JohnsonRoadProjects Summer 2015 exhibition: The Red, Green and Yellow Show by Los Angeles based artist and writer Vincent Johnson

The October Paintings - Orange Summer

The October Paintings – Orange Summer

The October Paintings - Grey Sea

The October Paintings – Grey Sea

The October Paintings - Red Bottle in Green

The October Paintings – Red Bottle in Green

https://johnsonroadprojects.wordpress.com/

JohnsonRoadProjects is the new artist run space and curatorial inquiry by Los Angeles based artist and writer Vincent Johnson

Vincent Johnson’s The Red, Green and Yellow Show at Johnson Road Projects in Los Angeles – Summer 2015 exhibition

Art Aragon Golden Boy Bail Bonds
Art Aragon Golden Boy Bail Bonds, color photograph by Vincent Johnson
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The Green Bug (2010), color photograph by Vincent Johnson
The Deville
Deville Motel Downtown Los Angeles (2002), color photograph by Vincent Johnson
SouthernGentsPClub
Southern Gents Private Club (South Central Los Angeles) (2002), color photograph by Vincent Johnson
NyHostel4
New York Hostel Kitchen (2003), color photograph by Vincent Johnson
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LA artist Vincent Johnson
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Miami Beach Public Telephone (2014), color photograph by Vincent Johnson
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Figueroa Hotel Parking Sign (2013), color photograph by Vincent Johnson

Welcome to the 2015 summer exhibition of Los Angeles-based artist and writer Vincent Johnson at Johnson Road Projects in Los Angeles. Vincent Johnson received his MFA in Painting and Critical Theory from Art Center College of Design. His work has been exhibited in major institutions in the U.S., Germany, Canada and Portugal. His work have been sold in art fairs in Miami, New York, Los Angeles and Portland. Johnson’s works have been reviewed in Artforum, Art in America, the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times. Vincent Johnson most recently presented his research on Belgian Congo copal painting media at Theaster Gates Black Artist Retreat [B.A.R] in Chicago. Johnson also recently interviewed artist William Pope L. at his nine part exhibition at MOCA in Los Angeles for FROG magazine.

This thematic exhibition is curated from the artist’s extensive body of works and is based solely upon the presence of the colors red/or green and/or yellow being found in the works. The exhibition includes both photographs and paintings that engage and capture iconic objects found in the American urban landscape. Each work appears to embody one of the three primary colors named in the exhibition’s title. The exhibition provides exposure to the works of these artists across the span of three months; additional works will be added to the exhibition over the duration of the show.

Jean Michel Basquiat Retrospective at the Guggenheim museum Bilbao Spain

black art matters: jean michel basquiat

Uncovering the cultural legacy of the iconic 80s painter as a new retrospective of his work opens at Bilbao’s Guggenheim Museum.

​black art matters: jean michel basquiat

Walking into the Bilbao Guggenheim’s galleries to see their Basquiat retrospective, you can hear Martin Luther King’s I Have A Dream speech booming out of the speakers. By the exhibition’s end Charlie Parker’s Now’s The Time has replaced it as the soundtrack. Together they sum up two very different aspects of Basquiat; part Harlem Renaissance, part child of the civil rights era. His art turned these influences into something strikingly of its time, and as the exhibitions reveals, reverberates still today.

It’s hard sometimes to see Basquiat the artist from the baggage of Basquiat the cultural icon. It’s easy to overlook just how talented he was, his skill with composition and colour, density and structure; because Basquiat’s life clouds his paintings. As Glenn O’Brien, writer of the Basquiat-starring Downtown 81, says, “Basquiat’s got fans like Bob Marley’s got fans.” So it’s odd to consider that he’s not had a major museum retrospective in Europe until now, seeing as he’s one of the few artists whose cultural place transcends beyond the worlds of art. He should be selling out blockbuster exhibitions at the Tate and Pompidou, but has been relegated to small, niche institutions outside of Europe’s major public galleries.

Jean-Michel Basquiat Loin, 1982 © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

When he died, aged just 27, of a heroin overdose, he left a legacy of over 1000 paintings and 3000 drawings. A life’s work compiled in just 12 years. He’d gone from the streets to the elite of the art world, and most importantly, took the streets with him.

Basquiat’s place in the world has always existed uneasily between extremes. He was a downtown punk and an uptown b-boy; he easily slipped between high culture and low culture, between Madonna and Andy Warhol. He came from the counter-cultural immediacy and language of graffiti, but his work tackles the serious legacy of Cy Twombly, Pablo Picasso and Francis Bacon. He’s invoked by Jay Z as a status symbol and by Killer Mike as a social campaigner. He listened to Ravel’s Bolero whilst painting, relaxed to Charlie Parker and Miles Davis, and performed in an experimental punk band called Gray. In a minimalist age he created incredibly complex work yet was still seen as a savant; as art’s primal, wild man. The immediacy of his image making defies the complex arrangements that go into them, their casual beauty a cipher for an incredibly detailed visual language that he created, and he made these complex and difficult things look easy. He was the First Black Art Star, took black expression into the New York’s white gallery scene, and became a genuine celebrity.

Jean Michel Basquiat The Ring, 1981. Private Collection, Courtesy Acquavella Galleries © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

“So what do we do,” the poet Christian Campbell asks “with the cult mythologies about Basquiat, in which criticism on his art amounts to a TMZ report (Who did he fuck? How did he die? What was he on? How was his hair?)” The Guggenheim show’s answer, refreshingly, is to ignore it and focus on the art.

The early paintings, made largely on reclaimed materials, pieces of boards, abandoned doors, bear the influences of Basquiat’s time on the streets as a graffiti artist, his childhood dream of being a cartoonist, and his obsession with art history.

He also found black heroes missing in art, so figured them into his own work, and so turned modern black life into art. He saw the nobility and tradition of black life and culture as absent and venerated it. Early paintings like Famous Negro Athletes, that feature a scratched back face, a baseball, his signature crown; or King of Baseball, a blue figure, crown, and baseball. These are simple and forceful images, using single lines and few colours, and that minimalism reinforces their political point.

Jean Michel Basquiat Self-Portrait, 1984. Yoav Harlap Collection © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Soon though, his paintings were becoming incredibly complex as he developed his unique visual language. His recurring motifs of black heads, crowns, copyright symbols, baseball players, boxers, text, text scratched out, bodies and the fascination with disembodiment; these motifs spread across his entire work, they crop up again and again, forming a visual link between his works.

In sportspeople, the boxers and baseball players, he saw African American heroes, he saw struggle, resistance, victory and strength. He often talked of having a boxing match with Julian Schnabel. His exhibition of collaborative paintings with Andy Warhol featuring a poster of both of them wearing boxing gloves. It was art as competition, and Basquiat sought to prove himself, as a black man in a white world.

Seeing so many of Basquiat’s painting in once place, it becomes clearer and clearer that Basquiat’s work’s major theme is an unending questioning of America’s racial politics and social hypocrisies. A critique of a world where he could sell work to collectors for incredible amounts of money and yet not be able to get a taxi home; where his friend and fellow graffiti writer, Michael Stewart, could be arrested and beaten to death by police; by his place as a lauded black artist showing his paintings on white walls, to white people, and by the way people belittled him, saw him as a novelty and treated him as primitive.

Jean-Michel Basquiat Man from Naples, 1982. Guggenheim Bilbao Museoa © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

His painting, Defacement, was a memorial to the his friend Michael Stewart, features two cartoonish, brightly coloured police officers, armed with batons, beating a black silhouette, under the word defacement. Who’s being vandalised, who’s defaced? The subway car that Michael Stewart was painting when the police attacked him? Or Michael himself. Basquiat paints Michael’s body as a silhouette because it’s not just a one off, not just Michael, it’s any number of black men targeted by police, and it’s not gone away.

Michael’s death was a watershed moment for Basquiat and his political consciousness. The works up until that point had been content to simply place the black body within art’s history, and reclaim it as a form of representation. After his death, they become more implicitly political, less cartoonish, and much angrier. Irony Of Negro Policeman, for example, is a grotesque caricature of the hypocrisy of oppressor joining the oppressed, his face a mask, his body caged in with lines of paint, daubed with the word ‘pawn’ in the corner.

When Basquiat started to work and become friends with Andy Warhol, in 83/84, he was himself seen as the pawn, Andy’s pet, used to keep Andy relevant as his critical acclaim flagged. But Basquiat managed to draw Andy back to painting, in a series of collaborative works exhibited by Tony Shafrazi in 85, as well as a series derived from the The Last Supper, exhibited in Milan. The critics hated them, described Basquiat as an “art world mascot” and an “all too willing accessory”in the New York Times. They fell out, and after Andy’s death, Basquiat became inconsolable, and turned to heroin in greater quantities.

Jean Michel Basquiat. Irony of a Negro Policeman, 1981. Private Collection © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

His final works, exhibited for one night only at Baghoomian’s gallery at the Cable Building in SoHo, New York, in 1988, just six months before death, show t=his grief, his work is stripped back, stripped of colour, pulsing with the intensity of language. He had become obsessed with listening to Beethoven’s Eroica, and specifically, for differences between different versions and interpretations of the symphony. It could act as a metaphor for Basquiat’s work as a whole, this revision, sampling, and language of symbols, that runs through his work.

The show is titled Now’s The Time, a reference to Charlie Parker, but more obliquely, to Basquiat himself. Now’s the time to revisit his work, to give him the museum retrospective his work deserves, but also because it’s still the time to evaluate racism and stereotyping, by seeing it again through Basquiat’s eyes, it’s clear how little has changed in the last 27 years. How many Michael Stewart’s have their been this year alone?

Jean-Michel Basquiat Eroica, 1987. Private Collection © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

But also, what Basquiat’s career makes clear is how few black artists there’ve been since, how white the art world remains, and how patronising its attitudes can be. Basquiat might’ve painted black heroes into art, but he remains one of a few black heroes to make it and prove that black art matters.

Jean Michel Basquiat Now’s The Time is open at Guggenhem Bilbao until November 1st.

basquiat

En 1981 Basquiat expuso en el Instituto de Arte y Recursos Urbanos, donde conoció a Robert Mapplethorpe y a Warhol.

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AnOther magazine

Art & Photography / In Pictures

Ten Things You Might Not Know About Basquiat

— July 7, 2015 —

To mark the opening of Guggenheim, Bilbao’s new exhibition, we celebrate the colourful life of troubled artist Jean-Michel Basquiat

Jean-Michel Basquiat 1984

Jean-Michel Basquiat, 1984 Photograph by Lee Jaffe, Copyright, All Rights Reserved Courtesy of LW Archives

Jean-Michel Basquiat’s legacy is defined as much by the tragedy of doomed genius as it is by his work. The Haitian-American artist’s iconic paintings and drawings – his interpretation of black identity in America – formed a major part of New York City’s artistic explosion in the early 1980s. They flung him into a world of fame and celebrity, of friendship with Debbie Harry, Andy Warhol and David Bowie. But they came at a great cost. On August 12th 1988, aged just 27, he was found dead in his apartment in NoHo, Manhattan after losing his struggle with heroin addiction.

Opening today at the Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao is Jean-Michel Basquiat: Now’s The Time. One of the most important examinations of the artist’s output, the exhibition features around 100 of his works, in his characteristic style: rooted in expressionism, but influenced by everything around him, from high culture to jazz. Basquiat was able to reduce his subject matter to its most basic form, and he often combined images with text that had been crossed out or written multiple times. He described his art as providing a “springboard to deeper truths about the individual.” To mark the exhibition’s opening, AnOther presents 10 facts about the idiosyncratic artist.

basquiat

1. Growing up Basquiat was precocious. His accountant father Gerard used to bring home scraps of paper from work for his four-year-old son to draw on. Eleven years later, and two years before he decided to leave school, Basquiat ran away from home. His father recalled that when he found him in a park, his son told him, “Papa, I will be very famous one day.”

2. Aged six, Basquiat was hit by a car in an accident which led to him having a splenectomy. Whilst recovering from the operation, his mother gave him a copy of Gray’s Anatomy; the medical textbook would have a profound influence on him: in 1981 he named his avant-garde industrial band Gray, in reference to the volume, and in his later work he often used motifs of feet, the human body and words laid over images.

3. By the time he was 11, Basquiat was trilingual in French, English and Spanish; Gerard was of Haitian descent, and his mother Matilde of Puerto Rican.

4. One of Jean-Michel’s first art projects was SAMO, a graffiti collaboration with his friend and past classmate Al Diaz. The two would spray the tag of their character (which stood for “Same Old Shit”) around the streets of Manhattan. But at the start of the 1980s, “SAMO IS DEAD” started to appear throughout the city; the pair had fallen out, and the project was over.

5. The art critic Rene Ricard had a hand in bringing fame to the young New York artist. In December 1981 Ricard published “The Radiant Child”, an article that would later provide the name of a documentary on Basquiat’s life.

6. Basquiat’s paint ended up on much more than canvas. He liked to work on whatever was in front of him, from refrigerators to lab coats, shipping crates to typewriters. And he liked to work in an Armani suit – when finished, he would go out, still dressed in the paint-splattered clothing.

7. Basquiat’s rise to fame coincided with hip-hop’s emergence, and his work conveyed similar themes. His 1981 painting The Irony of the Negro Policeman echoed the messages of groups NWA and Public Enemy.

8. At the height of his spending, Basquiat was shelling out $150 a day on health food. He rarely ate it however, and much was left to spoil.

9. Basquiat was part of Andy Warhol’s Factory scene in the mid-1980s, and the two held an exhibition of their collaborative work in 1985. But their combined fame didn’t guarantee success; critics received the project poorly.

10. Although Basquiat filled his work with recurring symbols, his crown is perhaps best known. It tops figures he respected or admired.

Jean-Michel Basquiat: Now’s The Time is at the Guggenheim, Bilbao until November 1.

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Jean-Michel Basquiat at Guggenheim Bilbao

Jean-Michel Basquiat, Exu, 1988. Acrylic and oil stick on canvas, 199.3 x 254 cm. Private Collection. © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York.

Jean-Michel Basquiat: Now’s the Time

July 3–November 1, 2015

Guggenheim Bilbao
Abandoibarra et.2
Bilbao 48001
Spain

www.guggenheim-bilbao.es

Curators: Dieter Buchhart and Álvaro Rodríguez Fominaya (Bilbao)
Sponsored by: Iberdrola

The exhibition features approximately 100 key works organized around the themes that inspired Jean-Michel Basquiat in the course of his intense career, cut short by his untimely death at age 27. Though Basquiat soon left the conceptual graffiti of his early days behind to exhibit in art galleries, his paintings use the language and symbols of the street, creating images that honor black men as kings and saints.

