胡安·米罗(Joan Miro，1893—1983)又译作杰昂·米罗，他的艺术代表了超现实主义的另一种风格，即有机的 超现实主义 。米罗的作品是令人愉快的,其画面洋溢着自由天真的气息，往往人见人爱。

　　米罗生于西班牙的巴塞罗那，1907年开始学习艺术，曾在巴塞罗那市的几所美术学校学习。他早年接触过许多前卫艺术家，如 凡高 、 马蒂斯 、 毕加索 、 卢梭 等人的作品，也尝试过 野兽派 、 立体派 、达达派的表现手法。在接受了各种可能的影响之后，他逐步探索出一条独特的艺术道路，形成了完全属于自己的个人艺术风格。当然，这成功还得益于他家乡美丽的自然环境和深厚的文化艺术传统。米罗的艺术是自由而抒情的。他的画中往往没有什么明确具体的形，而只有一些线条、一些形的胚胎、一些类似于儿童涂鸦期的偶得形状。颜色非常简单，红、黄、绿、蓝、黑、白，在画面上被平涂成一个个的色块。看起来，这些画自由、轻快、无拘无束。但是，如果你认为它们是漫不经心一蹴而就的，那你就错了。它们其实是艺术家自由幻想和深思熟虑相结合的结果。正如米罗自己所述，“当我画时，画在我的笔下会开始自述，或者暗示自己，在我工作时，形式变成了一个女人或一只鸟儿的符号……第一个阶段是自由的，潜意识的。”但是，“第二阶段则是小心盘算。”因此，尽管米罗的画天真单纯，仿佛出自儿童之手，但它们绝没有儿童画的稚拙感，它们是缜密思考后的流畅活泼。

　　米罗是二十世纪绘画大师，超现实主义 绘画 的伟大天才之一。米罗艺术的卓越之处，并不在于他的 肖像 画或绘画结构，而是他的作品有幻想的幽默——这是其中一个要素。另一个卓越之处就是，米罗的空想世界非常生动。他的有机物和野兽，甚至他那无生命的物体，都有一种热情的活力，使我们觉得比我们日常所见更为真实。

　　米罗是非常多产的，画风始终如一而又多样变化。以至想要一般性地追述一下都十分困难。早期作品受 塞尚 、梵高和毕加索及野兽派画家的影响，作品或带 有极为精雅的色彩和线条的运动，或具有立体主义的作风。

　　在1920年代中期， 他在他的新天地中，探索了非常困难的一些方面，从《哈里昆的狂欢》的复杂性，到《犬吠月》和《人投鸟一石子》这类作品非常有魅力的单纯性。1928年 他访问了 荷兰 ，受到荷兰少有的几个大师的影响。他制作了一系列的绘画，题名为荷兰的室内，那是从真实到幻想变形的实例。《哈里昆的狂欢》是第一幅超现实主义的图画：在一个奇特的空间逆转感。室内举行着狂热的集会，只有人类是悲哀的，那人带有颇为风雅的胡子，叼着长杆的烟斗，忧伤地凝视着观者。围绕着他的是各种各样的野兽、小动物、有机物，全都十分快活。没有什么特别的象征意义，画家充分地描绘了一种辉煌的梦幻形象。 《加泰隆风景》中的幻想，虽然神秘但很生动。在画中，黄色和橙黄的两块平面，相交于一条曲线。猎人和猎物都画成几何的线条和形状。一些不可思议的物体散置在大地上，有些可以辨认，有些好象暗示海上的生物或显微镜下的生物。更令人激动的作品是《静物和旧鞋》，显示了这位非政治的艺术家，为反对西班牙内战的法西斯分子而做出的深切的反应。《静物和旧鞋》的形象是明确的，有旧鞋、酒瓶、插进叉子的苹果，还有一端变成一个头盖骨的一条切开的面包。所有这一切都有安排在一个捉摸不定的空间里，色彩、黑色和凶险的形状令人厌恶。这件作品并不是特别的象征，而是反映了米罗对发生在他所热爱的西班牙事变的痛感和厌恶之情。他是以物体、色彩和形状来声讨腐朽、灾难和死亡的。在这个时期，米罗画了一幅线描自画像。瞪大的眼睛和紧缩的嘴唇，反映了他的恐怖观念。严酷的绘图和催人入眠的正面化形象，标志着他继承了自己的早期风格。

