In my youth, I would occasionally visit the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow. For the uninitiated, the Tretyakov houses a vast collection of Russian fine art—picture the MoMA, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the Frick collection all diced up and served as an exquisite borscht. I can’t remember much of what I saw, but I clearly recall Malevich’s “Black Square” on display. What gives, Tretyakov? All your other pieces at least depicted something; in some way, they spoke to the viewer, and required some permutation of skill and effort. This was a black square. If I could paint a black square by my tender seven years (my bedroom wall was adorned with a number of Blinderman originals, at least half of which could be deciphered as animals, humans, and—after one particularly inspiring trip to a museum—a reproduction of the armless Venus de Milo), why wasn’t my work considered fine art? I was outraged; as we say in Australia, this was just not cricket.

In my indignation, I sought answers from my elders, but nothing satisfactory emerged. I accepted the “Black Square” as most people accept the majority of recent modern and contemporary art—something too esoteric and abstract for mere mortals to understand.

Since that experience, I’ve approached art with a generous disposition—but it’s time to draw the line. Open mind? Sure.  Provocative subject matter as social critique? Yeah, I guess. Dropping condoms, pantyhose, and liquor bottles on a mattress and calling it “My Bed” (I’m looking at you, award-winning artist Tracey Emin)? Nope. Now we’re just rehashing The Emperor’s New Clothes with Warhol prints. We’ve gotten to the point where something stupid and obnoxiously mundane is lauded simply for being inflammatory (Ms. Emin, who likes to have sex and drink, communicates her insights with all the subtlety of Girls Gone Wild).

To put it bluntly: what’s my beef with contemporary art (if I were an artist, I could communicate this to you by shaping beef mince into the word “art” and serving it at my gallery/kitchen/multipurpose installation space)? Much of what’s praised is abstract and conceptual, and is glorified for possessing depth that—let’s face it—we’re simply afraid to say it lacks. Otherwise (although these categories often overlap), whatever’s produced seems so devoid of skill that even I can claim authorship. In spite of my earlier braggadocio, I’ve made minimum headway in terms of artistic ability; if my skills are sufficient (barring an incredible investment of time and training), I can’t help but fail to be impressed. The result of all this conceptually-oriented produce is that language has had to pick up the slack, leading artists and critics alike to wax grandiloquent on the artistic merits of “negative space” and other equally inane ideas.

If we assume that the abstract and mundane are valid forms of art, and remove the necessity for technical skill to boot, we preclude the need for art to be located in galleries. In fact, we can do away with artists—their craft, in the form of the everyday, the ordinary, and the crude, is to be found all around us. Why don’t we take the democratizing logic of “art from anything, by anyone” to its natural conclusion, and admit that such assumptions would mean that the need for professional art is undone by its very essence? Tracey Emin’s made her bed—let her lie down in it.

Purity and human desire clash in Kaguyahime: The Moon Princess, the first show of the 2012-2013 season of Les Grands Ballets Canadiens de Montréal. Les Grands is the third ballet company in the world to stage the abstract piece, which fuses contemporary dance with traditional ballet, and succeeds in bringing a mixture of Eastern and Western artistic traditions to Montreal.

According to a traditional tenth-century Japanese folk tale, Kaguyahime is a small girl who is found inside a shining stalk of bamboo and adopted by a bamboo cutter. Kaguyahime grows, and with her, an impossible beauty that attracts suitors from far-flung places—including the Emperor of Japan. The Emperor, Mikado, immediately falls in love with the maiden and requests to marry her. Saddened, Kaguyahime reveals that she is a princess from the moon sent to earth for a short time, and despite the Emperor’s attempts to use his army to stop her from leaving, she finally returns to her kingdom.

The ballet, choreographed by renowned Czech dance master Jiri Kylian, diverges from the traditional tale by including a full-fledged war sequence that represents the rivalry and ensuing chaos spurred by Kaguyahime’s beauty.  Through his fight scenes, Kylian critiques the desire to possess the unattainable, and points to the tragedy of a lust that culminates in hatred, violence, and destruction.