As an artist, he immersed himself in high art and graffiti, jazz and rap, punk and pop culture, anatomy textbooks and comics, and then channeled this complexity into sophisticated, layered works that presaged today’s internet culture.

The Guggenheim Museum Bilbao is pleased to present Jean-Michel Basquiat: Now’s the Time, an unprecedented exhibition in Europe that includes roughly 100 large-scale paintings and drawings from public and private collections across the United States and Europe. This show, organized by the Art Gallery of Ontario in collaboration with the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, is the first thematic examination of Basquiat’s output and has been made possible by the generous sponsorship of Iberdrola.

Already famous at the age of 20 for his groundbreaking drawings and paintings, Jean-Michel Basquiat (b. 1960–d. 1988) took the New York art world by storm in the early 1980s. He gained international recognition by creating powerful and expressive works that confronted issues of racism, politics, and social hypocrisy. Although his career was cut short, his works remain hugely influential.

Described by the artist himself as a “springboard to deeper truths about the individual,” Basquiat’s vivid and poignant work regularly referenced street art, given his beginnings in conceptual graffiti and his use of salvaged materials such as abandoned doors and packing crates as canvases.
Media relations 

Guggenheim Museum Bilbao
Dept. of Communications and Marketing
T +34 944 35 90 08 / F +34 94 435 90 59 / media@guggenheim-bilbao.es

All information on the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao at www.guggenheim-bilbao.es (Press Room).

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J.M. Basquiat @ Guggenheim, Bilbao

Jean Michel Basquiat Self-Portrait, 1984 © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

It was about time Europe hosted an exhibition about the incredible work of Jean Michel Basquiat. Opened the 3rd of July and lasting till the 1st of November at the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Now’s the time represent the first large exhibition in years about the brilliant but short career of the famous graffiti artist.

The show displays paintings and drawings from public and private collections divided into eight different sections arranged by theme. It begins with his earliest creations realized with recycled materials, boards and doors. Stating that black heroes were missing as a subject of art, he started drawing them in a simple but effective way, creating images that honored black men as kings and saints.

His work become more complex as he immersed himself in high art and graffiti, jazz and rap, punk and pop culture, anatomy textbooks and comics, and then channeled this complexity into sophisticated, layered works that presaged today’s internet culture.

The exhibition includes also an impressive selection of works produced by Basquiat in collaboration with Andy Warhol, Francesco Clemente, Keith Haring, and Kenny Scharf. Deeply involved in the New York cultural scene of the 1980s, Basquiat participated in a number of collaborative projects with other artists, musicians, and filmmakers.


// Era giunto il momento per l’Europa di dedicare una mostra all’incredibile lavoro di Jean Michel Basquiat. Inaugurata lo scorso 3 Luglio e aperta fino al 1 Novembre al Guggenheim Museum di Bilbao, Now’s the time rappresenta la prima grande esposizione dopo anni sulla brillante ma breve carriera del celebre artista di graffiti.

La mostra espone quadri e disegni provenienti da collezioni pubbliche e private suddivisi in otto diverse sezioni organizzate per temi. Il percorso ha inizio con le sue primissime creazioni realizzate con materiali di recupero, tra cui assi e porte. Il focus si sposta poi sugli eroi di colore, del tutto assenti nel panorama dell’arte, per dipingerli in maniera semplice ma d’impatto, creando immagini che onorano gli uomini neri come re e santi.

Col proseguire della mostra, il lavoro di Basquiat diventa poi sempre più complesso. L’artista inizia ad immergersi nell’arte elevata e nei graffiti, nel jazz e nel rap, nella cultura pop e punk, nei fumetti e nei libri di anatomia, per poi incanalare tutta questa complessità in lavori sofisticati e stratificati che presagiranno l’odierna cultura di internet.

L’esposizione include anche un’importante raccolta di lavori prodotti da Basquiat in collaborazione con Andy Warhol, Francesco Clemente, Keith Haring e Kenny Scharf. Profondamente coinvolto nella scena culturale della New York degli anni ’80, Basquiat fu protagonista di diverse collaborazioni con altri artisti, musicisti e registi.

Jean-Michel Basquiat, 1984 Photograph by Lee Jaffe, Copyright, All Rights Reserved Courtesy of LW Archives

Jean Michel Basquiat Irony of a Negro Policeman, 1981 © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Jean-Michel Basquiat Six Crimee, 1982 © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Jean-Michel Basquiat Untitled, 1982 © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat Licensed by Artestar, New York

Jean-Michel Basquiat Man from Naples, 1982 © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Jean-Michel Basquiat Moses and the Egyptians, 1982 © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Jean Michel Basquiat Exu, 1988 © Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York 

Jean Michel Basquiat // Now’s the time

July 3 – November 1, 2015
Guggenheim Museum Bilbao
Avenida Abandoibarra, 2
48009 Bilbao
T. +34 944 35 90 00
informacion@guggenheim-bilbao.es

Tue // Sun 10 am – 8 pm

Fur further info please refer to the gallery website.

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FINANCIAL TIMES LONDON

July 17, 2015 4:40 pm

Jean-Michel Basquiat at the Guggenheim Bilbao

  •   The groundbreaking artist’s aesthetic and political convictions are to the fore in a fine retrospective

“Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy.” Martin Luther King’s voice crackles over the quiet gallery. “Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice.” When the young black artist Jean-Michel Basquiat rose to fame, two decades after that impassioned address, King’s dream was still far from a reality. Subtitled Now’s the Time, Guggenheim Bilbao’s fine retrospective argues that the work of this pioneering painter, who tore through the white art world of 1980s New York with his barbed responses to injustice and police brutality, remains as relevant now as then, the recent deaths of Michael Brown, Freddie Gray and others having again shone a light on US race relations.

 Basquiat’s star-studded life and early death from a drugs overdose in 1988, aged 27, have earned him a cult status, cemented by the huge prices his works fetch at auction. Born in Brooklyn to a Puerto Rican mother and a Haitian father, Basquiat had a middle-class upbringing full of books and museum visits. He left home in 1978 a precocious teenager without a high-school diploma, but his poetic graffiti under the tag SAMO (“same old shit”) caught the attention of SoHo residents. That he chose to inscribe his art on the walls of the gallery district indicates his ambitions.

Basquiat’s rise to fame was swift. He took part in the landmark Times Square Show and New York/New Wave exhibitions of 1980 and 1981, before selling out his first solo show at Annina Nosei the following year. He collaborated with Andy Warhol, DJed at fashionable clubs, partied with the likes of David Bowie and for a time dated Madonna.

But this show is, happily, light on biographical detail. Arranged thematically not chronologically, the focus is firmly on Basquiat’s artistic achievement. We get a sense of his development: he began painting scenes of urban life on to materials he found on the street, as in “Untitled” (1981), a cartoonish car spray-painted on foam, included in New York/New Wave, after which he could afford to work on canvas. But Basquiat’s career does not follow a linear progression because he arrived, in a sense, fully formed. When Nosei met him, the dealer recalls: “He was particularly cultivated, even though he was [20]. He had read everything. He was way more sophisticated than all the others his age.”

Basquiat once said that his subject matter was “royalty, heroism and the streets”. In his works black men are athletes and warriors, symbols of resistance and victory. “Untitled” (1982) is a large, colourful, scratchy canvas depicting a masked boxer with a halo, or perhaps a crown of thorns. He is fresh from the fight, his headgear resembling a white gas mask. And though his crown suggests Christ, his arm is raised high: the stance of the victorious not the crucified. He is anonymous, a black everyman, but other works celebrate specific heroes — Jesse Owens, Charlie Parker, Cassius Clay — as if instating them in art history. “The black person is the protagonist in most of my paintings,” Basquiat explained. “I realised that I didn’t see many paintings with black people in them.”

“The Death of Michael Stewart” is a tribute to the black graffiti artist beaten to death by the NYPD in 1983. Basquiat’s policemen are pointy-toothed cartoon villains wielding clubs and Stewart a black silhouette between them, a storm of red and blue raging around him. In a nearby self-portrait from the same year, Basquiat, too, becomes a silhouette — a nod to the 18th-century craze for such portraits, but with new political overtones. His identification with Stewart is clear: on hearing of his death, he said simply, “It could have been me.”

Basquiat uses colour with the sure instinct of a seasoned abstractionist, but it is never merely decorative. For him, colour is political. A photograph of “The Irony of a Negro Policeman” (1981) in the catalogue shows that Basquiat originally gave it an angry red background before painting over it in white, which is how it appears here, the red seeping through. So often in Basquiat’s work, white is the colour of oppression, of “lesser” histories erased and obliterated. Here, black and white are anything but neutral.

The policeman is rendered ridiculous — as ridiculous as the paradoxical idea (to Basquiat) of a black policeman. He has the grotesquely simplified proportions of a child’s drawing, crowned with a wonky top hat. But such cack-handedness is, in fact, a studied affectation. He treasured his childhood copy of Gray’s Anatomy and pored over Leonardo’s drawings. His cartoonish scribbles are not the result of a lack of skill, but rather they are a kind of visual shorthand — a riposte to the Modernist appropriation of “primitive” art.

Symbols and words recur in his work: haloes, crowns, “MILK” (for whiteness), “SOAP” (whitewashing), “COTTON” (slavery). His obsessive crossing-out and overpainting can be read as a metaphor for the messy layering of history, for conquer and resistance. The resulting canvases brim with ideas and allusions. He often scratched into colourful, quick-drying acrylic with the end of his paintbrush, as much drawing as painting.

Borrowing from art history and everyday life, Basquiat was a true postmodernist. His lists recall the automatic writing of Surrealism, his appropriation of contemporary culture stems from Pop Art, while his gestural freedom and charged emotion is neo-expressionist. Charlie Parker’s “Now’s the Time” plays in a room of the exhibition called “Sampling and Scratching”, and the reference to hip hop is apt. Like a DJ, Basquiat mixed eclectic material — Beethoven, boxing, comics — to create something fresh. In fact, his canvases are so littered with “samples” almost any of the works in the show could come under this category, and the selection sometimes feels arbitrary. But the curators are right to highlight his voracious consumption and cut-and-paste approach, which strikingly anticipate the internet era.

Basquiat’s visual signature was so well developed by the time he began collaborating with Warhol in 1984 that it is the younger artist who comes out on top. “Win $1,000,000” (1984) pits Warhol’s crisp silkscreen printing against Basquiat’s anarchic brushwork. While Warhol’s work is all about the clarity of the titular message, which is stamped across the canvas, Basquiat has mischievously blotted out his own line of text entirely. In “Ailing Ali in Fight of Life” from the same year, Basquiat pokes fun at Warhol’s neat Nike logo with a simple “CHEWING GUM TM”.

Warhol would begin each work and Basquiat would respond: again and again, the younger artist makes them his own — by turning a Warhol dollar sign into the anarchist snake symbol in “Don’t Tread on Me” (1985), for instance. These paintings are more interesting for the artistic battle to which they play host than as works in their own right, and they received a critical drubbing at the time. But the critic who called Basquiat an “art-world mascot” was wrong: these pictures are a testament to his honed aesthetic and firm political convictions.

It is ironic that so many of Basquiat’s stridently anti-capitalist paintings now hang on the walls of private collectors, and it makes this exhibition a rare chance to see works not usually on public display. There are some omissions — including his early masterpiece “Untitled (Head)” from 1981 — but this is an engrossing look at an artist whose work resonates now as strongly as ever.

‘Jean-Michel Basquiat: Now’s the Time’, Guggenheim, Bilbao, to November 1, guggenheim-bilbao.es

Slideshow photographs: Lee Jaffe/Courtesy of LW Archives; Collection of Nina Clemente; Collection Bischofberger, Switzerland/Guggenheim Bilbao/ Acquavella Galleries/Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam/ Yoav Harlap Collection; Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat / Artestar, New York

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FINANCIAL TIMES AUSTRALIA

Updated Jul 25 2015 at 12:15 AM

Guggenheim’s ‘Jean-Michel Basquiat’ captures the artist’s bravery

Basquiat’s star-studded life and early death in 1988, aged 27, earned him a cult status, and his art, large price tags. A retrospective shows why he also deserves to be recognised as a fine and prescient artist.

Jean Michel Basquiat's 'Ailing Ali in Fight of Life', 1984, acrylic on canvas, 193 x 267cm. Collection Bischofberger, Switzerland. Basquiat's indefatigable sampling from popular culture made him a true postmodernist.

Jean Michel Basquiat’s ‘Ailing Ali in Fight of Life’, 1984, acrylic on canvas, 193 x 267cm. Collection Bischofberger, Switzerland. Basquiat’s indefatigable sampling from popular culture made him a true postmodernist. Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat/Artestar, New York
by Griselda Murray Brown”Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy.”Martin Luther King’s voice crackles over the quiet gallery. “Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice.”

When the young black American artist Jean-Michel Basquiat rose to fame, two decades after that impassioned address, King’s dream was still far from a reality.

Subtitled Now’s the Time, Guggenheim Bilbao’s fine retrospective argues that the work of this pioneering painter, who tore through the white art world of 1980s New York with his barbed responses to injustice and police brutality, remains as relevant now as then, the recent deaths of Michael Brown, Freddie Gray and others having again shone a light on US race relations.

Jean-Michel Basquiat, photographed in 1984. Like a DJ, Basquiat mixed eclectic material - Beethoven, boxing, comics - to create something fresh.

Jean-Michel Basquiat, photographed in 1984. Like a DJ, Basquiat mixed eclectic material – Beethoven, boxing, comics – to create something fresh. Lee Jaffe, courtesy LW Archives

Basquiat’s star-studded life and early death from a drugs overdose in 1988, aged 27, have earned him a cult status, cemented by the huge prices his works fetch at auction.

Born in Brooklyn to a Puerto Rican mother and a Haitian father, Basquiat had a middle-class upbringing full of books and museum visits. He left home in 1978 a precocious teenager without a high-school diploma, but his poetic graffiti under the tag SAMO (“same old shit”) caught the attention of SoHo residents.

That he chose to inscribe his art on the walls of the gallery district indicates his ambitions.

Basquiat’s rise to fame was swift. He took part in the landmark Times Square Show and New York/New Wave exhibitions of 1980 and 1981, before selling out his first solo show at Annina Nosei the following year. He collaborated with Andy Warhol, DJed at fashionable clubs, partied with the likes of David Bowie and for a time dated Madonna.

Jean-Michel Basquiat's 'Self-Portrait', 1984, acrylic and oil stick on paper mounted on canvas, 100 x 70cm.  Yoav Harlap Collection

Jean-Michel Basquiat’s ‘Self-Portrait’, 1984, acrylic and oil stick on paper mounted on canvas, 100 x 70cm. Yoav Harlap Collection Estate ofJean-Michel Basquiat/Artestar New York

The invisible people

But this show is, happily, light on biographical detail.