　　随着二次世界大战的爆发，米罗就定居在帕尔马·德·马略卡。在与战争隔绝的年月里，他需要沉思和重新评价一切，这促使他阅读了一些神秘文学作品，并且 聆听莫扎特和巴赫的音乐。到了1942年，他制作了一些标题为星座的小幅水粉画，这些作品是他的最错综最抒情的构图，又恢复了他1920年代作品的优美和 华丽。但是，艺术家这时所涉及的是飞翔和变形的构思，是他所瞑想的鸟儿迁徙、蝴蝶群季节性的更替以及星座和银河的流动等变体画。这些星座画，于1945年 在纽约的皮埃· 马蒂斯 美术馆展出，并促成了美国抽象表现主义画家的出现。从1930年开始，米罗已在纽约定期展出作品，除了毕加索和马蒂斯之外，他比当代 欧洲的任何大师都更为知名。作为超现实主义的有机抽象这一支派的领导人物，对年轻一辈美国画家，有着不可估量的影响。这些人，当时正在摆脱社会现实主义和 地方主义，寻找新的出路。

"ON JANUARY 24, 1937 the Catalan artist Joan Miró, prevented by civil war from returning to his homeland, set up in the gallery of his Paris dealer, Pierre Loeb, a still life on which he worked every day for a month. The painting was finished in his studio on May 29 of that difficult year. It consists of an apple, into which a lethal, six-tined fork has been stuck; a gin bottle shrouded in torn newspaper, secured with a thong; a heel of bread; and a left shoe, its lace untied. The apple is brown, so perhaps rotten; the bread is dried; the shoe, we learn from the title Still Life with Old Shoe, is worn. Each object relates to a heavy shadow, represented by black free-forms of the sort we associate with Miró's vocabulary of shapes-forms that came to be emblems of modern art in the plaques of Hans Arp, in the flat metal pieces on Calder mobiles and in modernesque jewelry and coffee tables, and which have their natural counterparts in deeply lobed leaves or kidneys or human feet. It is possible to read the shadow cast by the gin bottle as a weeping silhouette, but it is also possible to read too much into the painting, wanting it to be deep. The shoe is painted in yellows and greens, reds and bright blues-footwear for a one-legged harlequin. James Thrall Soby compared the work-polemical, memorial, ostensibly lamentational-with Picasso's Guernica, to which it was allegedly intended as an artistic response.

"Form for me is never something abstract," Miró once said. "It is always a token of something. . . . For me, form is never an end in itself." So here is a work of political reference and artistic allusion, a work supposed to draw its meaning from the events that elicited it and from other art elicited by those events. But how could one tell, descending the coiled ramp of the Guggenheim Museum, that this is a piece of political art, an exile's meditation on war and loss, a dark poem in a dark time, a counterthrust in the style wars of Paris? It looks like what its title says it is: a still life with a shoe. The shoe is luminous, parti-colored, comical. But the image is otherwise realistic and recognizable, like a good cartoon. That fact sets it off from the works that immediately surround it: Miró had not painted objects realistically and recognizably since 1923, even if his forms were always tokens of real things. But that fact, if it is even relevant, would not be visible in the painting alone, without the context of its peers.

"I saw this wonderful exhibition on a sparkling May morning. The Guggenheim must have had its skylight washed of the accumulated Manhattan soot for the occasion, and the brilliant sky was mirrored in the blue pool (itself almost a Miró shape) at the base of the ramp, making the museum's core a well of light. Outside in the park, under the new green, there were runners in bright costumes, vendors, children, dogs. The paintings themselves were gay and playful, and filled with creatures so inventive and good-humored that one had the sense of passing through a display of zoological or botanical or entomological extravagances-whiskered, flittering innocent beings, utterly unsuited to the struggle for existence, goggle-eyed, bearing the blank staring expressions of brilliant fish in tropical waters, or insects in flower-mad gardens, or radiant birds flying among ornamental planets. Where there were humans, they seemed mainly to be carriers of jolly genitalia. Still Life with Old Shoe ought to have stood darkly against the ambient gaiety like the Ancient Mariner at the wedding feast. Instead, it looked like part of the carnival, as if the wedding guests had refused to accept the spell of the old loon's tale, had decked the mariner out with silk and ribbons and made him part of the dance. The external knowledge of the circumstances in which the painting was made, however, fought against this spontaneous assimilation, and demanded that one reflect on the fact that one was traversing a total life in art (Miró died in 1983, at the age of ninety). Ought the contradiction between what we know about this painting and the overall sense of hedonistic celebration call the latter into question? After all, that is exactly the contradiction between the meaning of the painting and its surface. Or is this particular painting a failure, Miró not being up to expressing that level of intention?

