From time to time, I hear people say “I don’t like art”—a statement that strikes me as almost completely meaningless. It’s like saying, “I don’t like food” or “I don’t like sounds.” There’s so much variety among artists and media that there’s no way to talk about it as a cohesive whole; dismissing all of it in one fell swoop is absurd. But something obviously drives people to conclude that art is inaccessible to them. Aesthetics are perceived as the domain of academics, appreciation of the great masterpieces only attainable through elitist interpretation. Pejoratives like “artsy fartsy” are used to dismiss painting, architecture and sculpture that seems concerned more with beauty and abstraction than with functional or utilitarian application. In short, to many people, art is detached from the pressing reality of everyday life, unworthy of their time or attention. 

This situation grows out of the way that art is presented to us. In general, people encounter works of art in the quiet, brightly lit and essentially sterile environment of the museum. Some faceless curator has made the decision that these particular paintings, sculptures and objects are worth looking at and contemplating. They’re offered to the visitor in positions of intellectual veneration, high on the wall, often behind glass, carefully categorized and isolated from one another while at the same time vying for attention with hundreds or thousands of other pieces. The museum environment by its very nature introduces a layer of disassociation from context because the pieces were not made in this kind of environment. Rather, they were, in many cases, forged in mental and physical chaos, created in response to social upheaval or emotional anguish, the result of bloody circumstance, or themselves the cause of social revolution. In the words of art historian Simon Schama, “This is what drives the very greatest art: contempt for ingratiation.” 

Art is neither timid nor passive nor aloof. Art is powerful, capable of eliciting the most extreme reactions including fear, ecstasy, the feeling of being punched in the gut or light headed giddiness. But these visceral responses are discouraged by formalized analysis, over-interpretation and stuffy presentation. That’s the situation that Simon Schama's The Power of Art attempts to rectify. 

The series, broadcast over three months from October to December of 2006 on BBC Two, is an examination of works by eight major artists from the early 17th century to the present. The artists are Caravaggio, Bernini, Rembrandt, David, Turner, Van Gogh, Picasso and Rothko. Schama chose these eight because each of them produced a single painting or sculpture that defined a critical moment and sent ripples of influence through the whole fabric of society. At the beginning of each episode Schama introduces that piece, gives a hint as to its significance and then backtracks to the beginning of the artist’s career, drawing us through his life and showing us how and why his masterpiece came into existence. 

In the case of Caravaggio, the piece in question is David with the Head of Goliath (1601). This was a fairly standard subject in its time and one that many painters addressed, but Caravaggio’s version has a disturbing twist; the head of Goliath is a self-portrait. Why would Caravaggio choose to render himself as a disembodied head, dull and lifeless, skin going sickly green, eyes askew? What makes this particular painting both his greatest masterpiece and the ultimate expression of his tortured, violent life? 

The genius of Schama’s series is that the programs are not presented as dry lectures or conventional documentaries. Instead, each episode barrels forward with an urgent narrative that’s reminiscent of a good potboiler or gripping mystery novel. Schama rejects the traditional strictures of art history that characterize it as a clockwork progression of “isms,” one leading inexorably to the next. He breaks out of the closed, self-referential loop that critics have wrapped around the study of painting and sculpture by deemphasizing the work’s place in the pantheon of western art and instead examining its social, psychological, familial and political context. He shows us the artists as living, breathing individuals, unvarnished by revisionist rhetoric, replete with blemishes, subject to foibles and as real and relatable as your own family and friends. This is accomplished though the use of finely crafted dramatic recreations (Andy Serkis stars as Vincent Van Gogh in one notable example), beautiful location footage and Schama’s unique and engaging narration. 

Of particular note is the masterful cinematography on display in Simon Schama's The Power of Art. Each episode is visually evocative of the work of the artist being examined. The Caravaggio episode features strong shafts of light that pierce deep darkness to reveal furtive, dangerous characters. The Van Gogh episode is drenched in saturation point colors. The Picasso episode has a fragmented visual approach that’s immediately recognizable as cubist. But these techniques don’t come off as gimmicks. They’re handled with subtlety and skill, maintaining the overarching texture of the series while giving the individual episodes unique visual personality. 

Ultimately, Simon Schama's The Power of Art entertains as successfully as it educates. Schama removes the stuffy gloss from the study of these artists, making their lives and work as accessible and exciting as a summer blockbuster. You come away from the episodes with a deeper understanding and appreciation of the work because you’ve gotten to know the artists, their families, their friends and enemies and the social and political environment that their masterworks grew out of and commented upon. Simon Schama's The Power of Art offers a persuasive counterpoint to the statement “I don’t like art” by showing us in no uncertain terms how art is an integral part of the fabric of existence and how certain pieces deliver so much emotional impact that they immutably change the landscape of the human psyche.

Video Presentation  
The transfer on these discs is beautifully colorful. Every episode has a slightly different look, but the cinematography is amazing in every single one of them. The images are crisp and clean when they need to be, grainy and moody when that’s what’s called for. The only issue is a little bit of overly aggressive edge sharpening that you can spot as a bright line around some dark objects. Luckily, this effect is limited to some of the location photography and doesn’t mar the works of art themselves.

Audio Presentation  
The soundtrack for The Power of Art is composed of orchestral music that sets the tone of each episode. It’s a tasteful mix of source material and a handful of original passages. The menu uses a snippet of Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven. The Dolby 2.0 surround mix is reasonably enveloping, even though this is a primarily dialogue driven program. The only problem with the audio track is that the levels on Schama’s voice tend to vary up and down. They’re somewhat lower when recorded on location, a little higher when tracked in the studio. The difference isn’t pronounced enough that you’ll be reaching for your remote to adjust the volume, but it is noticeable at times.

Extras
Three interesting audio commentaries are included, all of which shed light on the production of the programs, the difficulties of writing and executing the series and the rationale behind Schama’s narrative choices. The commentary with Andy Serkis is particularly interesting. Also included is a 24-minute interview with Schama in which he discusses the birth of the series, his philosophy on art education and the ins and outs of producing a television series. 

It should be noted that there are five chapter stops for each episode, but no chapter menu available, so there’s have no easy way of navigating to specific parts of the shows. It’s an odd oversight that makes the discs harder to use than they should have been.

Conclusion