The ballet company truly shines in the portrayal of the fight sequences, executed with refreshing grace and force. These scenes are permeated with symbolism, including the stark contrast between the light white fabric of the villagers’ attire to the lush black velvet of the Emperor’s army. Light and dark clash in a world mired in disarray, represented by the minimalist set design in which figures of horses fall chaotically from the sky.

Perhaps the more perplexing scenes are those in which Kaguyahime (Eva Kolarova) appears. In her solos, Kolarova contorts her body in shapes that range from fluid and smooth to controlled and precise—not quite in unison with the scarcely melodic flute tones that eerily infuse her solos. However, in her performances with other members of the company, Kaguyahime stands out by the ethereal quality of her movements, and Kolarova succeeds in her portrayal of the delicate moon princess, the physical embodiment of purity.

The ballet highlights the contrast between innocence and lustful possession when Kaguyahime, ensnared in golden silk by Mikado (Marcin Kaczorowski), dances in a vulnerable struggle for freedom that culminates in a spectacle of blinding mirrors. The light finally allows her the chance to escape the Emperor and return to the safety of the moon in the ballet’s tragic finale.

In addition to the skillful ballet company, the production boasts an impressive, world-renowned musical team performing Maki Ishii’s rhythmic score of intermingling Western and Eastern percussion.  The performance includes guest conductor Michael de Roo, who conducted the orchestra for Kaguyahime’s premiere in 1998, members of the celebrated Japanese drum ensemble Kodo, and professional gagaku (imperial Japanese court music) repertory musicians playing in traditional imperial attire.

Les Grands Ballets’ performance of this rare, internationally-acclaimed ballet is captivating in its distinctive fusion of angular contemporary dance and ballet-based somersaults and duets. The story of the pure, peaceful moon princess disenchanted by the violence of earth is powerful in its simplicity and continues to resonate in this luminous blend of contemporary artistry and ancient wisdom.

Kaguyahime: The Moon Princess runs through Oct. 27 at Salle Wilfrid-Pelletier in Place des Arts. Tickets range from $46.04 to $124.04.

It’s been said that art finds its highest form in the Grecian tragedy. After watching The Bacchae, it’s easy to see why. Scapegoat Carnivale’s production of Euripides’ classic benefits from an original translation by director Andreas Apergis and assistant director Joseph Shragge. The resulting textual clarity aided the talented cast in conveying a story convulsing with hubris, violence, and painful horror—a tale that, after nearly 2,500 years, still packs quite a punch.

How is a god born? From another god’s thigh, of course. Dionysus’ mortal mother was killed while he was still a fetus; Zeus’ flesh became the supplemental womb. As if such an experience wasn’t traumatic enough, the entire mortal side of Dionysus’ family rejected him. It’s blasphemy; it’s sacrilege! This is the tale told by the young god at the beginning of the story; teen angst coursing through divine veins is a fearsome sight indeed.

Alex McCooeye’s Dionysus trembles with rage and vengeance that borders on the psychotic. The modern conception of the god of drunken revelry caricatures the original in this regard; McCooeye’s fragile and off-kilter performance reminds us of the frightful wrath of gods.

This wrath is directed towards Thebes, where his mortal family resides. The King, Pentheus, refuses to accept Dionysus’ divine status, even after the women of his city are driven by the god into a frenzied ecstasy. Wolves suckle at their breasts. Milk flows out of the ground when they scratch at it with their fingers. Wild beasts are ripped apart by their bare hands. That Pentheus precipitates his own grizzly doom (though not before a scene of unexpected humour) by wilfully ignoring all this comes at no surprise—this is a Grecian tragedy after all.

Brett Watson’s Pentheus finds a mostly singular note of throttled rage and impotent indignity, though it serves the character well while verbally sparring with the disguised Dionysus. In the latter parts of the play, the now-enraptured noble fully externalizes the fool; Watson fleshes out these dimensions with skill—the subtle sighs and vocal quiverings heighten the comic horror of the moment—but even this results after a transition that is all too brief.