"It would, I think, be remarkable if each of the paintings in the show held a tension at all like the one I find in Still Life with Old Shoe, for then their meanings would be so external to their formal achievement that we would need a dictionary to read the show. A shoe, a bottle, a piece of fruit with a fork in it or a knife, a crust of bread-these compose the pedagogical still life set up in the art academies of that era. For all one knows, Miró's painting is an exercise in nostalgia for the Barcelona art schools of his youth. There is a tradition of mystical still life painting in Spain, where achingly familiar objects are transfigured by an unearthly light against an impenetrable blackness. In 1922 Miró had painted a number of severe still lifes of carbide lamps and grills, kitchen utensils and, in one case, a blade of wheat, displayed like the emblems of martyrdom in uncanny spaces and immersed in a light so absolute that the shadows have been reduced to thin drawn lines. But these, like almost everything he did before 1923, seem to be about art. There is an early still life in the Cubist manner, in which a live rabbit and rooster are juxtaposed with a demijohn and a smoked fish on a sheet of newspaper together with an onion, a pepper and some greens, which may refer to the bodegón tradition of Spanish still life painting, or for that matter may refer to Cubism rather than stand solidly in that style of representation. Standing outside a style to which he refers, a stranger and a commentator, detached, a bit derisive, putting bits and pieces of art to his own ends, associated with the Surrealists but never finally one of them, a Parisian but an outsider, Miró seems insufficiently in the world to be making a statement about it rather than a statement about statements or about styles. So Still Life with Old Shoe comes as an interruption. Small wonder we would never have known it was a response to the Civil War in Spain if no one told us. Small wonder it fails to communicate the feeling it was intended to convey. Small wonder the surrounding works refuse to allow it to speak of suffering. It is too isolated, like a single serious and direct thing-"By the way, I am dying"-uttered in the monologue of a great comedian.

"Consider in this light Miró's climactic masterpiece, The Farm, executed over nine months in the three places that defined his life from 1921 to 1922: the parental farm at Montroig, Barcelona and Paris. In those years, indeed as a regular rhythm until the Civil War put a stop to it, Miró moved between Catalonia and Paris, between the tradition in which he sought his identity and the brittle world of Parisian intellect, where he lived among poets and thinkers rather than the cultural patriots of his native province. The two forms of life, one feels, pulled him in two directions, and this tension is embodied in The Farm. The painting has the unsettling quality of something observed and at the same time dreamed of or remembered. Hemingway, who owned it, described it perfectly: "It has in it all that you feel about Spain when you are there and all that you feel when you are away and cannot go there." Hemingway went on to say, "No one else has been able to paint these two very opposing things." What is remarkable about the painting is the oppositions it internalizes, just as Miró himself internalized as a matter of personality the circumstances of his shuttled existence. Picasso belonged wherever he was. Miró belonged only where he wasn't: his not being in Paris defined his Spanish reality, and vice versa.

