One of our shticks at A&P (in a good way) has been our interest in learning about perception through findings in neuroscience, psychophysics, and related fields, as well as through introspective observation of our own seeing and art-making. Though this interest is not unique to A&P, it certainly isn’t very common, either. So I was delighted to come across two examples in a day of cognitive science finding mention in current art criticism at a rather higher level of visibility. It was especially nice that these references truly illuminated the discussion of the art viewer, in one case, and the artist, in the second.

Exhibit A is Peter Schjeldahl’s recent New Yorker article on paintings from the Norton Simon collection, now visiting New York (to see the full article requires a free registration, but there’s an open podcast also).
I was pleased to discover, at the Frick, that my mental image of them had been close to photographic. No nuance of the dusky russet shadows and tiny green inflection, in the fruit’s yellow, surprised me. But the other objects registered with a jolt: I didn’t remember and oranges, basket, cup, or rose. My recollection had amputated two-thirds of a tour de force.
Research has confirmed what experience posits: strongly emotional events linger in vivid but narrowly focussed memory, etching certain facts–a gun pointed at you, say–while occluding pretty much everything incidental to them (such as the color of the gunman’s hair, or whether he had any).
Exhibit B is a less recent article (but just discovered by me) from Morgan Meis’ column at The Smart Set. Entitled Painting from Memory, it discusses Pierre Bonnard:
But remember how Bonnard worked. He didn’t go directly from perception to painting. He didn’t set up his easel in the dining room and go to work. Instead, he waited and he pondered. He made pencil sketches of the basket of oranges that might not be there tomorrow, took notes about the way the door was open just so. He’d leave the painting alone for a few years and then go back to it when the time was ripe. Bonnard paints from understanding back into perception. That’s why his work is so often described as “intelligent.” Bonnard is not dealing with the moment of recognition, but with experiences that have been sitting in the brain for a long time. The fact is, we are always working on the images we collect as we move along, living. We’re always going through memories, altering them, adding and subtracting, recreating the crap of our minds to fit the ongoing narrative that makes you, you and me, me. There’s an entire world in our heads. This world corresponds to the one we live in, but not exactly. It has its own rules, its own meaning. Bonnard is painting from that world.
So that’s my haul for the day. Any other examples out there?

I don’t personally like Bonnard, it reminds me of this old nasty woman student in the Fine Art course who used to paint horrible stuff and was obsessed by Bonnard’s work!
There you go, a memory from my past that makes up my decision about some particular subject in my world.
That painting you showing above is impressively painted!
Steve my comments again and with both emails… :-(
Angela
Never had such trouble with Akismet before, maybe it likes Bonnard!
The Zurbarán painting shown reminds me of Hanneke’s fruit, such as

That is indeed a stunning pice by Hanneke, my favourite of all her outstanding work!
Steve,
More food for thought (with bows to Hanneke, of course).
I had read the Schjeldahl article and filed it away for future reference. It combines with Hockney’s theories, Rackstraw Downes’s observations, Wechsler on the Oake (?) twins, and William Fox’s treatises on how we see, particularly from above.
I’m not sure what I make of all these complex and sometimes muddled (at least in my mind) notions of seeing and art-making, but case in point: today I was sketching from a prompt, which was a poem about a man who finds himself shrinking as he stands in a bank (see Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/ )
I’m sketching in pencil, doing some contours in ink with an occasional colored pencil thrown in. Today, as I dealt with the shrinking man in the bank, I found myself drawing ionic columns (the ones with the scrolls on top). They seemed to have little to do with the poem except to indicate that this was a prideful place, but the more I sketched, the more important those ionic columns became. They (and the naked fellow holding the treble clef like a staff) were what my mind and pen kept coming back to.
Like Schjeldahl, I’m startled to find, when I reread the prompt, that nothing within it would call for columns, let alone ionic ones. Is this what surrealism is all about?
As you see, I’m not totally my rational self yet.
June,
For what it’s worth, ionic columns would fit with the sort of Wall Street financial institutions featured rather a lot in recent news.
June:
And do remember that Ionic columns are somewhat iconic.I would certainly want to include such columns in the general environment of my shrinking, as they would loom ever larger in a most satisfactory way. And please post your treble clef guy when you’re finished with him.
Jay,
Well put–just what I was thinking. Unless you’re being ironic?
Steve:
June might claim that I’m being Punic. Or in the given context, potentially puny.