inside a steel factory? Good, you weren't missing out on anything fun.

Do you know how many steel workers died from health problems directly related to their job? Let's not even get into how many workers died during my construction. The red in my belly bears witness to the blood that was accidentally, from no fault of mine, spilled." As he spoke I felt my own belly feel vicariously the simultaneous warmth and pain the painting conferred. The redness was its only splash of that hue. Without the shining red "Old Brooklyn Bridge" would lack a sense of humanity.

It would be as if the bridge were floating in space, unborn and uncreated. With the red, strategically placed in what would be the genitals of the canvas, the Brooklyn Bridge appeared almost to give birth: to new forms, new ideas, new engineering marvels, new urban landscapes. Moreover, the redness seemed to feminize the bridge just enough to soften it and make it more approachable, trustworthy, and real. It looks like a diamond there, faceted and pointing downward," I said, still gazing at the same place.

The diamond indeed appeared to be the newborn, emerging from and again into the mechanical industrial world in which the parent bridge was forged. I wondered what this diamond meant, what it would bring to humanity, what light it could shed on the world. The diamond also paralleled the overall impact of the painting, which appears multifaceted. Yes, it does appear that way. The shape, downward pointing as you say, offers a perfect counterbalance to the upward motion of the steel cables, don't you think?" Stella had joined the conversation.

Now we were talking. I suddenly for the first time noticed that there were buildings in the background. I almost recognized them, in spite of the lack of detail in their design. Unlike the magnificent, three-dimensional, bright steel cables that graced the foreground of the canvas, the buildings in the background were drawn line-thin, their outlines barely distinguishable amid the imposing bridge. Of course, Stella meant to depict the scene in precisely this way. After all, the subject matter was the Brooklyn Bridge; not New York City.

With this perspective Stella hints that the bridge supercedes the buildings in grandeur and import. High rises in the city are a dime a dozen; bridges like this are one of a kind. Moreover, Stella didn't want to paint the New York City skyline of 1940; perhaps he was all too aware of how rapidly it would change over the next several decades, or perhaps he knew that it paled in significance when contemplated beside this feat of engineering prowess.

The clearest structure that I could discern in the background was a strategically placed depiction of the bridge's recognizable towers. Stella inserted them at the top of the painting at precisely the point where the two main steel cables meet, the ones that contribute most to the linear perspective that characterizes the painting. Placing the towers here underscores Stella's desire to offer the viewer limitless insight into the Brooklyn Bridge's beauty. In fact, Stella's painting borders on being cubist, with its multifaceted feel.

Berger describes cubist perspective as "the totality of possible views taken from all points around the object," (114). From this perspective, I the viewer was able to become intimate with the subject immediately. The bridge offered itself to me fully, and with it Stella's mind at the moment he conceived the final image of his work.

Berger investigates the immense power of perspective in "Ways of Seeing." For him, linear perspective affords the viewer a divine point-of-view: "the visible world is arranged for the spectator as the universe was once thought to be arranged for God," (112). All-seeing, all-knowing, the spectator who views a work of art composed in this fashion is privy to the fullness of a single moment in space and time.

While I felt completely humbled and not at all like God when I gazed at "Old Brooklyn Bridge," I nevertheless understood what Berger was trying to say, especially because here the viewer is afforded not just with linear perspective but with the universal perspective of cubism as well. It is as if Stella had taken a photograph of the bridge and cut it up into tiny pieces and spliced them back together again.

Yet the bridge offered me secrets of itself that it never would from a photograph that was solely centered on my two eyes. It was telling me to peek at its underbelly, take in the steel bolts and welding, analyze the precise mathematical computations that underwrote the blueprint of the bridge. The painting begged me to ask of it why intermittent shadows struck its sides, why yellow-golden light graced its innards.

I guessed that it must have been nighttime that Stella tried to capture, for at night the shining lights from the city would flicker against the bridge and bring out the character of the steel in ways.