Every once in a while, I find it necessary to take in some art. We get so much of our information secondhand- from books, magazines, computer screens, and televisions- it's easy to mistake the document as the real thing. This is certainly the case for food as well. Referencing a recipe or a restaurant review, or watching someone else cook on the 'tube', is a pale substitute for experiencing the object as intended: seeing, smelling, and tasting it. At any rate, given our hectic schedules, I don't often afford myself the pleasure of strolling a gallery or a museum, despite the fact that some of the country's best lie within a ten minute walk. Art was my first love, before I ever discovered cooking. Sometimes I miss it.
It was because of this determination that I found myself at the Whitney last week, primarily to see its current exhibit of Alexander Calder. Though you may not know him by name, you would most likely recognize his work, notably his signature mobiles. Even as a former art student, I have, at best, a casual acquaintance with Calder's overall output. Focusing on his early work in Paris of the 1920s and 30s, I was drawn to this showing in particular to fill in the gaps of my own knowledge, to see how he came to produce such an iconic style. One could argue that the early twentieth century was perhaps the most fertile period for art since the Renaissance centuries earlier; so many distinct styles and movements sprang from this time, yet for the most part, all of the artists responsible came from a common classical background and training. I've long been fascinated by such evolution and the influences at play; in cooking as well, we can point to a period in the not-so-distant past when every chef 'painted' within a well-defined range of technique and materials. Recognizing these sparks of inspiration and leaps into new directions is important, not only in understanding where we've been, but also in imagining where we might go in the future.
Happily, I got a lot more food for thought than I bargained for. The first chord that struck me was purely visual. Calder's earliest kinetic and non-representational sculptures sprang upward from a solid base (unlike his signature suspended mobile above, incidentally displayed at the Guggenheim, not the Whitney, but I digress); their forms instantly called to mind modern chocolate and sugar showpieces. Though I appreciate and respect the skills and techniques required, I've never been much of a showpiece guy. Nonetheless, whether or not anyone has ever studied Calder's work for inspiration, they certainly should. Even from a plated dessert perspective- the clean shapes and arcs he constructed, where negative space was given equal emphasis- there is a valuable aesthetic to keep in your back pocket. And the majority of his work involved motion, both mechanical and natural. Food is also kinetic; table-side service in many ways actively transforms a dish, and then the form of that dish further evolves on the plate as it is eaten... Years ago, dining in a restaurant, as one course was set down, its contents contained in a ring mold, the waiter merely whispered, "This is food in motion," before lifting the ring, allowing the hidden components to spill across the plate. But I'll let you ponder those possibilities amongst yourselves.
Calder grew up in a family of artists, and early on gained fame, or at least a living wage, from simple commercial illustration. He also dabbled in sculpture, but of a utilitarian sort, constructing toys and puzzles. But I was still interested in how he came to be considered one of the great figures of abstract art. What was the spark?
As I mentioned in my previous post, there is something to be said for simply being in the right place at the right time. Calder, among many ex-pat artists and writers, found himself at ground zero for the avant garde, the 1920s in Paris. This up swell of creativity was everywhere, even contagious, it seems, to someone like Calder, as he sat in the cafes frequented by such artists. In particuar, it was meeting Piet Mondrian that became a turning point. From the painting above, which mimics, albeit more fluidly, Mondrian's bold lines and distinctive primary colors, Calder went on to explode into uncharted territory. I can identify with this sense of inspirational excitement, and I see it in other cooks all the time. I'm always saying that this is an especially exciting time to be a chef.
What's interesting is that the 'new' is being developed at such a fast pace, and these ideas and techniques have to quickly become fundamental knowledge in order to take the next step. Not all of these ideas will stick or have staying power, but our arsenal must adapt and expand nonetheless. I recently found myself in a debate over the definition of 'cooking', trying to explain that we can no longer cook like we used to, in ignorance of everything that has happened in, say, the last ten years. In part because the information is so readily available, I'd go so far as to call this ignorance inexcusable. But I also stress that it isn't the end result of 'modern' cooking- which admittedly so many are fixated on- but the knowledge and understanding that makes it possible in the first place. What we choose to do with this knowledge is a personal choice. Calder, from his solid base of talent and technique, took the ideas of his day into new directions indeed. Yet he also managed to often infuse his work with a sense of play and the 'low-brow'.