Arranged thematically not chronologically, the focus is firmly on Basquiat’s artistic achievement. We get a sense of his development: he began painting scenes of urban life on to materials he found on the street, as in Untitled (1981) – a cartoonish car spray-painted on foam, included in New York/New Wave – after which he could afford to work on canvas.

But Basquiat’s career does not follow a linear progression because he arrived, in a sense, fully formed. When Nosei met him, the dealer recalls: “He was particularly cultivated, even though he was [20]. He had read everything. He was way more sophisticated than all the others his age.”

Jean-Michel Basquiat's 'Untitled', 1982, acrylic and oil on linen, 193 x 239cm Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam

Jean-Michel Basquiat’s ‘Untitled’, 1982, acrylic and oil on linen, 193 x 239cm Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam Photo by Studio Tromp, estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat/Artestar New York

Basquiat once said that his subject matter was “royalty, heroism and the streets”.

In his works, black men are athletes and warriors, symbols of resistance and victory. Untitled (1982) is a large, colourful, scratchy canvas depicting a masked boxer with a halo, or perhaps a crown of thorns. He is fresh from the fight, his headgear resembling a white gas mask. And though his crown suggests Christ, his arm is raised high: the stance of the victorious not the crucified.

He is anonymous, a black everyman, but other works celebrate specific heroes – Jesse Owens, Charlie Parker, Cassius Clay – as if instating them in art history. “The black person is the protagonist in most of my paintings,” Basquiat explained. “I realised that I didn’t see many paintings with black people in them.”

The Death of Michael Stewart is a tribute to the black graffiti artist beaten to death by the NYPD in 1983.

Jean-Michel's 'Man from Naples',1982,  acrylic and collage on wood, 122 x 244.5cm. Guggenheim Bilbao Museoa. His voracious consumption and cut-and-paste approach strikingly anticipate the internet era.

Jean-Michel’s ‘Man from Naples’,1982, acrylic and collage on wood, 122 x 244.5cm. Guggenheim Bilbao Museoa. His voracious consumption and cut-and-paste approach strikingly anticipate the internet era. Krause, Johansen. Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat/Artestar New York

Basquiat’s policemen are pointy-toothed cartoon villains wielding clubs and Stewart a black silhouette between them, a storm of red and blue raging around him. In a nearby self-portrait from the same year, Basquiat, too, becomes a silhouette – a nod to the 18th-century craze for such portraits, but with new political overtones.

His identification with Stewart is clear: on hearing of his death, he said simply, “It could have been me.”

Colour is the message

Basquiat uses colour with the sure instinct of a seasoned abstractionist, but it is never merely decorative. For him, colour is political. A photograph of The Irony of a Negro Policeman (1981) in the catalogue shows that Basquiat originally gave it an angry red background before painting over it in white, which is how it appears here, the red seeping through.

So often in Basquiat’s work, white is the colour of oppression, of “lesser” histories erased and obliterated. Here, black and white are anything but neutral.

The policeman is rendered ridiculous – as ridiculous as the paradoxical idea (to Basquiat) of a black policeman. He has the grotesquely simplified proportions of a child’s drawing, crowned with a wonky top hat.

But such cack-handedness is, in fact, a studied affectation. Basquiat treasured his childhood copy of Gray’s Anatomy and pored over Leonardo’s drawings. His cartoonish scribbles are not the result of a lack of skill, but rather they are a kind of visual shorthand – a riposte to the Modernist appropriation of “primitive” art.

Symbols and words recur in his work: haloes, crowns, “MILK” (for whiteness), “SOAP” (whitewashing), “COTTON” (slavery). His obsessive crossing-out and overpainting can be read as a metaphor for the messy layering of history, for conquer and resistance.

The resulting canvases brim with ideas and allusions. He often scratched into colourful, quick-drying acrylic with the end of his paintbrush, as much drawing as painting.

Borrowing from art history and everyday life, Basquiat was a true postmodernist. His lists recall the automatic writing of Surrealism, his appropriation of contemporary culture stems from Pop Art, while his gestural freedom and charged emotion is neo-expressionist.

Charlie Parker’s Now’s the Time plays in a room of the exhibition called “Sampling and Scratching”, and the reference to hip-hop is apt. Like a DJ, Basquiat mixed eclectic material – Beethoven, boxing, comics – to create something fresh.

In fact, his canvases are so littered with “samples” almost any of the works in the show could come under this category, and the selection sometimes feels arbitrary. But the curators are right to highlight his voracious consumption and cut-and-paste approach, which strikingly anticipate the internet era.

One up on Warhol

Basquiat’s visual signature was so well developed by the time he began collaborating with Warhol in 1984 that it is the younger artist who comes out on top. Win $1,000,000 (1984) pits Warhol’s crisp silkscreen printing against Basquiat’s anarchic brushwork. While Warhol’s work is all about the clarity of the titular message, which is stamped across the canvas, Basquiat has mischievously blotted out his own line of text entirely.

In Ailing Ali in Fight of Life from the same year, Basquiat pokes fun at Warhol’s neat Nike logo with a simple “CHEWING GUM TM”.

Warhol would begin each work and Basquiat would respond: again and again, the younger artist makes them his own – by turning a Warhol dollar sign into the anarchist snake symbol in Don’t Tread on Me (1985), for instance.

These paintings are more interesting for the artistic battle to which they play host than as works in their own right, and they received a critical drubbing at the time. But the critic who called Basquiat an “art-world mascot” was wrong: these pictures are a testament to his honed aesthetic and firm political convictions.

It is ironic that so many of Basquiat’s stridently anti-capitalist paintings now hang on the walls of private collectors, and it makes this exhibition a rare chance to see works not usually on public display.

There are some omissions – including his early masterpiece Untitled (Head) from 1981 – but this is an engrossing look at an artist whose work resonates now as strongly as ever.

Jean-Michel Basquiat: Now’s the Time is showing at the Guggenheim, Bilbao, until November 1. See guggenheim-bilbao.es
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Carmen Herrera – The Cuban Abstract Painting God

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ARTNET
People

Carmen Herrera, Who Sold Her First Painting Aged 89, Turns 100 Years Old

Eileen Kinsella, Sunday, May 31, 2015

Carmen Herrera at work on a painting.  Photo: Courtesy Jacob Schmidt.

If the life story of Carmen Herrera was written as fiction, many people wouldn’t believe it.

As Deborah Sontag wrote in a front page story for the New York Times Art & Design section in 2009: “In a word, Ms. Herrera, a nonagenarian homebound painter with arthritis, is hot.”

The artist had her first sale at the age of 89. In her 90s, her work became part of the permanent collections of MoMA, the Hirshhorn, and Tate Modern. After 60 years of honing and practicing her craft, creating brilliantly-colored and ever more minimal and pure geometric abstractions, Herrera is finally receiving her due in critical, institutional and collecting circles alike (see Imi Knoebel, Marianne Vitale, and Carmen Herrera Among Robust Sales at Armory Show 2014 and Sales Heat Up at Frieze New York).

The Cuban-born, Manhattan-based artist marks her first century this May 31. “Life is wonderful and funny,” Herrera told W Magazine. “And then you get to be 100.”

This spring, Alison Klayman directed a brief but fascinating new documentary about Herrera’s life and her recent rise to fame in the art world. The film, titled, The 100 Years Picture Show—starring Carmen Herrera, premiered at this year’s Hot Docs Film Festival in Toronto.

Herrera-BlancoyVerdeRES

Herrera’s diptych Blanco y Verde (1959) is now on view at the Whitney Museum of American Art’s debut exhibition in its new Meatpacking location, titled, “America is Hard to See.” Her paintings, if you look at them carefully, can almost seem like cuts in space,” curator Dana Miller says in an audio guide for the show.

The artist, who had previously studied architecture, has long been fascinated by spatial arrangements. For the upcoming London edition of Frieze this October, the Lisson Gallery in London, which represents her, is planning a solo show of her large-scale paintings at the fair.

In a 2010 interview before a previous exhibition at Lisson, Herrera told Hermoine Hoby at the Observer, “When you’re known you want to do the same thing again to please people. And, as nobody wanted what I did, I was pleasing myself, and that’s the answer.”

The artnet Price Database lists 15 of her works at auction, the most expensive of which is one sold for $170,500, at a November 2012 auction at Christie’s New York.

Carmen Herrera

The artist, who was born in Havana in 1915, moved to the US in 1939 with her husband Jesse Loewenthal, a poet and longtime Stuyvesant High School teacher. After spending a few years in Paris following World War II—where Herrera told the Times she found her own “pictorial vocabulary,” and exhibited alongside artists including Josef Albers, Jean Arp, Sonia Delauney, and others, the couple returned to New York in 1954. For decades, Herrera has occupied the same loft, which also serves as her studio, near Union Square.

Over the years Herrera has been friends with artists ranging from Cuban star Wifredo Lam, to Yves Klein, and Barnett Newman (see New Collectors Fuel Demand and Double Estimates at Latin American Art Sales and Frida Kahlo Export Market Booming Despite Export Restrictions). She also knew Jean Genet, whom she calls “a sweet man.”

HerreraStill#2RES

The documentary includes intimate scenes of Herrera and her assistants at work, conversations with Herrera and her close friends about her life and work, and talks with art experts including Walker Art Center director Olga Viso and curator Dana Miller.

“She gets up every morning and makes art. It’s a compulsion. It’s what sustains her,” Miller says.

Herrera, who is wry and charming, quotes an old saying: “If you wait for the bus, it will come. I waited 98 years for the bus to come.”

She adds with a laugh: “Nobody cared what I did…It was a hard thing to get people to accept it. Now they’ve accepted it. That’s okay with me.”

Carmen Herrera. Photo: Courtesy Alison Klayman.

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NYTIMES

At 94, She’s the Hot New Thing in Painting

Todd Heisler/The New York Times

Carmen Herrera in her Manhattan loft, surrounded by her art. She sold her first work in 2004. More Photos >

Published: December 19, 2009

Under a skylight in her tin-ceilinged loft near Union Square in Manhattan, the abstract painter Carmen Herrera, 94, nursed a flute of Champagne last week, sitting regally in the wheelchair she resents.

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Todd Heisler/The New York Times

Carmen Herrera at work. She has painted for six decades, and since her first sale in 2004, collectors have avidly pursued her. More Photos »

Collection of Estrellita Brodsky, First Sale

Ms. Herrera’s “Red Star” from 1949. More Photos >

After six decades of very private painting, Ms. Herrera sold her first artwork five years ago, at 89. Now, at a small ceremony in her honor, she was basking in the realization that her career had finally, undeniably, taken off. As cameras flashed, she extended long, Giacomettiesque fingers to accept an art foundation’s lifetime achievement award from the director of the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis.

Her good friend, the painter Tony Bechara, raised a glass. “We have a saying in Puerto Rico,” he said. “The bus — la guagua — always comes for those who wait.”

And the Cuban-born Ms. Herrera, laughing gustily, responded, “Well, Tony, I’ve been at the bus stop for 94 years!”

Since that first sale in 2004, collectors have avidly pursued Ms. Herrera, and her radiantly ascetic paintings have entered the permanent collections of institutions like the Museum of Modern Art, the Hirshhorn Museum and the Tate Modern. Last year, MoMA included her in a pantheon of Latin American artists on exhibition. And this summer, during a retrospective show in England, The Observer of London called Ms. Herrera the discovery of the decade, asking, “How can we have missed these beautiful compositions?”

In a word, Ms. Herrera, a nonagenarian homebound painter with arthritis, is hot. In an era when the art world idolizes, and often richly rewards, the young and the new, she embodies a different, much rarer kind of success, that of the artist long overlooked by the market, and by history, who persevered because she had no choice.

“I do it because I have to do it; it’s a compulsion that also gives me pleasure,” she said of painting. “I never in my life had any idea of money and I thought fame was a very vulgar thing. So I just worked and waited. And at the end of my life, I’m getting a lot of recognition, to my amazement and my pleasure, actually.”

Julián Zugazagoitia, the director of El Museo del Barrio in East Harlem, called Ms. Herrera “a quiet warrior of her art.”

“To bloom into full glory at 94 — whatever Carmen Herrera’s slow rise might say about the difficulties of being a woman artist, an immigrant artist or an artist ahead of her time, it is clearly a story of personal strength,” Mr. Zugazagoitia said.

A minimalist whose canvases are geometric distillations of form and color, Ms. Herrera has slowly come to the attention of a subset of art historians over the last decade. . Now she is increasingly considered an important figure by those who study her “remarkably monumental, iconic paintings,” said Edward J. Sullivan, a professor of art history at New York University.

“Those of us with a passion for either geometric art or Latin American Modernist painting now realize what a pivotal role” Ms. Herrera has played in “the development of geometric abstraction in the Americas,” Mr. Sullivan said.

Painting in relative solitude since the late 1930s, with only the occasional exhibition, Ms. Herrera was sustained, she said, by the unflinching support of her husband of 61 years, Jesse Loewenthal. An English teacher at Stuyvesant High School in Manhattan, Mr. Loewenthal was portrayed by the memoirist Frank McCourt, a colleague, as an old-world scholar in an “elegant, three-piece suit, the gold watch chain looping across his waistcoat front.”

Recognition for Ms. Herrera came a few years after her husband’s death, at 98, in 2000. “Everybody says Jesse must have orchestrated this from above,” Ms. Herrera said, shaking her head. “Yeah, right, Jesse on a cloud.” She added: “I worked really hard. Maybe it was me.”

In a series of interviews in her sparsely but artfully furnished apartment, Ms. Herrera always offered an afternoon cocktail — “Oh, don’t be abstemious!” — and an outpouring of stories about prerevolutionary Cuba, postwar Paris and the many artists she has known, from Wifredo Lam to Yves Klein to Barnett Newman.

“Ah, Wifredo,” she said, referring to Lam, the Cuban-born French painter. “All the girls were crazy about him. When we were in Havana, my phone would begin ringing: ‘Is Wifredo in town?’ I mean, come on, I wasn’t his social secretary.”

But Ms. Herrera is less expansive about her own art, discussing it with a minimalism redolent of the work. “Paintings speak for themselves,” she said. Geometry and color have been the head and the heart of her work, she added, describing a lifelong quest to pare down her paintings to their essence, like visual haiku.

Asked how she would describe to a student a painting like “Blanco y Verde” (1966) — a canvas of white interrupted by an inverted green triangle — she said, “I wouldn’t have a student.” To a sweet, inquiring child, then? “I’d give him some candy so he’d rot his teeth.”

