“What is art, anyway?” said my disgruntled ex. “If you have a four-year-old son who draws you a heartfelt picture you will keep for decades and which represents the world to you, is it not art? And do you only become an ...
@scrabbler Sir plz check this too. Puys you also pour in with ur views
“What is art, anyway?” said my disgruntled ex. “If you have a four-year-old son who draws you a heartfelt picture you will keep for decades and which represents the world to you, is it not art? And do you only become an artist once your work is showcased in a gallery?” I quickly cut him down, replying that art with a capital A had specific qualities to it: it could summarise the struggles of a generation (something rarely found in a child's drawing), it was recognised by peers as worthy, it often used specific skills which required years of practice, and its conceptuality often said something about the human condition. He vehemently disagreed. With hindsight, I believe we were both right.
I was reminded of that argument recently when visiting a very special exhibition at the V&A museum, which moved me in ways I did not foresee. Quilts, 1700-2010 is Britain's first major exhibition devoted to quilts and patchwork. It brings together a formidable collection of 70 delicate masterpieces, from hundreds of pieced wool hexagons made in the early 1800s to a christening baby quilt sporting the tiniest details to Tracey Emin's To Meet My Past, a modern take on patchwork as a vehicle for storytelling.
As family heirlooms, quilts often play a role. Beyond being passive decorative objects, those scraps of fabrics have an awful lot to say if one is willing to pay enough attention. The small but glorious imperfections of a 350-year-old christening panel bring us back to times when not only all sewing was painstakingly done by hand, but also done at the end of the day, by candlelight. The recycling of fabrics, compiling bits of rustic cottons salvaged from old pyjamas and tea-towels, bares the proof of poor families' ingenuity and extreme thrift. Likewise, fancy velvets and silks especially shipped from India feature on quilts made for well-to-do Victorian housewives, illustrating the luxury in which rich families were basking.
But it doesn't stop, of course, in England. Take the Amish quilts, so conservative in their austere symmetrical patterns, which shyed away from the “crazy patchwork” of the early 1900s. Or the African-American quilting tradition, which told tales of resilience and escapism during the slavery years. The final stitch might have been made dozens of decades ago, but those works managed to survive and tell stories thanks to an overwhelming amount of creativity and savoir-faire.
And yet, for all their mind-boggling patience, few of the crafters behind the collection's items will ever enjoy any posthumous recognition. The majority of quilts were made by anonymous women (and men) with their helpers, which further sets the exhibition apart from traditional art displays. It is unsure that many of the quilters considered their craft to be art in and of itself – some made murals to be hung on walls or even banners meant to be political statements, others more practical items to celebrate a special occasion, such as wedding quilts. There is some sadness in that many names stood behind hours of labour without the opportunity to acknowledged, but this also makes those objects more approachable (and less pretentious) than art with a capital A.
This brings me back neatly to my ex-boyfriend and our little disagreement. Is quilting, and by extension, crafts such as knitting or woodcarving, art? When it comes to the things that matter – historical importance,ability to provoke emotions, display of intricate skills – I believe the answer is a resounding yes. Crafts may traditionally quietly belong to the domestic sphere but when exhibited for all to see, their significance takes on a life of their own.
Q.> Which one of these would be an incorrect conclusion about the quilts in the exhibition 'Quilts, 1700- 2010'?
Thomas Harris' latest novel is being hailed as the long awaited sequel to The Silence of the Lambs, but I have never thought that novel actually needed one. It stood on its own, finished and complete. After I p...
Thomas Harris' latest novel is being hailed as the long awaited sequel to The Silence of the Lambs, but I have never thought that novel actually needed one. It stood on its own, finished and complete. After I put that book down I did not think to ask what Hannibal was going to do next. In my opinion he had done enough. I've always preferred a novel that concludes with a few loose ends because, in life, not all problems get tied up nice and neat. There was something so frightening, so giddily uncomfortable about knowing that cannibal “The Cannibal” was loose on an unsuspecting world. Author Harris did readers a favor by letting us all keep a little of that fear in our hearts and minds for the past 11 years.
But we became so intrigued by Hannibal, didn't we? And we wanted to see more of him. When we first met him in Harris's second novel Red Dragon, he was a small but important player, giving reluctant but brilliant insights into the mind of a serial killer to FBI agent Will Graham. In The Silence of the Lambs it was FBI cadet Clarice Starling looking for a multiple murderer and Lecter became a major and integral part of the story. And when we saw Hannibal brought to life by Anthony Hopkins in the 1991 film, we became hooked. Rarely before had we been drawn to such an evil character — one who charmed and hypnotized us with his combination of verbal gymnastics, Old World manners and awesome intellectual abilities.
But now there is Hannibal, Harris's latest novel, and this time Dr. Hannibal Lecter is the player. And like The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal is finished and complete and stands on its own. Quite well in fact. In Hannibal, Harris plumbs the shadowy depths of Lecter's mind and throws us into the stinking oubliette of his psyche, taking us through past — and possibly significant — remembrances. When we re-ascend, it is with a startling array of knowledge about the man. We find him fascinating, sympathetic and — despite his dietary habits and penchant for killing (and consuming) only the “rude”— a likable character. I like the well rounded character that Harris has created, even if he's somewhat outlandish, flamboyant and deeply disturbed. Hannibal loves the finer things in life: classical music, ancient literature, fine art, a tidy evisceration...
The novel's title works, not only because it is about Hannibal; it is Hannibal. And though the narration is in the third person, it speaks with his voice. It's a voice of culture and intelligence; of terror and menace. In hushed conspiratorial tones, it politely invites us to witness acts of inhuman horror and suffering. Almost — almost — making them palatable. And if not palatable, then so fascinating we find it hard to turn away. Harris does not write of these atrocities from the moral standpoint of someone who thinks the things Hannibal does are wrong; we all know what he does is wrong. Even Hannibal knows very well what he does is wrong. He also believes he has the intellectual and moral superiority to justify his actions, and this is Harris's triumph in the narration. We are shown things in the way Hannibal would see them through his intellectually superior and amoral eyes, and it is up to us to decide the right or wrongness of things. We also see things with an almost clinically unprejudiced and sometimes uncomfortably uncensored eye;
unwavering, unblinking. Harris's prose is elegant and economic.
Why does the writer think that the title of the novel Hannibal works?
(a) The title aptly captures the most important aspect of the book.
(b) The author's writing style embodies characteristics of Hannibal's personality.
(c) The author's narrative is through the eyes of the protagonist himself and leaves moralistic
judgement to the reader.
(d) The novel is as if it were though a narration by Hannibal himself which enables the reader to
understand that Hannibal only attacks the rude.Q.2>
Which of the following is admitted by the author in the passage?
(a) Hannibal's actions are morally wrong.
(b) Anthony Hopkins' portrayal of Hannibal increased the popularity of the series and compelled the author to write another book.
(c) A character with intellectual superiority and old world manners can be fascinating even if evil.
(d) Peeping into the mind of Hannibal makes the novel 'Hannibal' a much more interesting read than 'Silence of the lambs'.
Which of the following can be inferred from the passage?
(a) The fact that readers find a dangerous character like Hannibal fascinating reveals that morality is no longer popular with people.
(b) Harris had revealed enough fascinating details about Hannibal's past in the earlier novels prior to warrant a third book on the same character.
(c) Hannibal's love for the finer things in life makes him a fascinating character.
(d) Hannibal evokes sympathy from the readers due to his turbulent past, which has made him
engage in horrific deeds.