"The Farm is energized by two incompatible artistic realities, corresponding to the polarities of Miró's life. It has the obsessive documentation of visual reality that we find in primitive painting: each leaf on the dominating eucalyptus tree is separately painted, each rock in the stony field to the right is given an autonomous space, each blade of grass is given its own identity. The lichen on the cracked fa鏰de of the farm building on the left defeats this impulse: you cannot register lichen spore by spore, at least not in the middle distance of a landscape where spores would be negligible specks in proportion to the fa鏰de they adhere to-though the particularity of treatment gives an uncanny microscopy to that surface. The barking dog, the rabbit, the snail, the cock, the donkey, the dove, the pail, the watering can, the wagon, the plow, the dozens of farm implements, the farmer's wife, the baby by the wash trough, are each suspended in the shadowless clarity of a metaphysical illumination-it is the kind of light one gets through an optical instrument. The space recedes to distant mountains, but the trees and bushes at the horizon are treated with the same measured detail as the foreground objects, as if perception were indifferent to distance. All this pulls the farthest objects forward to the surface plane, and indeed, when we look carefully, we notice that the plane on which all these objects are arrayed, and which seems to recede, is itself tipped up. There is, for instance, a tiled area, supposed to be lying flat on the ground, which in fact is parallel to the surface. Behind it, again, is a path that seems at once to go back and to rise up, like an abstract flame. It is as though the artist had intermixed, in a single work, the illusory space of traditional landscape with the shallow space of Cubism, so that everything is on the surface and at the same time bears no relation to the surface, which, after all, is not part of the landscape. There is, for example, a trestle table in the middle distance in the form of a letter A. If it is a letter, it belongs on the surface, as writing. An A in the landscape is dissonant, as if the work were a rebus puzzle. But a table, of course, belongs to the world of a farm. Everything is inside and outside at once. And superimposed on the primitive meticulousness of a picturesque farm are the devices of the most sophisticated painting of the century so far. Part of what brings everything to the surface are the Cubist rhythms, the sense of pattern, of fragmentation, of reduction and abstraction. "No one could look at it," Hemingway wrote, "and not know it had been painted by a great painter." He is right, but no one who knows great painting can look at it without sensing the divided consciousness and the aesthetic indeterminacy of an artist who sank into his art the oppositions of his vision: Catalan and Parisian, traditionalist and Cubist, naif and cosmopolite.

"Of this great painting, Miró later said, "It was the summary of one period of my work, but also the point of departure for what was to follow." And though he could not then have known what precisely was to follow, the fact that it is the largest painting he had undertaken up to that time is an indication that he had chosen to make an important statement through it. Miró was perhaps not as poor at that stage of his life as artistic mythology maintains, but canvas and paint, then as now, were costly items, especially if one had no idea if one's work was going to sell. The size of the canvas plays a part in an affecting vignette left us by Hemingway, who describes how he bore it home as a birthday present for his wife, Hadley, after paying off the last installment of the 5,000 francs it cost: "In the open taxi the wind caught the big canvas as though it were a sail, and we made the taxi driver crawl along."

"It is instructive to think of The Farm together with Still Life with Old Shoe. The latter is a failure, not so much as a painting but as a painting about war, for its subject never penetrates the work save by the external imposition of a symbolic interpretation. "In some sense," Jacques Dupin claims in his catalogue essay, "this unique and fantastic painting stands as Miró's Guernica." Dupin curated the show, and he is an enthusiast. But as Miró's Guemica, the painting fails. Miró was certainly sickened by the war in Spain, but he was not finally a political person: Art was the substance of his life and hence of his art, which is most genuine and best when, as in The Farm, it is about its own processes. The first works we encounter in the show are two drawings from 1917, before Miró had visited Paris for the first time. They are dense with Parisian references and mannerisms even so: the male and female nudes are geometrized, all arcs and angles, evidence that the news of Cubism had arrived in Spain and was deflecting advanced artists from whatever path their training would have set them on if the twentieth century had not happened instead. Miró was still dealing with Cubism in The Farm, painted five years later.

"Dealing with Cubism, for he felt at once its seductiveness and its dangers. It could not be ignored, but at the same time it almost guaranteed artistic mediocrity, for Paris in the early 1920s was full of second-generation Cubists. Picasso confided to his dealer, Daniel Henry Kahnweiler, that he had become rich by selling his license to paint guitars, alluding to the endless cubed and stretched guitars that formed the motif of the Cubist legions. The Farm was a liberation, even if Cubism remained an internal force in its dynamics. "I will smash their guitar," Miró said when he realized he had found another path, visible in The Farm only in the light radiating from his later work, which began, abruptly, in 1923. The Tilled Field of that year shows us the Miró we know and love. The space has moved so far forward that the ground is nearly vertical. A tree shows an eye amid its leaves, and has grown a hallucinatory ear from its trunk. The farm animals are there, still recognizable, but the hen has taken the form of a grotesquely unbalanced dumbbell, with a globular body and a tiny head. The mare has developed immovably thick legs, as wavy as sine curves, and her tall swishes forward like a calligraphic question mark. The whole painting is like an exultation at having broken through to the style-pictographic, idiomatic, autographic-that was to be his from now on. If he were a poet, we would say he had found his voice.