Amongst the supporting cast, Teiresias (Greg Kramer) is a stand-out, dominating his scenes with full-bodied, nuanced enunciation. Equally stunning is the Messenger (Paul Van Dyck). From his lips sprung the most violent and fantastical imagery, more vivid than any graphic representation could ever aspire to achieve. The purity, the monumentality of the terror inspired by Van Dyck’s speech as well as that of the Attendant (Karl Graboshas), are easily the show’s highlights. Agave (France Rolland) is the clearest fusion of oral and physical virtuosity; as the mother of Pentheus, Agave epitomizes anguish in the production, and Rolland fulfils this role with expert precision.

The five-member Greek chorus serves as an amiable interlude to scenes, though ultimately, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Harmonization across the vocalists is incredible, euphoric even, but solo segments have mixed results. Brian Lipson’s score—a concoction that oscillates between unremarkable golden hues and contemplative minor dissonance—seems uninspired. Leslie Baker’s choreography is as simple and unvaried as the chorus members’ facial expressions, and its execution sorely lacks synchronicity.

A separate choir at the back of the theatre contributes to a near-surround sound experience—a fantastic decision that could be utilized even more fully. This creative use of the whole of theatrical space is evidenced by the staging of many characters throughout, and is equally beneficial to the performance. Erwann Bernard’s lighting design generally opts for the unobtrusive, and is not without a few moments of thoughtfulness. Francis Farley’s minimalist-yet-functional set design is similarly spartan, and it appropriately allows for the focus to be on the cast itself.

If the goal of Scapegoat Carnivale is the revivification of ancient masterpieces for a contemporary audience, The Bacchae is undoubtedly a success. Traditionally, the play is an important form of ritual worship of Dionysus; I suspect the god of revelry and ecstasy, looking down from Olympus, would be proud of this production.

The Bacchae  runs through Oct. 20 at the Centaur Theatre (453 Saint-François-Xavier Rd.) Tickets are $18 for students.

Brian Knappenberger, the writer and director of We Are Legion: The Story of the Hacktivists, claims to have compiled a documentary which explores the roots of hacktivism. What Knappenberger has created, in fact, is a fawning, if well-intentioned, tribute to Anonymous—the loose virtual collective which originated on the 4chan message board.

4chan, and its /b/ section (the anything-goes message board) in particular, is one of the internet’s most unique locales. Something akin to cyberpunk writer William Gibson’s Walled City, 4chan is an online community brimming with silliness, biting sarcasm, and posts aiming to shock even the die-hard denizens of the internet. By default, all posts are made under the username ‘Anonymous’, leading to the joke that the board is actually populated by the postings of a single trigger-happy user.

Over time, 4chan users began to band together to take part in practical jokes, or harass other users en-masse. These forays (referred to as raids) gradually developed into a haphazard commitment to vigilante justice, with Anonymous hacking into a notable neo-Nazi’s email and revealing that he was, in fact, an FBI informant. While a certain cadre  of the group objected to this do-gooder stance, such campaigns continued, with the majority of Anonymous fighting against censorship by Scientology and Middle Eastern governments alike.

We Are Legion channels the furious energy that simmers beneath Anonymous’ masks, their rebellious nature, and their acute sense of injustice, but it sorely lacks any second opinions. If the distributed denial-of-service attacks employed by Anonymous in protest of Paypal’s suspension of service to Wikileaks (while still serving organizations such as the KKK) are the modern-day equivalent of civil rights sit-ins, as various hacktivists assert, where are the comments by ACLU members and civil rights scholars? If, as Anonymous claim, they were of some help to dissidents throughout the Arab Spring, where are the men and women who put their lives at risk in Tunisia and Egypt, grateful for the virtual assistance they received while speaking out against oppressive rule? These accounts may very well corroborate Anonymous’ statements—their exclusion, however, leaves the impression that that the viewer didn’t get the whole story.