When pressed about what looks to some like a sensual female shape in the painting, she said: “Look, to me it was white, beautiful white, and then the white was shrieking for the green, and the little triangle created a force field. People see very sexy things — dirty minds! — but to me sex is sex, and triangles are triangles.”

Born in 1915 in Havana, where her father was the founding editor of the daily newspaper El Mundo, and her mother a reporter, Ms. Herrera took art lessons as a child, attended finishing school in Paris and embarked on a Cuban university degree in architecture. In 1939, midway through her studies, she married Mr. Loewenthal and moved to New York. (They had no children.)

Although she studied at the Art Students League of New York, Ms. Herrera did not discover her artistic identity until she and her husband settled in Paris for a few years after World War II. There she joined a group of abstract artists, based at the influential Salon of New Realities, which exhibited her work along with that of Josef Albers, Jean Arp, Sonia Delaunay and others.

“I was looking for a pictorial vocabulary and I found it there,” she said. “But when we moved back to New York, this type of art” — her less-is-more formalism — “was not acceptable. Abstract Expressionism was in fashion. I couldn’t get a gallery.”

Ms. Herrera said that she also accepted, “as a handicap,” the barriers she faced as a Hispanic female artist. Beyond that, though, “her art was not easily digestible at the time,” Mr. Zugazagoitia said. “She was not doing Cuban landscapes or flowers of the tropics, the art you might have expected from a Cuban émigré who spent time in Paris. She was ahead of her time.”

Over the decades, Ms. Herrera had a solo show here and there, including a couple at museums (the Alternative Museum in 1984, El Museo del Barrio in 1998). But she never sold anything, and never needed, or aggressively sought, the affirmation of the market. “It would have been nice, but maybe corrupting,” she said.

Mr. Bechara, who befriended her in the early 1970s and is now chairman of El Museo del Barrio, said that he regularly tried to push her into the public eye, even though she “found a kind of solace in being alone.”

One day in 2004, Mr. Bechara attended a dinner with Frederico Sève, the owner of the Latin Collector Gallery in Manhattan, who was dealing with the withdrawal of an artist from a much-publicized show of female geometric painters. “Tony said to me: ‘Geometry and ladies? You need Carmen Herrera,’ ” Mr. Sève recounted. “And I said, ‘Who the hell is Carmen Herrera?’ ”

The next morning, Mr. Sève arrived at his gallery to find several paintings, just delivered, that he took to be the work of the well-known Brazilian artist Lygia Clark but were in fact by Ms. Herrera. Turning over the canvases, he saw that they predated by a decade paintings in a similar style by Ms. Clark. “Wow, wow, wow,” he recalled saying. “We got a pioneer here.”

Mr. Sève quickly called Ella Fontanals-Cisneros, a collector who has an art foundation in Miami. She bought five of Ms. Herrera’s paintings. Estrellita Brodsky, another prominent collector, bought another five. Agnes Gund, president emerita of the Museum of Modern Art, also bought several, and with Mr. Bechara, donated one of Ms. Herrera’s black-and-white paintings to MoMA.

The recent exhibition in England, which is now heading to Germany, came about by happenstance after a curator stumbled across Ms. Herrera’s paintings on the Internet. Last week The Observer named that retrospective one of the year’s 10 best exhibitions, alongside a Picasso show and one devoted to the American Pop artist Ed Ruscha.

Ms. Herrera’s late-in-life success has stunned her in many ways. Her larger works now sell for $30,000, and one painting commanded $44,000 — sums unimaginable when she was, say, in her 80s. “I have more money now than I ever had in my life,” she said.

Not that she is succumbing to a life of leisure. At a long table where she peers out over East 19th Street “like a French concierge,” Ms. Herrera, because she must, continues to draw and paint. “Only my love of the straight line keeps me going,” she said.

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frieze

 

Issue 152 January-February 2013 RSS

The Whole Thing

Interview

British artist David Batchelor talks to Cuban-American painter Carmen Herrera about her 80 years of making art

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A specially commissioned portrait of Carmen Herrera by Jody Rogac, 2012

This conversation took place over the course of an afternoon in Carmen Herrera’s studio in New York. I became intrigued by Carmen’s work after I saw her exhibition at IKON in Birmingham, UK, in 2009; I was embarrassed that I hadn’t been aware of it before. Ever since I was a student, I have had a thing about the more austere forms of abstract art, and there I was, faced with a body of work that spanned the entire postwar history of abstraction. Even better than that, almost all of it used just a few lines and no more than two colours.

Carmen’s studio occupies the south-facing end of her long, narrow, seventh-floor apartment in lower Manhattan, where she has lived and work­ed for 45 years. The studio and apartment are functional and uncluttered, orderly but in a straightforward and unstudied way. Carmen her­self was warm and gracious, funny and entirely without pretensions. She has the relaxed dignity that comes from a lifetime’s work and the un­der­standing that she has absolutely nothing left to prove.

I would like to thank Tony Bechara, Carmen’s long-term friend and neighbour, who helped or­gan­ize and facilitate this discussion.

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Red with White Triangle, 1961, acrylic on canvas, 122 × 168 cm

David Batchelor You were born in Cuba in 1915.

Carmen Herrera Yes, but I left when I was very young, and although I went back a couple of times for family crises I never lived there again. If I went to Havana now I wouldn’t know anybody.

DB How old were you when you began painting?

CH I was a child prodigy as far as my family was concerned. I had a brother who was a painter, a very talented person who did nothing with his talent, but through him I became interested in art. My family were collectors of paintings, but not of modern art.

DB Your work was first exhibited as part of a group show in 1933 at the Círculo de Bellas Artes in Havana.

CH It was a funny exhibition, because they weren’t prepared for the kind of work I was doing; it was amusing to see people come, look and walk right out, as if they had been insulted by me.

DB You were also included in an outdoor exhibition in Havana in 1936.

CH Yes. We hung our paintings in the trees and people came in their droves. It was shortly before World War II; some German sailors were in Havana and came to the exhibition. I had placed the head of Christ in a swastika in one of my paintings, because the Germans were crucifying Christ, but the sailors didn’t know how to respond. It was terribly funny. The things you do when you’re young!

DB Then you moved to New York with your family in 1938.

CH I came with my husband [Jesse Loewenthal] – an American I had met in Havana. But I had been to Europe in 1928 and went to school in Paris and learned how to massacre French! I then went to Berlin in 1929. It was weird; there was something there that was not right somehow. Children are like dogs – they know. First, I was sick and then my sister was sick. We realized something was going to happen and it did. My sister was very wild; she was working for the Cuban embassy in London when the war began. Everybody was leaving London, and she became a warden. Either she was completely mad or she was very courageous, I don’t know.

DB Have you ever been to London?

CH I like London very much, but I’ve never been for any length of time. My sister stayed there. I’d rather be in Europe, but I’m in New York.

DB Why is that?

CH I don’t know. New Yorkers are very strange people. They are the sweetest people on earth, but they can be very strong somehow. But I like New York.

DB So, you came to New York in 1938. Were you painting full-time by then?

CH No, not at all. I had been studying architecture in Havana, but there were too many architects, so they were tough on us: you had to be a genius to pass. Also, I discovered that if you’re an architect you have to deal with the clients. So it wasn’t for me.

DB After World War II, you went to Paris for five years and began exhibiting.

CH In Paris, I was fortunate enough to run into a group of artists called the Salon des Réalités Nouvelles. Non-representation was their answer to the Germans who declared this kind of thinking was degenerate; in little old Cuba, I had been completely oblivious to all of this. Anyhow, I met a lot of people, and I loved it.

DB You exhibited with the Salon des Réalités Nouvelles four times between 1949–52, at the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris. Which other artists were involved in those exhibitions?

CH Everybody. A lot of artists who are very well known today, such as Josef Albers, Jean Arp, Barbara Hepworth, Ben Nicholson and Victor Vasarely.

DB You had your first solo exhibition in Havana in 1950 at the Lyceum.

CH Yes, but it was absolutely enough for me. It was very difficult.

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Blue with White Line, 1964, acrylic on canvas, 1.7 × 1.7 cm

DB Were you influenced by your New York peers at that time?

CH I just painted. I knew Willem de Kooning and Mark Rothko and met Jackson Pollock, but we didn’t exchange anything.

DB You also became good friends with Barnett Newman.

CH I knew him and his wife, Annalee, very well. When I first arrived in the United States my English wasn’t there at all, and we used to get together; my husband was a good friend of Barnett and I would sit and listen to them. Barnett was a brilliant person. You know, many artists are not brilliant – they love to talk about what they don’t know, so they’re better if they shut up. But not Barnett. As I was learning English, I realized how important he was, how many ideas he had, although he had to pass an examination to get a job as a teacher in a high school, and he couldn’t do it. He was having a crisis when I met him, he wasn’t painting. Annalee said to him: ‘I married a painter. I didn’t marry a schoolteacher.’ And then they managed very well. But, in a strange way, he was different from all the other artists. With them, well, basically it was drink. And having a good time.

DB I read that you were very impressed with Ad Reinhardt’s painting.

CH Yes. But he was a difficult person. Like a lot of artists at that time, he had a thing against Georgia O’Keeffe. But I admired her no end when I first came to America. She was one of my gods. But Reinhardt, he hated her.

DB Why?

CH I don’t know. I can never figure this kind of thing out. I don’t hate anybody too much.

DB And what about the younger generation? Did you meet Donald Judd and the Minimalists?

CH No. I was too old for them; they were too young for me.

DB So, you returned to New York from Paris in 1954 and you’ve stayed here ever since?

CH Yes, my whole life has been here. Cuba is like a memory. A very pleasant memory – until it got unpleasant.

DB And most of your exhibitions have been in New York.

CH I didn’t have that many. The few that I had were here, yes.

DB Many of the group shows that you’ve been in have been exhibitions of Latin American artists.

CH Yes, and I feel terrible about it. I don’t want to be considered a Latin American painter or a woman painter or an old painter. I’m a painter.

DB Is it true that you sold you first work in 2004?

CH No! I sold a little painting here, a little painting there, all the time. Around 1982, I got a telephone call from a man called Rastovski who was opening a gallery on the Lower East Side who said he would like me to show him my work. I said, ‘Do you have a big gallery, because my work is very big?’ And he said, ‘Oh yes.’ My friend Félix González-Torres was showing with him; he had a tremendous eye for artists. But he was not a business person at all and had no backing.

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Pasado (diptych), 2010, acrylic on canvas, 183 × 183 cm

DB You’ve been painting for 80 years. Do you paint every day?

CH Very much so. Especially as I get older. I am more disciplined than I was when I was young.

DB But for nearly 80 years, you’ve painted most days, even when you were undisciplined and young?

CH Yes. When I don’t like the paintings, I say: ‘There’s enough trash in the world, I don’t want them!’

DB Have you any idea how many paintings you’ve made?

CH That I really like? Not too many.

DB When do you decide that the work is no good? Is it immediately after you’ve finished it, or some time later?

CH Sometimes I’m very pleased, sometimes not so pleased, but it takes me a little while to know that a painting is garbage.

DB In my experience, it’s difficult to know if a work is any good until some time later. Beware the work you like!

CH Yes. Although I think I am a good judge; that’s why I throw them in the garbage!

DB On average, how long does it take you to make a painting?

CH It depends on the painting. Sometimes they come very easily, and sometimes you do it, you re-do it, you change it, you throw it away, you take another piece of paper, you do it again. I draw an awful lot before I do anything.

DB Do all of your paintings derive from drawings? Are they very precise?

CH Yes.

DB And then you scale them up onto the painting?

CH Yes.

DB How many drawings do you make compared with paintings?

CH Many, many, many, many.

DB How many will become a painting?

CH That’s a hard one. Sometimes it just requires changing a little bit, and I keep it. At other times, I throw it away.

DB From about the mid-1950s, you’ve only made paintings with two colours. Is that correct?

CH Yes. I only use the primary colours anyhow. And I reduce them. Less is more. I didn’t want to say it, but it’s true.

DB Your earlier work, in the 1940s, often only used three colours. And it was more informal, perhaps. Did you make a conscious decision one day to say: ‘ok, that’s it, two colours maximum’?

CH In 1948, I was supposed to bring a painting to Fredo Sidès, who was with the Salon des Réalités Nouvelles. He had a beautiful place in Paris. I went there and I showed him my canvas. ‘Ah’, he said, ‘ah, how beautiful’, and so on and so forth. And then he said ‘Madame, we’re going to show it!’ But then he said: ‘One thing; you have many paintings in this painting.’ And I felt very gratified but as I walked away, I realized what he was saying and said to myself: ‘Oh God, what he’s telling me is that I have too much in it.’ He gave me my first big lesson.

DB So, pretty much since then, you’ve worked with just two colours, flat planes of colour, often with dynamic intersections between the colours. And obviously that’s enough for you.

CH That’s enough.

DB  In the last few years, you have done paintings with one colour.

CH A friend of mine said to me: ‘One day you’re going to have just one dot!’ I said: ‘Wonderful. That will be the day!’

DB Have you ever made a single-colour painting with no divisions in it?

CH It would be nice. A blank canvas. That’s it. But I suppose it has been done …

DB You’ve also made diamond-shaped paintings?

CH Yes.

DB What led you to that?

CH I don’t know. It probably comes out of the drawing. When I was young, I stretched all my own canvases with the help of my husband. Then when he died, that stopped.

DB When I think of a diamond painting, it always makes me think of Mondrian. You did a series of paintings called ‘PM’, around 1990. Was this a reference to him?

CH Everybody thought the title had something to do with the weather or the afternoon. PM: Piet Mondrian.

DB So it was an homage to Mondrian?

CH Absolutely.

DB You also work in diptychs.

CH Oh yes. I like them. I don’t know why. It attracts me, the separation, I guess.

DB But also when the canvases are joined together, it’s like another type of division, different from a drawn line.

CH You know, one thing that is very difficult about this type of painting is what goes around it; what do you do? If you frame it, that will kill it. So I think: paint it. That’s what I’ve been doing now for quite a long time, painting on the side of the canvas.

DB I read in the catalogue of your 2009 show at IKON, Birmingham, that colour is the essence of your work. Has that always been the case?

CH Yes!

DB And do you mix your own colours?

CH No. I have a chart. I like Liquitex acrylic paints.

image

Untitled, 1956, acrylic on board, 102 cm diameter

DB Are there certain colours that you find you return to often, ones that work for you?

CH Yellow, cobalt blue and cerulean blue. Cerulean blue and yellow are beautiful. Black and red. Or black and blue, or green. I’m sure the way you paint reflects something that’s happening in your personal life, whether you like it or not.