The art historian Michael Baxandall has introduced an interesting concept in discussing Picasso's portrait of Kahnweiler. There is a system of interchange between advanced artists and their patrons and critics which is analogous to a market, but which involves ideas and refinements instead of money. He gives this system the name troc, which means "barter" in French. Picasso was en troc with poets like Apollinaire and intellectuals like Kahnweiler, who demanded certain artistic performances from which they and the artist benefited. The great American painters of the 1950s were en troc with Harold Rosenberg and Clement Greenberg. Troc requires mutual interchange rather than unilateral influence, so that present-day artists are not en troc with the intellectuals they admire, such as Derrida, who knows little about painting, and Baudrillard, who cares little for it. Miró was intensely en troc with the poets and the theorists of Surrealism, with Picabia and Tzara, Breton and Masson, Artaud, Próvert, Desnos and Michel Leiris. My own sense is that his breakthrough owes a lot to this intimacy. He showed with the Surrealists, and took over a great deal of their ideology and a degree of their silliness, but as long as the conversations rang in his head, as long as he was painting for an audience that was instantly responsive and critical, he maintained a minor greatness.

"Miró remained in Paris from 1936 to 1941, the year Normandy was bombed, when he settled in Palma de Mallorca, his mother's birthplace. The next year he returned to Barcelona, where he found he could live after all. His work thinned after the war, though his productivity remained, and his influence became immense, especially in New York, where his ideas were absorbed and transcended by Gorky and Pollock and Motherwell. In a way, his truly creative life ended when the troc ended. In this regard he bears a resemblance to Chagall, who was a great artist when he was in tension with the ideologues of the School of Paris, but who simply manufactured Chagalls when the tensions eased and commerce took over. One senses that the greatness of Picasso and Matisse in part consists in their being en troc with themselves as their own intellectuals. Appropriately, there is proportionately little painting in the Guggenheim show after 1950. In those years Miró's energies mainly went into ceramics and into a kind of terra cotta sculpture. This was an artistic return, of sorts, to Catalonia, and it was a nice way to round off Miró's particular life. The show has the cadences of a marvelous biography. Go on a really sunny day."

1. Figur Gegen Rote Sonne II

     by Joan Miro  71.1 x 99.1 cm

2. Personnage Et Oiseaux

     by Joan Miro  71.1 x 101.6 cm

3. Libelle Mit Roten Flugeln Eine Schlange Jagend

     by Joan Miro  99.1 x 71.1 cm

4. Abstract 1935

     by Joan Miro  71.1 x 101.6 cm

5. Cafes

     by Joan Miro  71.1 x 101.6 cm

6. Milano

     by Joan Miro  68.6 x 99.1 cm

7. Affiche Lithographie

     by Joan Miro  71.1 x 99.1 cm

8. Obra De Joan Miro

     by Joan Miro  99.1 x 71.1 cm

9. L'oro Dell'azzurro

     by Joan Miro  71.1 x 99.1 cm

10. Femme aux Trois Cheveux

      by Joan Miro  71.1 x 99.1 cm

11. Upside-Down Figures

      by Joan Miro  71.1 x 99.1 cm

12. Ballerina

      by Joan Miro  71.1 x 99.1 cm

13. Libelle Mit Roten Flugeln Eine Schlange Jagend

      by Joan Miro  81.3 x 61.0 cm

14. Soleil Rouge

      by Joan Miro  61.0 x 81.3 cm

15. Vuelo De Pajaros

      by Joan Miro  61.0 x 81.3 cm

16. Nuit

      by Joan Miro  61.0 x 81.3 cm

17. Adlige In Der Fallgrube

      by Joan Miro  81.3 x 61.0 cm

18. Rytme Passage Du Serpent

      by Joan Miro  78.7 x 61.0 cm