Nom, nom

There's a memorable scene in Thomas Harris's book "Red Dragon" [which was made into a movie twice: Manhunter in 1986, and Red Dragon in 2002; i preferred the former, done pre-Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter franchise] where the villain Francis Dolarhyde, insane and obsessed with the dragon in the William Blake painting The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun, travels to the Brooklyn Museum and poses as an art researcher. He arranges a private viewing of the watercolor--which is so fragile that it's not on display--and once there, chloroforms the curator and eats the painting. Eats it. Fantastic. 

~Let me take a brief aside for a moment to compare the portrayals of Dolarhyde in the two movies. Before eventually becoming a cartoon, Harris's Hannibal Lecter was a scary motherfucker. But I've always thought Dolarhyde was a creepier character. He's portrayed in the first film by the golem-like Tom Noonan [who i find pretty creepy in anything he's done] and in the second by Ralph Fiennes, who is a fine actor and makes a respectable effort but is just too pretty to be that scary. A simple comparison can end this argument pretty quickly:

Right? 

OK, let's get back to eating paintings. This chilling scene stuck with me the way it did because I too have had the urge to eat a piece of art that moves me visually. A feeling comes over me when i'm particularly touched by a painting, like just seeing it isn't nearly enough; I have a visceral urge to actually consume it, to take it in in the most powerful and literal way. This only seems to happen with paintings. I've been moved terrifically by photographs and sculpture but both mediums present enough of a cool, mechanical distance to impede the desire to meld with it organically. I've wanted to take them into my brain but not my stomach. Are you still with me? 

I've wanted to eat Schiele, Kahlo, Klee, Freud. I wept over Van Gogh's shoes in Amsterdam and wanted to smuggle them home in mah belly. A small Vermeer would go down easy, pop! Bonnard. Picasso. Cezanne, yes please. Oooh, Miró. I stood swaying like a dieter in front of an ice cream sundae over this Bacon at the current Met exhibit: 

and this one, yum:

 

Alas, the passion doesn't always strike. Sometimes an exhibit is just an exhibit. Very nice, even beautiful, but without craving. I like Hopper quite a bit but i've never wanted to eat anything of his. A Chuck Close is just too big. Basquiat, meh. Pretty, but too pointy. But that feeling is so sublime, such an out-of-body high, such a rich pleasure, that I'll go back again and again in search of it. Who doesn't want to be moved like that? Maybe Thomas Harris was onto something, having his characters consume their desires. With fava beans and nice chianti.