DB I’ve never seen a painting of yours that has violet or purple in it.

CH No.

DB Why not?

CH It’s not in me. But you’re forgetting that the canvas is a colour too.

DB Can you describe what led you to make three-dimensional works?

CH It’s funny but I don’t know. It’s like if you asked me why I did a black and white painting. I really don’t know. It’s something that I wanted to do. As soon as I had the occasion, which was money, because I’m not a carpenter, I found this guy who was wonderful, and we did it together. But then he wanted to be paid, obviously, and so that ended.

DB When abstract art has straight lines and hard edges, people often talk about it as being systematic and rational and suchlike. But it seems to me a straight line can be as intuitive and improvised as any other kind of line.

CH I love the straight line. I love it. It’s such a nice feeling, too. If some ink falls, I’m devastated.

DB So, your process would be to do a series of drawings until one held your attention? Or something sparks?

CH Yes, yes. I hate to say it, but it’s like a fight. I begin the drawing but the drawing, it’s doing me. And I can get very angry with it. Then sometimes I think I’m doing a new thing, but I have already done it before.

DB The drawing has a kind of logic of its own, that tells you what to do.

CH Yes. I think, in my case, and in that of many people I know, we have a small vocabulary to use. Because it’s not necessary to have more. Less is more. Less is more.

DB You’re a great admirer of the 17th-century Spanish painter, Francisco de Zurbarán. What is it about his work you like?

CH He’s something else. He wasn’t a monk, but he may as well have been one. He painted for all the convents and so on. And I saw his work in Spain, in the proper place, where he had painted for this convent. And it was so beautiful, the whites and the whole table, it was absolutely wonderful. Then there was an exhibition of Zurbarán’s work at the Metropolitan Museum, New York, and I went but I didn’t feel anything because it was out of his context.

DB I think all artists love Zurbarán. There’s a work by him in the Prado, Madrid, just four vessels on a shelf. It’s one of the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen; there’s nothing in a Zurbarán which doesn’t have to be there. I feel the same about Mondrian, and about Kazimir Malevich, at his best. And I think they’re good company for your work. Can you imagine your work being exhibited alongside Zurbarán?

CH Oh Christ, I would faint. I would simply faint!

Afternoon (Yellow and Black), 2009, acrylic on canvas, 1.8 × 1.8 cm

DB These days, a lot of young people graduate from college, they’re 24 years old, and they want a big show, and they want to be in a big gallery. What would you say to them?

CH Don’t do it. Don’t even try.

DB Wait for 60 years?

CH I have a friend, a lovely person but she’s just looking for recognition, fame, things like that. And I don’t know how to tell her, that’s not the whole thing.

DB But now you’re well known, you’re recognized. Does it matter to you? Did it matter to you when people really didn’t know your work very well? Was that ok?

CH Not really. I wished it was different, but what can you do?

DB What can you do? You can continue, that is all you can do, I guess.

CH Because you can’t stop. And that’s my case. Fine, who doesn’t want to be recognized, to make money, to be in the paper, all that? Oh, terrific! But that’s not it. And that’s what I try to tell them, and they don’t understand what you’re talking about. Whenever I finish a work that I’m happy with, I think: ‘Great!’ But that’s rare.

DB And when you finish a work that you’re not happy with? How does that feel? Flat?

CH Yes. But then you look at it again, and it’s not as bad as you think it was. Or you throw it in the garbage, if somebody lets you.

DB How do you feel about these black and white drawings that you are working on now?

CH I think I have to make six more and, after that, I’ll go back to colour. I’m dying to go back to colour. Maybe I should just stop and go back to colour, who knows?

DB Would you say you are content?

CH Oh yes, I am. I am.
Born in Havana, Cuba, in May 1915, Carmen Herrera has been living and working in New York, USA, since 1954. In recent years she has been the subject of solo exhibitions at Lisson Gallery, London, UK (2012); Museum Pfalzgalerie, Kaiserslautern, Germany (2010); Frederico Sève Gallery, New York (2010); and IKON, Birmingham, UK (2009). In 2013, her work will be included in the group show ‘Order, Chaos and the Space Between’ at the Phoenix Museum of Art, USA, and a solo exhibition of new work opens at Lisson Gallery, Milan, Italy, on 25 January.

David Batchelor

is an artist and writer based in London, UK. His work will be exhibited in ‘Light Show’ at the Hayward Gallery, London, from 30 January to 28 April 2013. His most recent book, Found Monochromes Vol. 1 (2010), is published by Ridinghouse Press.

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W MAGAZINE MAY 2014

 

 

  • Carmen Herrera at 99 - Carmen Herrera
  • Carmen Herrera at 99 - Carmen Herrera Yesterday
  • Carmen Herrera at 99 - Carmen Herrera Black and White
  • Carmen Herrera at 99 - Carmen Herrera Blanco y Verde

 

  • Carmen Herrera at 99 - Carmen Herrera Escorial
  • Carmen Herrera, 2013. Photo by Tony Bechara, courtesy of Lisson Gallery.

Carmen Herrera at 99

The Cuban artist is just hitting her stride.

Two days before her 99th birthday, Carmen Herrera is cracking jokes. “Let’s get all the 100-year-old people together and give them a whiskey,” says the artist when asked how she would like to celebrate, adding that she’s nearly survived a century because she “was never suicidal.”

Indeed it is Herrera’s positive spirit, exemplified by her sharp, sometimes biting, wit that drives her. She began her career as a painter some 60 years ago and, despite running with the likes of Barnett Newman and Leon Polk Smith, was largely overlooked until the early 2000s, due in no small part to her gender (female) and her heritage (Cuban). “Somebody once told me if you wait for the bus, the bus will come,” she says.

Herrera’s ride may have been a long time coming but at last it has arrived. Major institutions, such as The Whitney Museum of American Art, have recently acquired her work, and director Alison Klayman, best known for her groundbreaking Ai Weiwei documentary, Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry, has been working on a documentary about Herrera, the trailer for which was released today. Next year, to honor the artist’s 100th birthday, Lisson Gallery will present a major retrospective of her work.

All the while, Herrera has been unwavering in her vision. Her paintings, which deal with primary colors and mechanically straight lines, have only become more minimalistic over time. In the past, she has used multiple colors at a time, but more recently she began working strictly with two colors and, lately, only one, using the blank canvas as a complement. “Someone told me one day I will just paint a dot and be done,” she says.

Herrera may not have achieved financial success through her work until recently—a fact she jokes about often—but her life has certainly been rich. She met an American English teacher, the late Jesse Loewenthal, when he “knocked on her door” in her native Havana, and settled in New York with him in the mid 1950s. She counted Barnett Newman and his wife Annalee as good friends. “We had breakfast practically every Sunday,” she says. She saw the first ever performance of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot in Paris and though she never met Beckett, she did know Jean Genet. “He was a sweet man,” Herrera says, recalling a time that her beaded necklace broke and Genet came to the rescue. “He was down on the sidewalk looking for the last beads,” she recalls. Now the artist spends her time in the same Union Square apartment-slash-studio she has called home for over 45 years. She still paints every day.

“Life is wonderful and funny,” Herrera says. “And then you get to be 100.”

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ART NEWS
Art of the City

‘Don’t Be Intimidated About Anything’: Carmen Herrera at 100

Carmen Herrera in her New York studio.JASON SCHMIDT/COURTESY LISSON GALLERY

One afternoon in late April, the artist Carmen Herrera was sitting in her apartment and studio a few blocks north of Union Square recalling the frequent visits she would make to the Whitney Museum of Art some 70 years ago, when it was located in Greenwich Village. “It was empty!” she said. “Nobody went to museums. It was incredible. And now, you go to a museum, you want to look at something and hundreds of people are in front of you.”

Herrera shared this with good-natured exasperation, almost laughing as she complained. She turned 100 this past Sunday, and seems well past the age of worrying. Plus it would not quite be fair to be too upset about the crowds at museums, since the throngs that are filling one of them at the moment, the Whitney’s new home in the Meatpacking District, are now seeing her work, after years of obscurity—a large painting she made in 1959 that has a short green isosceles triangle that stretches across the middle of a white canvas. The museum acquired it just last year.Carmen Herrera, Blanco y Verde, 1959.WHITNEY MUSEUM OF AMERICAN ART

It is a stunning painting, and it is hung in perhaps the most beautiful and tranquil room in the new museum, alongside pieces by well-established giants like Frank Stella, John McLaughlin, Ellsworth Kelly, and Agnes Martin. The work is titled Blanco y Verde, a straightforward name that underscores Herrera’s remarkable achievement: an art of crisp, clear straight lines, of pure color and pure shape. Her paintings are cut to their bare minimum, but it would be wrong to describe them as sparse or restrained. Their solid colors are arranged so that they teem with energy, whether effervescent (as in a bright orange rectangular diptych from 2007) or subtle, like that 55-year-old white and green number.

In recent days Herrera had been having trouble hearing in one ear, and so her longtime friend, Tony Bechara, a voluble artist, sometimes helped her to understand my questions, speaking more loudly than me or translating them into Spanish, which she first spoke growing up in Havana. Nevertheless, she was quick with her quips. “Men!” she exclaimed, when Bechara spoke too much about her work. “We can’t live without them, and we cannot live with them.”Carmen Herrera, Untitled, 2007.COURTESY THE ARTIST AND LISSON GALLERY

Herrera’s father was a newspaper editor, her mother a reporter. Growing up in Havana, she took art classes, but she studied to be an architect, quitting that path in the late 1930s when she married Jesse Loewenthal, a school teacher who died in 2000 at the age of 98. (By that point she had still not sold a single painting.) Around the time of her marriage she began painting in earnest.

Her first great inspiration was the Cuban artist Amelia Peláez, Herrera told me. “I admired her so much. I liked what she was doing. It was the first thing I really liked. I heard her and I asked questions, and she was terrific.”The couple moved to New York, and Herrera studied at the Art Students League. “It was all women, and I hate to say it,” she said, shaking her head, “but we were like cats—fighting.” She recalled that one of her teachers, Fredo Sides, told one of her friends, “What is she doing here? Why doesn’t she go home and begin painting, think about whether she wants to be a painter or not? I think she’s very good, she better get out of here.” And so, “Thank you!” she said, “And I left.”Carmen Herrera, Green Garden, 1959.COURTESY TEH ARTIST AND LISSON GALLERY

She and Loewenthal moved to Paris after the war, where she quickly fell in with the abstract artists showing under the banner of the Salon des Réalités Nouvelles, and she developed an organic form of abstraction, with flowing, curving shapes. Europe seemed more receptive to her work, and the fact that it was made by a woman. By the mid-1950s the two were back in New York for good, and her work became sharper and more minimal. Barnett Newman, whose paintings perhaps most closely resemble hers, and his wife, Annalee, were neighbors. “We used to have breakfast every Sunday together.”

“I was very young, much younger than they were,” she said. “I was just listening. I knew very little English, but it was very interesting.” What did she learn from him? “Don’t be intimidated about anything,” she said. That was a useful lesson since, despite having occasional shows in the coming decades, nothing ever sold, a streak that ended only in 2004, when Bechara got a dealer interested for the first time, igniting a wave of support from the market and museums.Midway through the interview, Bechara suggested a Scotch, which Herrera usually enjoys midday. He abstains.“He’s very sober, he doesn’t drink,” she announced.“I only drink at night.”“I don’t care!” she said in a mock huff.Carmen Herrera, Untitled, 1952.THE MUSEUM OF MODERN ART

Drink in hand, the stories kept coming. Filipino artist Alfonso A. Ossorio once lived below the apartment we were sitting in—Herrera has been in it for half a century—and had apparently wanted the space for himself. He would telephone occasionally and declare, “You better get out of there, because I’m going to kill you.”

And sitting with Jean Genet in Paris one day, an American woman approached, and attempted to flatter the writer, Herrera recalled. “She said, ‘Oh, I love your work,’ and this and that. And he said, ‘Oh, you too are a pederast?’” Herrera laughed heartily. “He was a sweet man but also a funny man.”At 100, Herrera has become someone whom newspapers regularly declare, as Proust sardonically put it, one of “the last representatives of a world to which no witness any longer exists.” Of course, it is actually true, and the art world is finally paying its proper respects. The Whitney is at work on a retrospective for next year, Lisson Gallery, which represents her, is planning a show for later this year, and Alison Klayman, who directed Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry, is making a documentary about her life.Meanwhile, though, Herrera is continuing to work. She still draws when she feels well enough, sitting by her front window, sketching out ideas for new paintings, which she then has transfers to grid paper and has her assistant execute. An unfinished new painting was sitting in her studio, a green triangle filling half of it. She was thinking about what to do with it next.I asked her where her ideas for her forms come from. “I have to have it in my head,” she said. “I do a drawing, and then I figure it out.”“Once you think about it,” she said, with a bit of bravado, “it’s very easy.”“Art of the City” is a weekly column by ARTnews co-executive editor Andrew Russeth.

Copyright 2015, ARTnews Ltd, 40 W 25th Street, 6th Floor, New York, N.Y. 10010. All rights reserved.

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Carmen Herrera: ‘Every painting has been a fight between the painting and me. I tend to win’

carmen-herrera

Carmen Herrera at her home in New York on her 94th birthday. Photograph: Adriana Lopez Sanfeliu

When did you decide you were an artist?

You don’t decide to be an artist, art gets inside of you. Before you know it you’re painting, before you know it you’re an artist. You’re so surprised. It’s like falling in love.

When you began painting you made representational work. How did you make the leap to abstraction?

I was in Paris at the time. I was walking around and I found something called Nouvelles Réalités [a salon of artists focusing on abstract art]. And that was an eye-opener. I thought this is what I want to do. I went to the studio and I worked and worked and worked and worked. I was angry that I didn’t know about this before.

What was Paris like then, in the 1940s?

It was a curious time. From all over Europe people came, and some from the United States, and we all showed [Herrera was born in Cuba but moved to New York in 1939]. And we were all crazy, abnormal. I had the privilege of being in France at that time. I consider those my best years. Of course it was right after the war and a lot of things were lacking. There was no coffee, there was no this, there was no that. But little by little it improved. One day we went to the opera and in the intermission a woman came out beautifully dressed, in one of the big couture houses, and everybody went like that [applauds] – it was the beginning, it was like resurrection.

You were discovered aged 89 after painting full-time for more than 60 years. Why do you think it took so long for your work to be recognised?

Things happen in a funny way. I mean you have to be in the right place at the right time, which I always managed not to be. But at the same time, people were not ready to receive my work. Years ago somebody called Rose Fried had a very avant garde gallery in New York and said she was thinking of giving me a show. Then I went back to the gallery and she said, you know, Carmen, you can paint circles around the men artists that I have but I’m not going to give you a show because you’re a woman. I felt as if someone had slapped me on the face. I felt for the first time what discrimination was. It’s a terrible thing. I just walked out. But anyhow, she’s dead now.