Neither does the film address in depth the instances of internet activism preceding the rise of Anonymous. Knappenberger presents a slick, streamlined version of hacktivism—in the beginning, groups like L0pht and Cult of the Dead Cow were loosely interested in the idea, and a group named Electronic Disruption Theatre took a stand against Lufthansa’s allowance of planes to deport refugees. Anonymous then came about, and after playing some jokes using avatars in online chat rooms, the group grew in strength. How can Knappenberger retell the history of hacktivism without the slightest mention of 1997’s mass takeover of Indonesian government websites, in protest of its policy on East Timor (one of the first instances of a large-scale act of hacktivism)? What about the virtual sit-ins of U.S. and Mexican government websites, aimed at bringing attention to indigenous rights in Mexico?

These omissions stem from Knappenberger’s somewhat misguided vision for the film. We Are Legion portrays Anonymous as the culmination of internet activism; the volatile democratic apogee of political participation, in line with the internet century’s liberal, populist ethos. Had Knappenberger seen fit to tell the story of hacktivism itself, he would not have portrayed Anonymous as the alpha and omega, but merely an important part of a larger, more complex whole. The sad result, wherein hacktivism is equated with Anonymous, falsely relegates the remainder of the term’s history to Wikipedia stubs.

We Are Legion: The Story of the Hacktivists opens at Cinema du Parc this Friday, Oct. 19

A unique opportunity to see works by Degas, Gauguin, Monet, Pissaro, as well as twenty-one canvases by Renoir, has opened at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts (MMFA). More than a million people worldwide have already viewed the 75 Impressionist paintings on loan from the Sterling and Francine Clarke Art Institute, but this is the first time the collection has come to Canada.

According to Nathalie Bondil, the director of the MMFA and chief curator of this exhibit, “Impressionism has become the best loved and most popular art movement of all time, and yet it turned the world of Western art upside down, restructuring it [into] what it is today. More than a style of painting, it crystallized the aspirations of an era of profound changes in society.” Once Upon a Time… Impressionism makes it easy to see why.

The show is organized in line with new research in art history. It tells the story of Impressionism while keeping abreast of the historical context, and deals with themes such as ecology and optical science, the momentum of modern life, art as a commodity, artistic subversion as a manifestation of political progress, and Impressionism’s role in women’s liberation. If you’ve ever wondered why a particular movement is important, or why we should care about art, do not miss this exhibit (nor the incredible information and quotes printed on the walls throughout the exhibit).

In particular, make sure to catch a glimpse of Renoir’s “Peonies” (begin close and move back slowly to experience a focal change in the canvas from blur to near-photographic), “Sleeping Girl,” the famous “A Box at the Theatre—At the Concert,” and “Blonde Bather.” Monet’s “Tulip Fields at Sassenheim, near Leiden” is quintessential Impressionism. Pissaro’s “Road: Rain Effect” beautifully conveys a nostalgic rainy day feeling. Degas’ “Dancers in the Classroom” and sculpture “Little Dancer of Fourteen Years” will demand close examination. Gérôme’s “The Snake Charmer” brings to life the stereotypical European view of the ‘exotic’ Middle East in sharp hyper-realism and unparalleled image depth. Stevens’ “A Duchess—The Blue Dress” is visually intriguing due to the velvet of the subject’s dress.

The hype surrounding the exhibit is more than merited. Be prepared to spend a couple of hours walking through the four rooms of the show, completely absorbed by the paintings themselves; approaching them up close (unlike many exhibits of famous works, only a thin sheet of glass separates the canvas from the viewer) to peer at the prominent, often pixel-like, brushstrokes characteristic of Impressionism, and then moving back across the room to observe the optical illusion of each stroke and smear of garish colour blending together into a cohesive whole. The two hours I spent at the exhibit weren’t anywhere near enough; art lovers, plan for a second visit.

Once Upon a Time… Impressionism: Great French Paintings from the Clarke is at the MMFA until January 20th. Tickets are $12 for those under 30; $10 Wednesday evenings from 5 to 9 p.m.