The breadth of the Whitney exhibit was staggering. On display were those early illustrations and paintings, numerous studies and sketches, his first experiments with twisted wire, and the range of static and kinetic sculptures that would eventually lead to the mobiles and ultimately become his legacy. But most surprising to me were his toys, which he often sold to support himself. The centerpiece was the grand circus he built and performed- in a sense, the avant garde coming full circle back to the whimsical impulses of childhood. If the scope of Calder's work, and his mastering of several media weren't enough, I began to notice that all of this material was produced in an incredibly short period of time, a mere 5 or 6 years. It was Calder's prolific portfolio that impressed me above all else.
Many of the artists, writers, musicians, and filmmakers (and chefs) I admire reflect a similar work ethic. I'm inspired not only by what they produce, but also by the frequency of their work in and of itself. How often, when confronted with a masterpiece, do we tell ourselves, "I'd be happy to do that just once, let alone several times"? I once told a fellow chef, in a moment no doubt embarrassing to the both of us, point blank: "You make me feel lazy." Wandering the Calder exhibit I felt the same kick in the pants.
In the week since, I've been asking myself how often I should be developing new things. One new idea a week? One a day? If I were to assemble a retrospective of my work to date, how would I feel about it? And would it represent the same exciting sense of evolution and personality?
Reality and the daily to-do list, and most of all being anchored at the pass two services a day, tend to prevent a great deal of free creative time. But is that really a good excuse? I can think about new ideas all day long, but the true value lies in realizing them as tangible objects one can taste and savor. I've always been one of those caffeine-fueled carpe diem kinda guys, but I could probably do so much more. And it's not so much about the individual end results; as always, it's as much about the process, the hows and whys along the way. Setting aside that time and constructing the creative atmosphere is crucial.
And as I get older, so too do I realize the benefits of culinary diversity, of being fluent in the craft on many levels. Just as Calder harnessed a wide range of media, producing both the 'high-brow' and reveling in the 'low-brow', I find myself embracing the many challenges and aspects of our business. For the longest time, ultra-fine dining was all that mattered to me. But I now find myself consulting on more casual concepts and thinking of ways to create a greater sense of accessibility to my work. And then there are all of the side projects and skills beyond 'just cooking', being an effective manager and communicator. How to wear these many hats is often a key question. On the surface, I didn't get a sense of the time line in which the varied facets of Calder's work was produced, but I wonder if he pursued each individual piece in isolation, or did he bounce around among his varied projects, like I often do. If I'm working on a new plated dessert, petit four, cake, media inquiry, blog post, and consulting menu simultaneously, does the cacophony help or hurt the process? Do they help to inform each other, or merely become one big distraction? How intently did Calder decide to what discipline or media an idea was best suited? Far from discouraging, I find these questions only make me want to push harder, to take on more tasks.
I was thinking of other food-art parallels recently. Responding to an email from a journalist about the 'sweetening' of savory food, I was discussing the cyclical nature of trends in the culture-at-large, and culinary 'fusion' in particular, how what is happening in the present is often a matter of relative perception and experience. I then began thinking about the expression of emotion and politics in cooking, and out of nowhere, I remembered the fringe art movement of Futurism. Active around the time Calder was at work in Paris, the Futurists (centered in Italy), were issuing manifestos and proposing real and imaginary menus that, read outside of historical and 'artistic' context, might sound eerily similar to food being conceived today (I almost hate to pull this old skeleton out of the closet, as it continues to haunt Paul to this day, but many might remember one particular meal that channeled these ideas on some level.) The group's most important artifact, the Futurist Cookbook, is worth a look as an entertaining diversion, and perhaps further proof of certain ideas, with or without the irony, coming full circle.
It seemed like ages ago, but the episode of Iron Chef America we taped this summer hits the air tonight. I merely participate as sous chef, along with Cory Barrett, for my friend and tetsu-jin Michael Symon, but it sure was a lot of fun, and far less stressful than it was the first time around!
Someday, I'll get my rematch.
