In anticipation of the upcoming release of “The Vanitas & Other Tales of Art and Obsession” later this month, we had the opportunity to talk with the author of the book – Jake Kendall. He delves into the sacrifices of artists and draws parallels between the narratives of Caravaggio and Vincent van Gogh and the contemporary challenges faced by today’s artists. Additionally, he shares his thoughts on the concept of suffering as an essential element of the creative process.
Yasmin Doogue-Khan: In your book, you delve into the sacrifices artists make. Could you share a personal or observed experience that deeply influenced this theme?
Jake Kendall: For me, the job of the storyteller is to dissolve into fictional constructions and immerse themselves fully within the lives and feelings of their protagonists. As a rule, I endeavour to keep myself out of my fiction and any correlation between the stories I write and my real life are unintentional. However, despite adopting this creative position of impersonality, it is also true that this anthology emerged from a period of personal crisis and a great sense of loss and sadness was permeating every aspect of my writing. The themes of struggle and redemption that flow through many of these stories, and the healing power of art, are therefore neither conscious nor coincidental.
The themes of the anthology also emerged organically from my writing and research processes. I am drawn to the work of conflicted artists, whether that tension takes the form of Michelangelo struggling to reconcile the profoundly irreconcilable characteristics of his faith and his sexuality; or the dramatic cycles of transgression, sacrifice, and redemption painted by Caravaggio; or the inner conflict of van Gogh who paints with such thrilling sincerity that even the most prosaic subjects are painted with such feeling that it radiates from his every brilliant canvas.
Y.D.-K.: Could you discuss a character in your book who embodies the struggle between artistic passion and personal sacrifice? What makes their journey compelling?
J.K.: The protagonist of the title story, The Vanitas, is called Sandro Signorelli. Sandro is a fictional artist of middling talents, who completes the greatest painting of a lifetime at the age of 32. His subject is the Assumption of the Virgin, a subject that resonates with him on several levels: the work is an exuberant depiction of the eventual triumph of faith over doubt, and he sees a simultaneous allusion to his own assumption as a master painter. However, a further reading of the word ‘assumption’ is not yet apparent to him, he has assumed that Rome will love his work as much as he does and cannot see that the Mannerist style in which he paints is outdated, stale, and kitsch.
Across town a triptych painted by Caravaggio is causing seismic waves. The city of Rome is shocked and captivated by his theatrical and stylish use of chiaroscuro, his pioneering use of realism over romanticism, and the sense that Caravaggio is daring to challenge aesthetic conventions and provoke real-world power. No one has ever seen vast crowds gathering outside churches before. No one has heard religious art inspiring so much excitement and debate. Sandro’s triumph is immediately withdrawn from him, and he is cast deeper into shadow and obscurity.
I began to write Sandro’s story partially to explore Caravaggio, the mythology surrounding him, and his impact on Italian art by way of a character who is an opposite in every way. Yet Sandro’s story soon took on its own life and momentum. He is not even the star of his own life story – the emergence of this brilliant new ‘rival’ plunges his life into crisis – calling his artistic practice, his faith, and even his self-understanding into profound doubt – and causing him to oscillate between surges of vanity and wild fits of despair.
Y.D.-K.: Does your book draw on historical examples of artists who suffered for their work? How do these stories resonate with today’s creative challenges?
J.K.: In 1816 France began a colonial expedition to Senegal. The newly restored monarchy had appointed their loyal supporters to many positions of power following their restoration, including command over this expedition. Immediately out of his depth the captain was unable to navigate or maintain authority over the mission. Inevitably disaster struck, and the frigate known as The Medusa ran aground on a bed of coral and broke apart over the course of several days. During this time the crew constructed a vast raft in hopes that the officers, who claimed use of the lifeboats, would be able to tow them safely back to the shore. However, the massive weight of 150 people made the raft extremely difficult to tow. With callous and cowardly speed, the officers abandoned their crew to suffer a long ordeal in which most drowned, starved, or were slain in many bouts of chaotic combat and desperate acts of cannibalism.