Are there advantages to not having had much recognition for so long?

Yes, yes, yes. Because when you’re known you want to do the same thing again to please people. And, as nobody wanted what I did, I was pleasing myself, and that’s the answer.

Is it at all destabilising having this sudden renown?

I love it – I’m lapping it up. What do you want me to say – that I’m sorry about it? But every time they say something about me they say, “she’s 95″. I mean – really! They don’t go round saying how old the other artists are – so why pick on me?

What is your productivity like now?

Pretty good, considering I’m 95 years old.

Now you’re talking about your age!

So you wouldn’t – I did it first!

Has the way you approach a composition changed over the years?

I think really every painting has been a fight between the painting and me. I tend to win. But you know how many paintings I threw in the garbage? I wouldn’t have anything were it not for my husband. I was stupid.

Your agent joked to me that maybe your late husband had a hand in your success – that he’s pulled some strings from the afterlife.

He didn’t have a hand in anything! But no, they say that behind every great man there is always a woman. Well, behind a great woman there is always a man. You need it. I was very lucky. God, I was lucky.

What are the good things about being the age you are?

Not too many, my dear, not too many! There are too many physical difficulties. I do not advise it. But you have to take life the way it comes. There’s nothing you can do about it. Write that down for yourself.

What advice would you give your 20-year-old self?

“Don’t hurry up, just take your 20s as long as you can.” But the 20s is not an easy time. A lot of things are coming to you that you’re not ready to absorb. You have to get old and wrinkled and grey-haired before you know what they’re talking about.

So what do you know now?

Everything! I knew nothing then. But I was very bold, I thought I knew everything. Emotionally, politically, about art – I was learning. I always used to say: my husband, he likes to teach and I like to learn. That’s an enormous difference.

Are you still learning now?

Yes, I am. I’m more dedicated to my art now and I’m more watchful. Anything – a piece of paper that’s folded in a funny way – I think, “ah, I can use that”. I feel much more aware now.

Any regrets?

My only regret is that I didn’t study architecture, which is what I really wanted to do. But to be an architect you have to depend on the client and play up to the client. I couldn’t do that.

Have you found it exciting watching New York change architecturally, and in other ways, over the last 50 years?

Yes, I feel very comfortable in New York. It’s my home, my country. I won’t say “America” – New York is my country.

You don’t feel Cuban?

I feel Cuban, but I can’t function in Cuba. I would never have been an artist if I’d stayed in Cuba.

Are you religious?

Very. I was born a Catholic, I hope to die a Catholic. A lot of things I question in my mind but I keep my mouth shut. But it has been a great help to me through my life. I’m not a saint. Not a sinner either. I’m in between. And I don’t think I was born like that, I think life made me like that. Life is interesting if you let it be. Isn’t that so?

Carmen Herrera will be showing alongside Peter Joseph at Lisson Gallery, London NW1 from 23 November to 29 January 2011

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 PHAIDON

Inside the mind of Carmen Herrera

Exploring the creative processes of artists featured in Vitamin P2

Portrait of the artist Carmen Herrera, photo by Adriana Lopez Sanfeliu
Portrait of the artist Carmen Herrera, photo by Adriana Lopez Sanfeliu

The crisp, primary abstractions of painter Carman Herrera very nearly passed the art world by. Born in pre-revolution Cuba in 1915, Herrera left after the Second World War and spent time in Paris and New York during a period when her friends Leon Polk Smith and Wilfredo Lam were forging their own reputations. However, Herrera failed to achieve a similar level of success for herself, owing perhaps to her marginalised status as a Hispanic woman producing minimalist work. In fact, Herrera didn’t sell an artwork until 2004 when she was 89 years of age. London’s Lisson Gallery recently hosted the 97-year-old’s first ever European major gallery show. We thought it was rather good and wanted you to know a little more about her.

Who are you?

I am Carmen Herrera. I was born in Cuba during the great war, the first World War 97 years ago in 1915. I have lived most of my life in New York. I wanted to be an architect but in Havana in those days the university was always closed due to some revolution or another. I became a painter and in 1939 moved to New York. During the forties and fifties I met many artists that would later become rather well known. I was friends with Barnett Newman, Leon Polk Smith, Wilfredo Lam, Amelia Pelaez and many others. From 1948 to about 1953 I lived in Paris at number 5 Rue Campagne Premiere in the 14th. What years those were – Paris was full of bicycles and artists from all over the world. I exhibited in the Salon des Réalités Nouvelle with artists like Ben Nicholson and Soto and Pierre Soulages and Ellsworth Kelly and Jack Youngerman and Vasarely. Those years shaped the vision of my life’s work. In short, who am I? I am a painter.

 

Carmen Herrera, Two Worlds
Carmen Herrera, Two Worlds (2011), acrylic on canvas

 

What’s on your mind right now? 

London is very much on my mind right now. The exhibition at the Lisson Gallery was my first major gallery exhibit in Europe. I think of my sister Teresa Durland. She worked at the Cuban embassy in London in 1939. When war broke out everyone left but not Teresa. She stayed on and became an air warden. She spent the rest of her life in London and is buried there. A Cuban air warden during the blitz, that is one irony for the record book.

How do you get this stuff out? 

You never get it out. It is always churning. It is a constant, continuous process. You finally say something, and then it just leads to more questions.

How does it fit together? 

A sense of perspective holds it together. I mean, you step back a bit and you will discern the sense to it all. You identify a lexicon of forms and ideas. Your visual language is revealed during the process of making art and as you apply principles that guide you.

What brought you to this point?  

Many years and many paintings.  Each painting is the result of choices made. Each work is a series of paths not taken and paths taken.

 

Carmen Herrera, Yellow and Black
Carmen Herrera, Yellow and Black (2010), acrylic on canvas

 

Can you control it?

It controls you, really. One engages in a long process and a dialogue where one attempts to define. Then there is also time and place and other circumstances that enter into the equation. It is not necessarily about simple control.

What’s next? 

What a question to ask a 97 year old! However, since you asked, I will respond. I want to make larger works, but then there is the problem of getting them in and out of this studio – the lift is tiny, the staircase crooked, and I never go out. So again, I have choices to make – how to make them larger, or seem larger, or maybe make the world smaller?

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THE TELEGRAPH LONDON

Carmen Herrera: ‘Is it a dream?’

After a lifetime of anonymity, the 95-year-old Carmen Herrera is suddenly one of the world’s most collectible living artists.

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Carmen Herrera

Photo: STEFAN RUIZ

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‘Since I am famous, my life is hell,’ grumbles Carmen Herrera, the 95-year-old Cuban artist who sold her first painting six years ago and has been hailed as the discovery of the decade.

‘I used to have a quiet life doing what I liked to do – which is painting.’

Herrera worked in obscurity for nearly seven decades; now her canvases fetch up to $50,000 (£30,000). ‘I was amazed when my first painting sold,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I still am amazed.’

Her work is now on permanent display at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, the Hirshhorn in Washington and Tate Modern in London and she has frequent exhibitions – including one currently at the Lisson Gallery in London.

Speaking in slightly stilted English, Herrera has a voice that teeters towards laughter, taking the edge off her blunt statements.

Wheelchair-bound and arthritic, she never leaves her studio loft apartment in New York. Her friend Tony Bechara, a Puerto Rican artist, lives a few doors down and organises the exhibitions of her paintings, intense geometric minimalist distillations that defy explanation.

Herrera sits at a long desk overlooking the bustling street below.

Strewn across the desk are industrial-sized rulers and piles of graph paper, covered in geometric calculations and lines. In one sketch two white lines zigzag identically across a black expanse. On the sides numbers are scrawled in pencil.

Next to it is an almost identical sketch. ‘The first one didn’t satisfy me,’ explains Herrera, pointing at it with long unwavering fingers.

‘It’s a very selfish way of doing things – I have to work on it for a while before I come to a decision. Sometimes it takes weeks and sometimes I get stuck.

I get very mad and sometimes I win and sometimes the picture wins. I hate being interrupted when I am working but now I am interrupted all the time.’ She looks at me accusingly and laughs.

‘Really, fame is ridiculous. I didn’t used to bother anyone and no one bothered me. Now I am paying because they are paying me.

‘The money is useful because at the end of life, to my amazement, you need a lot of help. Otherwise I would end up in a nursing home. And I dread that.’

Herrera has four helpers who rotate around the clock, enabling her to stay in the home she has occupied for decades.

I ask her when she moved in. ‘About 18 years ago,’ she says.Bechara, who sits in on part of the interview, intervenes. ‘Come on, darling, 18 years ago! You came here in 1968.’

‘You are very nasty, Tony,’ says Herrera. ‘When you are 95 you will forget your own name.’

They tease each other throughout the interview. Bechara is like a son to Herrera, who has no children of her own. Her husband, Jesse Loewenthal, a teacher, died 10 years ago, aged 98.

‘Jesse was a saint and I’m thinking back and I never even thanked him for all he did for me. He was the only one I ever spoke to about my paintings. He understood what I was doing and he was always supportive.

‘I made him move to neighbourhoods that were cheap and sometimes dangerous so I could have room to paint. We had a very good life, actually. We became closer and closer and by the end we were one person.

‘We could think without talking. He died right here in this room with me holding his hand. Lately I miss him a lot.’

Herrera may not have a head for dates but her mind seems perfectly sharp in all other respects. And she is still painting prolifically.

Behind her chair is one of her recent works – a 6ft black canvas with a large irregular yellow zigzag across the middle. ‘I like yellow and I like lines,’ she says, when I ask her what the painting represents. Once she has an idea she works obsessively.

‘She can be a real pain,’ says Bechara. ‘The paint is never black enough.’

‘For me black is all the colours, somehow,’ explains Herrera. ‘The other colours are like a decoration.’ She describes her work as an intellectual process.

‘It’s mostly here,’ she says, pointing to her head. ‘I don’t have a heart to paint. I have a brain to paint. I don’t paint babies or flowers or things like that. They don’t interest me.’

She scoffs at people who say her work looks easy. ‘Perhaps they should try it.’

It was Bechara – who first met Herrera and her late husband more than 30 years ago – who engineered the sale of her first work.

‘Carmen came to me around 2004 and said, “I have to destroy most of this work because it’s a nuisance. You can have some of it and if you can place it in a museum in Cuba after Fidel dies I would be grateful.”

I said, “Carmen, that’s a big responsibility; let’s try something else.”’

A few years earlier he had arranged a show for her at Museo del Barrio in New York, but although it was critically acclaimed Herrera sank back into obscurity.

This time he mentioned her work to Frederico Sève, the owner of a gallery in New York, who was organising a three-woman show. ‘One of the women had dropped out and I said, “I have the perfect woman for you: Carmen Herrera.”’

‘Who the hell is Carmen Herrera?’ Sève replied. But when he saw her work he was flabbergasted. The canvases predated by a decade other artists working in a similar style.

Recognising that he had before him a pioneer of Latin-American modernism, Sève added her to his show. Herrera chuckles. ‘I remember saying, “I feel terrible for this poor man. Nothing is going to sell.”

Then I had a call saying, “Somebody bought one of your paintings.” I said, “Oh, goody.” I was wondering, “Is it really happening or is it a dream?”’ Recently she came across some paintings she did decades ago.

‘I had rolled them up and thrown them in the closet. Some are in very bad shape but people are so crazy they buy them.’

Born in 1915, Herrera grew up in a busy household in Havana, one of seven siblings. Her father was the founding editor of the newspaper El Mundo, and her mother a reporter at the paper. As a child, she remembers lying on the floor painting.

‘I was left alone pretty much – my father was dead and my mother was too busy. But I do remember once my mother coming into my room and I was doing a painting and she said, “Da Vinci is using your hand to do that painting.”

‘And I said, “No, it’s not true; I’ve been working all day on that damned thing.”’

Herrera was sent to finishing school in Paris, then returned to Cuba to study architecture. She met Loewenthal when he was visiting from America, married him and then moved to New York, abandoning her degree course.

Herrera says she did not decide to become a painter; it just happened. ‘It hit me in New York. I realised one day, “My God, I’m an artist, how horrible.”

Just as if you realise you’re in love with the wrong person. I do it because I have to do it. People keep saying, “How do you work all those years without any reward, no money, few exhibitions?” Because it was a vocation.

‘Why would anyone go to a hospital to take care of the lepers if they do not have the vocation of being nuns? It’s the same.’

After the war Herrera and her husband moved to Paris for a few years. ‘They were the happiest days of our lives,’ she says. Still groping her way as an artist, she found inspiration, and exhibited, at the Salon des Réalités Nouvelles, a venue for abstract artists to exhibit their work.

I ask her why she left Paris. ‘Money,’ she says. ‘We had to get the Yankee dollar.’

Settling into a studio in New York, she continued to paint while her husband pursued his career as a school teacher.

For the first few years she often returned to Cuba, where her brother had been imprisoned by Castro and her mother was still living. But she has not been back since her mother’s death more than 50 years ago.

And now she has no desire to. ‘It has changed too much. I know nobody in Cuba. My whole generation is gone. I am sick of banana republics, frankly.’

Bechara groans.

‘Tony, don’t be embarrassed,’ says Herrera.

‘But you are talking to a journalist,’ says Bechara. ‘Her job is to write what you say. Do you really want her to write that you are fed up of banana republics?’

‘Shut up, Tony,’ says Herrera, taking a sip of her Scotch and water.

Although Herrera and her husband moved in artistic circles, no one caught on to the significance of her paintings. ‘There are so many people who thought what I was doing was crazy. Well, it was crazy but it’s paying now.’

Herrera herself was too diffident to promote her work. ‘I am very shy. I would die before I would do that.’ Now she finds it amusing that she was overlooked for so long.

‘The Museum of Modern Art kept going to Cuba to find artists when I was right here in New York. Why go to Cuba, for God’s sake? They should have discovered me long ago. I am happy the way things have turned out.

‘But if no one had found me I wouldn’t be unhappy either.’

It puzzles her why everyone mentions her age when discussing her work. ‘It’s ridiculous. My age has nothing to do with the painting. I have enough to cope with at my age without everyone talking about how old I am! I live in the moment.

‘My future is there waiting for me. When death happens it will happen – it can’t be that bad if everyone is doing it.’

Bechara is still fussing around her.

‘Do you want more ice?’ he asks.

‘Te voy a matar,’ growls Herrera. (‘I’m going to kill you.’)

