100 Books Like What Is Art For?

Not much in common between Gombrich and Berger, ideologically—so I would presume. Yet Berger’s social history of Western art, woven into the rise of capitalism, advertising, and mass media, is similarly direct in style.

It irritates me; it’s supposed to irritate. Given its radical energy, the book seems surprisingly undated. First published in 1972, it also still seems adventurous in design—the art book as a work of art.

In the late 1990s, when I was writing a short history of the Phaidon Press–a pioneer imprint of art books both affordable and beautiful—I used to visit Gombrich at his home in north London. His own career as art historian was entwined with Phaidon’s fortunes. I asked him if it were true that he used to get an adolescent to read his texts to check for clarity of expression.

The legend was exaggerated, of course. But Gombrich’s prose still strikes me as admirably free of academic obfuscation, and this book is filled with lucid discussion of what is happening, perceptually and psychologically, when artists invite viewers into their ‘worlds’.

I’m fond of writers who indulge the anecdotal mode. Vasari is up there with Plutarch, Boswell, de Quincey, and other biographers who see how apparently trivial information can transmit essential personal characteristics. While he gives reverential accounts of artists he regards in the category of genius, Vasari humanizes them through anecdotes.

How Michelangelo became physically attached to his clothes because he so seldom changed them. How Leonardo bought caged birds in the market in order to set them free. How Raphael died of too much sex. It’s not a read-through book, but a text to consult whenever you see a remarkable sculpture, building, or painting of the Italian Renaissance and want to know more about the men (it is all men) who made it—each burning with that hard gem-like flame.

Martin is a pal. Even if he weren’t I would recommend this unusual meditation on how a work of art gets made. Imagine you have volunteered to sit for a portrait by a highly distinguished artist (here, Lucien Freud).

This entails many hours, stretching over many months—of sitting in exactly the same position, effectively doing nothing. Not only are you stuck with the situation. You can’t even be sure that the artist, let alone you, will be happy with the result. From this agony comes an essay on the process of a ‘masterpiece’ that is patient, tender, good-natured—and filled with telling anecdotes.

As a career coach and artist advocate, I was curious about what the author had to say about the inner workings of the art world. Quite happily, I read an insightful and humorous probe from a writer who sincerely wanted to understand art and its importance.

Bosker is not afraid of naming names when discussing critics, gallery owners, curators, collectors, and artists. She goes undercover, so to speak, and writes about her experiences as a gallery assistant, an artist’s assistant, a museum security guard, and a sales assistant at Art Basel Miami. And to add to her experiences, she tackles the use of the foreign language of “art speak.”   

If you read one book on the psychology of art, make it this one. Winner gives us a book that celebrates the importance of art even as she remains grounded in experimental data and avoids hyperbole. She asks deceptively simple questions. What is art? Why do we make art? Does art make us better people? The clarity of her logic and the elegance of her prose as she answers these and other incisive questions make this book a delight to read.

As an anxious mother, I struggled to understand how my creative practice could help me through this trying stage of life.

This book was the first key to help me unlock how my creative practice could support my healing and help me learn more about myself. But most importantly, it gave me permission to proclaim that I could know and understand the world through my intimate creative expressions.

Part memoir, part instruction, this book provided the road map for who I am today: a woman who welcomes her suffering into the creative realm and watches it transform into insight.

This is a classic book by German-born psychologist Rudolf Arnheim, in which he lays out the principles underlying our perception and understanding of works of visual art.  One of the major principles discussed is the human tendency to see the simplest form possible in any visual array. This ‘simplicity principle’ is also used to explain the intelligence and inventiveness of children’s art. In a brilliant chapter called Growth, Arnheim shows us that children are not striving towards realism; rather they are trying to create the simplest possible recognizable structural equivalent for the object they are representing.  The inventiveness with which children reduce complex forms to simple structural equivalents requires far more intelligence than mindless copying.  

I didn’t love this entire book from cover to cover, but what I did love, I loved deeply. It contemplates what indeed makes an artist an artist, ruminating on a variety of art makers–from Bonnard to Yoko Ono to Bob Ross to Eve Hesse and Sol LeWitt.

LeWitt’s letter to Eve is something that is seared into my brain. There’s profanity in it, so I won’t repeat any of it here, but it struck me to my core; my whole body agreed with his sentiment. Kimmelman is a skilled writer (duh, he was a New York Times art critic), and he manages to tell intimate stories of how things came to be, why we look at things the way we do, why we collect or want things–including lightbulbs.

It validated the idea that artists need to find the thing they are passionate about, trust that, and follow any and everything… show more.

This is a book of essays about the act of looking, especially looking at photographs and paintings and animals and other people. Thus these are essays about history, memory, suffering, beauty, and the self. Berger had a generous spirit; he wrote often about the lives of peasants and spent the last forty years of his life in rural France. Berger gazed upon the world in all its forms with composure and curiosity.