A young artist by the name of Théodore Géricault became obsessed by this story. He was moved deeply by the suffering of the crew of the Medusa and he could not exorcise from his mind the violent and dehumanising details of their story. Working with two of the survivors, he began work on a monumental painting that would shame the culpable while also striving to tell a deeper truth about the nature of suffering and the need for hope in the face of adversity. The process of painting The Raft of the Medusa was long and exhausting. Many versions of the painting were begun and abandoned as Géricault failed repeatedly to find the meaning of suffering. Géricault’s practice was also morally questionable, asking survivors of severe trauma to recreate their worst experiences on a replica of the raft. He shaved his head and eschewed food while he worked, and placed parts of human cadavers around his studio to familiarise himself with every sensation of death and rot.
When he finally landed on the now-iconic final image that hangs in the Louvre today, he was creatively spent. His reward for painting this controversial masterpiece was a lukewarm reaction. Géricault fell into a profound bout of depression and never painted anything of that magnitude or ambition ever again. Writing to a friend, Géricault offered this gloomy observation on artmaking: “If there is one thing certain in this world, it is pain. Suffering is real, pleasure only imaginary.” He died just five years later at the age of 32 following a chronic tubercular infection. His life has several messages that other artists can take away – one being that endless morbidity, combined with a deeply romantic disposition, and vast unfulfillable ambitions, constitute a form of self-oppression.
Y.D.-K.: Do you view suffering as a necessary component of creativity? How has this perspective influenced your book’s narratives?
J.K.: With regards to creation I use the word ‘suffering’ a little metaphorically. Art is work. It is often mentally and spiritually draining. Whatever the artform and however well the process starts, there will be moments when the artist feels defeated or outmatched by their ambition.
It is a great struggle to overcome these feelings, one that can take years of effort to resolve. Throughout this long process the artist will likely feel isolated and frustrated. Perhaps these frustrations, disappointments, and doubts, will manifest as mood swings, they may place stress and strain on personal relationships. All the while the balance of time and energy with the domestic concerns of work, life, income, and the perception of career progression – or the lack thereof – is exceptionally difficult.
Additionally, each and every artwork is a compromise of sorts. The end result is usually quite different from the hypothetical project initially envisioned by the artist at the start of the process, and that too can feel like failure. To someone who has not experienced such emotions it perhaps seems odd to describe, say, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, as a compromise or a failure. Yet Michelangelo himself greeted the glowing reception his fresco received with an indifferent shrug and words to the effect of “I am not much of a painter.” This is not to say that the wider world agrees with Michelangelo’s estimation of his work, or even that we should, but it does demonstrate one way in which artists magnify the flaws and limitations they see in their work and obsessively chase the white whale of perfection.
This understanding and perspective has influenced my narratives in the sense that I believe that struggle, sacrifice, and suffering feel like the emotional currency of the artist. In writing these stories I hope to explore some of the human stories that underpin finished artworks.
Y.D.-K.: Amidst discussions of sacrifice, what aspects of the artistic journey do you believe offer the most joy and fulfilment?
J.K.: The word sacrifice implies a form of exchange. Great art is not an easy thing to make. The process demands that the artist gives everything they have. Yet for those that manage to succeed, the rewards validate the sacrifices many times over.
In this anthology of stories, the most fulfilling struggle that we see between the artist and their art comes in the story Under Shimmering Constellations. Here Vincent van Gogh is a twenty-nine-year-old oddball. His intensity has seen him rejected by his chosen profession, and he is fixating inappropriately on women – obsessing both over them personally and over the idea of an orthodox lifestyle and all the feelings of acceptance and spiritual satisfaction he believes such a life would grant him.
The attributes that make van Gogh such a compelling artist – that intensity, sincerity, and emotional urgency – are the very same attributes that exhaust his personal relationships and prevent him from ever coming close to achieving his vision of a ‘normal’ life. I know that he would have felt like a failure for much of his life, and yet failure did not define Vincent van Gogh. In art he finds his purpose and voice, he redeems himself in his own eyes, he achieves his creative vision, and eventually moves the hearts of millions.
For me, his life is a beautiful and bittersweet story. It suggests that we need not feel that our own lives will be defined by their lowest ebbs and failures, and that even our darkest moods and moments will pass – perhaps even leaving wonderful and unexpected things in their place.
Interviewed by Yasmin Doogue-Khan