I ask Herrera why straight lines fascinate her. She shivers with delight. ‘Ahhhh, it’s almost a physical thing. There is nothing I love more than to make a straight line. How can I explain it? It’s the beginning of all structures, really.’

And where does the line end? Herrera chuckles. ‘It doesn’t.’

‘Carmen Herrera and Peter Joseph’ is at the Lisson Gallery, London NW1, until

29 January (lissongallery.com)

Dallas Private Art Collections Poised To Rival Miami

Pauline Karpidas, one of the twelve most powerful art collectors in the world is opening a private collection space in Dallas. Karpidas has one of the world’s leading private gallery spaces in Hydra, Greece called the Hydra Workshop.

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Pauline Karpidas

Pauline Karpidas

Who is she? The widow of Greek shipping tycoon Constantine Karpidas and a major patron of the arts.

What’s in her collection? British-born Karpidas owns a gallery on the Greek island of Hydra, where she has displayed works by Urs Fischer, Wilhelm Sasnal and Sergej Jensen, and more recently by American artists Frank Benson and Mark Grotjahn.

She made headlines in 2009 when she auctioned off Andy Warhol’s 200 One Dollar Bills for $43.8 million, more than 100 times what she paid for it two decades earlier.

Read more: http://www.businessinsider.com/most-powerful-art-collectors-2011-12?op=1#ixzz3gT38Hd00

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Monday, July 20, 2015

Rick Brettell

Dallas is a haven for private art spaces

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Vernon Bryant/Staff Photographer

Jiro Yoshihara’s Work (left) and Rap Psalm II by John Chamberlain are shown at the Warehouse, which was founded by Cindy and Howard Rachofsky and Amy and Vernon Faulconer.

In late 17th-century Paris, almost a century before the opening of the Louvre, a determined English visitor, Dr. Lister, was amazed at how easy it was to gain entry to the private art collections of the city’s most prominent citizens. He wrote a guidebook to help others learn the ropes. Hint: You had to wear a sword, if you were a man, as it was a signifier of high social status.

Visitors to Dallas in the years before the 1908 opening of the Dallas Art Association’s permanent gallery in Fair Park would have been able to visit the private art gallery of Col. and Mrs. William L. Crawford, completed in 1900 next to their Ross Avenue “Eastlake Cottage.” The gallery was open to the public via its own door, allowing the Crawfords to go on about their lives in their vast cottage — all long gone.

Tempting as it might be to think that such galleries have gone the way of aristocrats’ noblesse oblige, private art spaces have made a comeback. In Dallas we have so many of them, the city rivals New York, Miami and Los Angeles.

Unlike museums conceived as public institutions, private art spaces are available to art lovers only in limited ways; they are not usually governed by independent boards or housed in buildings owned or managed by foundations or government bodies.

Nor are they like commercial art galleries that exist to sell artworks. In most private art spaces, there are no price lists or indications that works are for sale — usually, they aren’t. This frees viewers to respond to work as they would in a museum.

Generally, these new anti-institutions and anti-galleries adapt spaces to their purpose. Their names reflect this, including the Warehouse, the Power Station and the Reading Room.

The Goss-Michael Foundation was on the cutting edge here. Its Uptown origins and ambition to expose what’s called YBA — for young British artists — to a Dallas audience have broadened with its move to the Design District.

The foundation boasts a collection of more than 500 works, which are shown on a rotating basis. Unlike most private art spaces, the Goss-Michael Foundation has regular hours of operation, a public exhibition program and an artist residency program. It was founded in 2007 and its early openings were must-attend events, bringing the hype and glamour of the London scene to Dallas.

Adaptable venues

Two other ambitious spaces began to be considered by their owners.

The first to open formally was the Power Station, now nearly 5 years old, and operating in a former power station in Exposition Park. It’s a neighbor of 500X Gallery, one of Texas’ oldest artist cooperatives, and CentralTrak, the University of Texas at Dallas’ artist residency.

The Power Station space embodies the high-octane vision and taste of Alden and Janelle Pinnell and their foundation, which funds the programs and does so in a way that is anything but self-promotional. The Pinnell space is not for a growing private collection of more than 200 works by a mixture of A-list and experimental artists. Instead, it is a noncommercial venue in which artists conceive of projects for Dallas in a modified two-story industrial space. The third story and roof house visiting artists, foundation offices and are used to host parties and meals.

The Pinnells’ curatorial partner is New York art adviser Rob Teeters. They are committed both to highly experimental curation, much of it utterly noncommercial, and to a program of publication. The latter ensures that the Power Station has a permanent international record beyond the openings and programs organized in the space itself.

The largest and most ambitious private art space in Dallas, the Warehouse, came about more quickly. Its founders and major supporters, Cindy and Howard Rachofsky and Amy and Vernon Faulconer, realized that their respective collections were growing so rapidly, with the resulting large bills for storage and art handling, that they should combine to purchase a facility.

Contemporary art

After a search of a few months, they purchased a large warehouse near the Galleria Dallas in 2011. Its sheer scale made it possible for them to store their own collections, rent a good deal of space to a regional firm that stores and handles art, and also to create a contemporary museum-scale exhibition space. They hired a local architect, David Droese of Droese Raney Architecture, who designed a series of variously sized white, naturally lighted galleries that many visitors consider the single best space in North Texas to view contemporary art.

The gallery space itself is more than 18,000 square feet, larger by 4,000 than the largest temporary exhibition space in a Dallas museum. More than 8,000 square feet have been set aside for storage and an additional 3,500 square feet for offices, library, kitchen and meeting area. Unlike the Power Station, the Warehouse, which opened in 2012, is financed completely privately, without a foundation to act as a tax shelter for its owners.

This privacy creates the conditions for flexibility and autonomy. No one interferes. No one unwanted is admitted. No one complains about cost overruns or carps about the schedule. Like the Pinnells at the Power Station, the owners of the Warehouse consult regularly with a New York adviser, in this case, Allan Schwartzman.

The Warehouse draws the crème de la crème of the contemporary art scene. The day I spoke with Howard Rachofsky, a group of collectors from Germany had toured the space. The previous time I was there, Dallas collector Marguerite Hoffman had a London visitor in tow. More recently, the British sculptor Phyllida Barlow and her painter-writer husband, Fabian Peake, were given a private tour.

The only important private art space in Dallas that does not focus on contemporary art is the Ann and Gabriel Barbier-Mueller Museum of Samurai Art in Uptown. It’s a dramatically installed gallery designed by the architectural team of Harwood International, the company owned by the Barbier-Muellers. It’s fully staffed and open six days a week without an appointment. With no board of trustees or permanent advisers, this Samurai collection functions as the public extension of a family. Indeed, many of the elements of armor in the display were formerly shown in their home.

Smaller spaces

Some of the most interesting private spaces are small.

At the Reading Room, the highly intellectual art space conceived and curated by founder-director Karen Weiner, word-based art is exhibited and performed. Housed in a tiny one-room building on Parry Avenue across from the main entrance to Fair Park, it opened in 2010 and has nurtured a growing text-based art scene in Dallas with more than 60 curated exhibitions, readings and performances.

Its newer neighbor, the Wilcox Space, is housed in the former home and studio of John Wilcox, one of the most distinguished abstract painters in Dallas. He died in 2012. Redesigned by Cunningham Architects, the space features regular curated exhibitions of his work and is owned and maintained by his younger brother, David. It is open by appointment only.

More to come

More private art spaces are on the way in the Dallas Design District.

One, the Karpidas Space, has recently completed renovation of a building. The London collector Pauline Karpidas and her Dallas-based son and daughter-in-law are behind it. The Karpidas Collection of Contemporary Art is so important globally that this opening is keenly anticipated.

Another, called Site131, is being built by the mother-son team of Joan and Seth Davidow in a restored warehouse on Payne Street. It’s programming will pair local contemporary artists with national and international figures.

Dallas trendsetter Capera Ryan has purchased a warehouse at 171 Oak Lawn and is exploring many options for independently curated installations of art.

Ten years ago, none of these private art spaces existed, and with their extraordinary fluorescence, Dallas will soon rival Miami, where the private art spaces movement first took off in the United States.

With shorter planning cycles, greater freedom of expression and almost libertarian license to do what their owners want, these spaces seem as freewheeling as Texas itself. They have done as much as the local art museums to create the conditions for an informed, arts-oriented public.

Let’s hope that this arena of the art world remains as vital as it has been in the last decade.

Rick Brettell is founding director of the Edith O’Donnell Institute of Art History at the University of Texas at Dallas. He is a former director of the Dallas Museum of Art.

 

Plan your life

Goss-Michael Foundation, 1405 Turtle Creek Blvd.

Hours: 10 a.m.-4 p.m. weekdays. 214-696-0555. g-mf.org.

The Power Station, 3816 Commerce St.

Hours: 1-5 p.m. Fridays and by appointment. 214-827-0163. powerstationdallas.com.

The Warehouse, 14105 Inwood Road. By appointment; see thewarehousedallas.org for details.

The Ann and Gabriel Barbier-Mueller Museum, the Samurai Collection, 2501 N. Harwood St. (St. Ann’s Restaurant in the old St. Ann’s School).

Hours: 11 a.m.-8 p.m. Tuesdays

11 a.m.-6 p.m. Wednesdays-Saturdays

11 a.m.-5 p.m. Sundays. 214-965-1032. samuraicollection.org.

The Reading Room, 3715 Parry Ave. By appointment. thereadingroom-dallas.blogspot.com.

The Wilcox Space, 824 Exposition Ave., No. 9.

By appointment. johnwilcoxart.com.

Karpidas Space, 1532 Hi Line Drive. Not yet open; no website.

Site131, 131 Payne St. Not yet open; no website.

171 Oak Lawn. Open only for events; no website.

photos

 

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Art • May, 22 2014 • By staff
Dallas Rising: Contemporary Art in the Texan Metropolis
With the closing of the most successful iteration of the Dallas Art Fair behind us, Dallas has established itself as one of the U.S.’s most important art cities. Join us as we take a closer look at the city’s resurgence.

Dallas is currently undergoing a cultural renaissance thanks to the reemergence of a vibrant, diverse and spontaneous art scene. Traditionally, Texas has had a rich artistic history thanks in part to the city of Austin and perhaps most famously to Donald Judd and his development of a minimalistic Marfa utopia.

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The city in the high desert of West Texas became the artistic center of Texas during the mid to late 1970s following a collaboration between Judd and the Dia Foundation that saw the decommissioned Fort DA Russell transformed into art spaces designed to present individual artist’s collections permanently. Judd had become disillusioned by the short duration of museum exhibitions, seeing these restrictions as a major stumbling block to fully understanding the work of the artist on view. Thanks to the commitment of the both the Judd and Chinati foundations, the city continues to serve as a site for artistic experimentation. Current attractions include Prada Marfa, a popup art exhibit, the Lannan Foundation Writers Residency Program and a multifunctional art space dubbed, “Ballroom Marfa.”

Alongside Marfa, Austin has also functioned as an artistic beacon in Texas. The city is home to the University of Texas, Austin’s Blanton Museum of Art – one of the largest university museums in the United States – and since 1987 has hosted South by Southwest. The festival has since developed into Austin’s cultural draw through its focus on music, film and interactive media. As a result, attendance has grown significantly and it now regularly draws crowds of over 20,000 people each March.

Bearing in mind the size, location and stature of Marfa and Austin, Dallas is still the largest economic center in Texas. What remains most interesting about the situation is that despite the economic importance of Dallas, the artistic and cultural success of both Marfa and Austin has meant that Dallas has never been so remarkably spoken about when it comes to the arts.

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However, this is beginning to change. As it’s happened the world over – in New York’s Meatpacking District, Miami’s Wynwood, Cape Town’s Woodstock and London’s Hoxton – artists have become the catalyst for the revitalization of dilapidated and derelict neighborhoods that have fallen prey to recent economic and industrial failures. The nature of these forgotten industrial areas allows artists to find large spaces for greatly reduced prices and they’re ultimately able to execute projects that wouldn’t be viable in highly commercialized downtown areas, resulting in radically transformed neighborhoods which often become frequented tourist attractions.

It’s this exciting process of redevelopment that Dallas finds itself currently undergoing. With the establishment and subsequent expansion of the Dallas Art Fair, the renovation and repositioning of the Joule Hotel as Dallas’ very own art boutique hotel, the reemergence of the reputable Dallas Contemporary, and a group of passionate artists and collectors, the city now has all the makings of a major artistic city.

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Around since 1978, Dallas Contemporary is busy enjoying a reinvigoration and currently hosts a Richard Phillips retrospective alongside Julian Schnabel’s first U.S. museum presentation since the ’80s. These two high-profile exhibitions only serve to further reinforce the institution’s reestablishment as a major artistic venue for contemporary art. The Richard Phillips retrospective, which also happens to be his first U.S. solo museum survey, brings together both new and past work that highlight his career long exploration of themes of political and social identity, eroticized desire and consumerism. Meanwhile, Julian Schnabel’s presentation of 15 monumental paintings created over the last decade highlight a sense of cinematic intuition inspired by his work as a filmmaker.

Most importantly though, is that both these exhibitions indicate the ability of Dallas Contemporary to present highly reputable and respected contemporary art exhibitions. The fact that both artists were willing to participate is an important indication of their recognition of Dallas as a major art city.

Alongside Dallas Contemporary, the repositioning of Dallas as a cultural/artistic capital has been driven in part by the renovation of Joule Hotel. The $78 million dollar renovation saw the hotel completely overhauled and remodeled into a boutique art hotel, now housing the collection of hotel owner Tim Headington. The hotel has revitalized downtown Dallas and has become a must-visit for all art fair goers. WMagazine has described the hotel as “Texas charm meets artworld panache,” and the hotel’s commitment to the arts in Dallas is epitomized by their hosting of The Eyeball, an annual culminating gala celebrating Dallas Art Week.

“Dallas collectors are renowned for being especially collaborative in nature, buying a piece of art together and rotating it between collections, or pooling money to buy a work for a museum.”

As the art world continues to shift its attention from galleries and museums to the craze of the art fair calendar, every major city is now required to present their own iteration in order to stay relevant. Dallas is no different. For 6 years now, the city has presented the Dallas Art Fair for a week in April. In that short time the fair has experienced an increasing amount of growth and expansion, similar to fairs in New York and Miami, a fact highlighted by Interview Magazine. As a result of its ever-increasing popularity, the fair has grown to host over 90 national and international galleries including staples like James Fuentes, OHWOW and Jonathan Viner.

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Nowhere else is this transformation more visible than in Dallas’ Deep Ellum neighborhood. Formerly an industrial area home to one of Henry Ford’s earliest automobile plants, Deep Ellum has blossomed into a physical manifestation of the successful growth of cultural Dallas. Left abandoned and desolate for years, most of the real estate was gobbled up by developer Scott Ruhrman, who has set about transforming the area into one of the most visited artistic hubs within the city. The large amounts of space combined with his commitment and financial investment, and that of others, has allowed the neighborhood to develop into a home for some of the city’s most exciting young artists and curators.

Consequently, the area has become a source for artistic experimentation due to the willingness of people like Ruhrman to support these endeavors. The neighborhood has now become Dallas’ very own artistic tourist destination thanks to its redevelopment through various cultural programs, such as “Deep Ellum Windows,” an ephemeral pop up installation series, celebrating the temporality of the viewing experience alongside a wide array of vibrant street art murals.

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Furthermore, one cannot discount the role of collectors in helping reposition the city. Collectors, along with artists, have been at the forefront of neighborhood and institutional revitalization. Their involvement has emphasized the collaborative nature of the Dallas renaissance. This is a sentiment shared by Alden Pinell, a skincare tycoon, art collector and the artistic director of The Power Station, a conceptually explorative exhibition space in downtown Dallas. “Dallas collectors are renowned for being especially collaborative in nature, buying a piece of art together and rotating it between collections, or pooling money to buy a work for a museum,” he lets on. Such involvement in the local art scene is an indication of the shared passion necessary for progressive development of the city’s arts and culture.

Most intriguing about the emergence of Dallas as a cultural capital is how involved the people of Dallas are in the process. Whether it be local artists, collectors, real estate developers or just the general viewing audience, this is a project driven by people who love their city. It remains to be seen how long the rise lasts, but for now, with a stream of media interest and a large group of passionate supporters, Dallas truly is the toast of Texas.

Written by Houghton Kinsman for Highsnobiety.com

 

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Unpacking the Dallas Scene’s Disproportionate Art World Influence

The Coasts may often scoff at Dallas’s higher-the-hair attitude, labeling its tendencies as money-flashing at its most conspicuous. But, against those odds, the city has recently become an American arts destination—and one that looks fresher and more fortified than many of the culture capitals flanking Ol’ Glory’s oceans.

That’s not to say Dallas is a stranger to contemporary art. Insiders have long whispered about its red-hot market, well-funded institutions, and surreptitious yet far-reaching influence. A triumvirate of Dallas collectors were, for many years, the only names associated with the city: the Rachofskys, the Roses, and the Hoffmans. But, while Howard and Cindy, Deedie and Rusty, and Marguerite (continuing on without her late husband, Robert) are still crucial to the scene—Gutai would never have known the Guggenheim, nor Sigmar Polke the MoMA, nor even Gerhard Richter his soaring prices without them—the art world in the Big D has grown so substantially in recent years, it needn’t rely just on its Big Three.

“What seems unusual about the collectors in Dallas is that they work together as one group to make the Dallas art scene a better place,” says Kenny Goss, a mega-force in the communal collecting collective, who spearheads MTV Re:Define, a charitable arts-and-music endeavor that, now in its third year, is a crucial component to what’s now referred to as Dallas Arts Week, an intermingling of arts events, which sum up the city’s scene. There’s the seventh edition of the Dallas Art Fair, which hosts 90 international and local galleries and a slew of philanthropic galas, plus exhibitions timed to be unveiled synchronously at the city’s premiere institutions. The short-list of those includes the Dallas Museum of Art (DMA), the Nasher Sculpture Center, Southern Methodist University (SMU)’s Meadows Museum, and Dallas Contemporary.

At the helm of the DMA stands much-discussed director Maxwell Anderson, a Harvard scholar with a flair for retooling how a museum is managed (something which has run him into trouble and out of New York; though his successes in Dallas have certainly quieted the haters). He notes that “Dallas is very fortunate to have such a concentration of arts institutions and arts talent, and any city would be grateful for a comparable pool of organizations and people.”  Beyond the museum walls, there are the private foundations. Forget not that Dallas is a town where philanthropy is sport, and arts patronage is deeply ingrained within the upper echelons of society. Deedie Rose oversees The Pump House, a converted water station housing her acquisitions that opens up for social soirees. Howard Rachofsky created The Warehouse for the public display of his over 9,000-work-strong collection of Arte Povera, Gutai, and Minimalism. And younger collector Alden Pinnell has his Power Station, a contemporary outpost for edgier artists.

“We’re beginning to see collaboration between foundations and institutions,” continues Goss. “For example, we’re bringing Michael Craig-Martin to Dallas and working with various public and private institutions and the city of Dallas to exhibit his work in unique sites through the year.”  The overlap is partnership on all sides. Chris Byrne, who co-founded the Dallas Art Fair, adds: “Its impossible not to acknowledge the Dallas patrons and institutions that made the fair possible. We are fortunate to have the Ei Arakawa performance at the DMA, the Power Station’s reception for Jos de Gruyter & Harald Thys, as well as Dallas Contemporary’s opening of David Salle and Nate Lowman.”

“Melvin Edwards: Five Decades” at the Nasher Sculpture Center. Courtesy Nasher Sculpture Center.

In fact, one thing remarked upon by any arts professional working in the Dallas-Fort Worth area is this jointed relationship. Christen Wilson, who along with her husband Derek sits on the DMA and Nasher boards, the International Council of the Tate Modern, and the Met’s Costume Institute, represents this younger wave of Dallas collectors. “Dallas is friendly and caring about their community,” she says. “The older generation of collectors actively mentors the younger generation of collectors.  It gives us all a pass-it-on kind of a feeling.” The weaving of patronage and institutional support certainly is the backbone of what has catapulted Dallas into the national consciousness. “We actually have fun here and it is not a competition,” continues Wilson, remarking on a quality readily identified as making Dallas unique. However, the city’s art scene doesn’t begin and end with the robust funnel between patron’s pockets and the museum’s walls.

Any thriving art scene needs one thing to be considered a scene: artists. Dallas may not be Miami or Detroit, where the derelict urban landscapes breed cheap rents and endless experimentation, but it does have a supportive art gallery system, as well as independently working artists and those within residencies, such as CentralTrak, the University of Texas’s consistently excellent program. “People are pretty savvy,” explains Barry Whistler, who for 20 years or so lead the development of the Deep Ellum neighborhood as Dallas’s unofficial gallery district (not to be confused with the city-funded Dallas Arts District, wherein the museums are housed.) “There’s a sophistication level that gets our artists shown here and in places out there. There’s an undercurrent, too, that can link the city to Marfa and Donald Judd.” says Whistler, whose own roster is a mix of Dallas-based artists and others who live on the coasts. With stalwarts like Conduit Gallery and Talley Dunn—who represents local art star David Bates and rising one Jeff Elrod—and alluring project spaces like The Reading Room and The Public Trust, “major dealers around the world began to come to Dallas to both investigate what’s happening here but also to engage in our community seeking exhibition opportunities for their own artists,” chimes in Goss.

It’s not just the galleries promoting local talent. Artists, too, have created their own collectives with project spaces, such as BEEFHAUS, Homeland Security, and Vice Palace, a space created by Arthur Peña, who as the Dallas Observer dubbed “easily runs some of the best shows in Dallas.” Whistler adds, “there’s been an interesting trend of artists coming in and renting a space for, say, two weeks,” citing the star of his own roster, Nathan Green, as being instrumental in the artist community—he is part of the collective Okay Mountain—especially in the neighborhood Trinity Grove, where he shares a studio with four other artists.

It’s also not solely on the creative side that artists are championing each other. When Oliver Francis Gallery (OFG.XXX) relaunched in Deep Ellum, it billed itself as a bit of an enfant terrible of the independent art spaces. Kevin Rubén Jacobs, who overlords the project, touts a distinctly Dallas-Fort Worth-based artist regime, and has ignited and elevated the critical conversation. Another leading local, Michael Mazurek, spearheads the artist-driven and non-profit Dallas Biennial, which for DB14, held last year, hosted a four-month program in over 12 venues across the city. “Don’t forget that this town has grown because we have all worked together,” urges Wilson. “As museums, curators and private project spaces have all increased and improved through private and city investments, the artists coming to show are more acclaimed and have international followings, that has led to an increased base of collectors in Dallas. That in turn has brought more gallery interest. This all feeds on itself.”

Julie Baumgardner

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W MAGAZINE

JUNE 2014

Culture » Art & Design » Dallas Buyers Club

Dallas Buyers Club
Art patrons Cindy and Howard Rachofsky and Amy and Vernon Faulconer are overwhelmed by Tom Friedman’s Untitled, 2003, inside the Warehouse.

Dallas Buyers Club

Two Texas supercollectors join forces and open the Warehouse.

At a time when the most highly prized trophy in the art world is a private museum with your name on it, the latest undertaking by two Texas collectors, Howard Rachofsky and Vernon Faulconer, seems downright modest. Together, they have transformed an 18,000-square-foot -furniture-storage facility in their hometown, Dallas, into a gallery showcasing works from their individual collections as well as those bought jointly with fellow Dallas Museum of Art trustees—but neither of their names appears on the facade. “It’s a yours, mine, and ours collection,” Rachofsky says of the space, which is called, simply, the Warehouse.There are about 1,000 pieces in the Warehouse’s collection, displayed on a rotating basis in thematic shows. In addition to the exhibition space, the 60,000-square-foot building houses a library and an education-program area. The pair leases part of the space to an art-handling company so that, Rachofsky explains, “I can say, ‘We need to hang a work—can you send two guys over?’ ”The idea for the Warehouse came to Rachofsky, a former hedge fund manager, about four years ago, by which time he and his close friend Faulconer, an oil entrepreneur, had jointly purchased several major pieces. After concluding that Faulconer owned works too large-scale for his homes and that Rachofsky and his wife, Cindy, owned too many to fit inside their Richard Meier–designed house, they decided to find a place where their stored treasures could see the light of day and that would be welcoming to the public. “Verne’s is a buy-what-you-like collection,” says Rachofsky, who owns the bulk of the Warehouse’s offerings. “Mine is more purposeful. Verne said to me, ‘Ah, heck, this is a great deal for me because I get to come and look at all the art, and you’ve paid for it.’”Rachofsky began collecting in 1972—first, prints by Joan Miró, Alexander Calder, and Pablo Picasso; then works by American masters like Helen Frankenthaler and Donald Judd. Eventually he moved on to the postwar Japanese and Italian movements, and started developing an interest in younger artists. In June 2008, he and his wife sold Jeff Koons’s 1995–2000 sculpture Balloon Flower (Magenta) at auction for $25.8 million to buy a group of 1982 Sigmar Polke paintings, currently on view at the Warehouse. They are part of an exhibition in rooms dedicated to single artists, including Marlene Dumas and Gerhard Richter. Last summer, Rachofsky and Faulconer purchased the largest sculpture from Koons’s recent Gazing Ball series of white plaster figures with blue glass globes that, following its loan to the Koons retrospective opening this month at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York, will take up residence in the Warehouse.

At the moment, one of the duo’s favorite pieces is Tom Friedman’s Untitled, 2003, co-owned by the Rachofskys and the Dallas Museum of Art, where the collection will ultimately land. “I think of it as Little Big Man,” Rachofsky says. “It’s so strong that it’s the only work in the room.” Made of Styrofoam, “it weighs almost nothing, yet it has great presence. It was an instant love affair.”

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Private Art Collections Creating Greater Influence in the Art World

Derek and Christen Wilson Install Private Collection

Derek and Christen Wilson Art Collection

Dallas Architecture Blog celebrates the art of architecture and place. This post celebrates the impact of private art collections in architecturally significant homes. Private collectors are nimbler in their collecting and their collections rapidly generate thought and momentum for specific art and artists.

Museums Judiciously and Carefully Acquire Art

Richard Meier Designed Modern Home

Museums judiciously acquire work through the eyes of the museum director and staff, with the approval of the acquisitions committee and the board of trustees. Art chosen by this process is very thorough and heavily juried by the art directors and associate directors who have the highest academic credentials and museum experience, and then by art patrons that make up the acquisition committee followed by the art and business judgment of the board of trustees. With board approval, funds might be drawn from a museum endowment for the acquisition or a development campaign might begin for a specific painting. Even donations of art to a museum have to go through this process for approval. This ponderous process builds great museums that traditionally have shaped how a community views art.

Derek and Christen Wilson Art Collection

The Nimbler Approach of Private Collectors, Like Derek and Christen Wilson, Have an Increasing Influence on the Direction of Art

Derek and Christen Wilson Art Collection

It should be noted that private art collections are hardly a product of an underground or guerilla art movement. Prominent private collectors are often very involved in the leadership of art museums. For instance, collectors Derek and Christen Wilson, when they make acquisitions for their personal collection displayed in their Highland Park home, are able to seek, if they desire, the counsel of their vast resource of museum curators, art consultants, and gallery owners because they enjoy leadership roles at the Dallas Museum of Art, the Nasher Sculpture Center, and the Tate Museum. But ultimately a personal collection is just that, a personal decision that reflects the collector’s taste. Some pieces might be acquired after having followed and studied the artist for years, while other acquisitions might be informed but quite spontaneous. The collection grows and the collector’s eye sharpens.

Derek and Christen Wilson Art Collection

Private collections, like the one in Derek and Christen Wilson’s Old Highland Park home, are viewed by other collectors, museum directors, and curators from across the city, the country, and the world as they visit the collector’s home and see their art. This dynamic creates a great cross-pollination of ideas, views, and further introduction to artists’ works. These private visits not only influence other personal collections but they influence the eventual acquisitions of the museums with which these visitors are involved.

Dallas Art Collectors are Generous With Their Collections

Scott Lyons Designed Texas Modern Home

Private art collectors, such as Margaret McDermott and her late husband, Eugene, have always been generous with their art, loaning it to museums and opening their home to those interested in art from Dallas and from around the world.

Howard and Cindy Rachofsky generously open their Richard Meier-designed home to the public to see their rotating, dynamic collection of modern art.

Richard Meier Designed Modern Home

The collection of Marguerite and the late Robert Hoffman is viewed by prominent collectors from around the world in the residential gallery designed by architect Bill Booziotis.

Architect Bill Booziotis Designed Home in Preston Hollow

Deedie and Rusty Rose display significant art in their Antoine Predock-designed home and in their adjacent pump house, renovated by architect Gary Cunningham, that provides space for exhibitions and art events.

Antoine Predock-designed home

The McDermotts, the Roses, the Hoffmans, and the Rachofskys have also made unprecedented bequests of their collections to the Dallas Art Museum furthering how art will be viewed and interpreted over the next century.

Art Evolves as Does the Dynamic That Influences Art

Dallas collectors generously share their personal collections with the community. Now private collectors are able to continue to show their art in their homes through private visits, but now they’re also able to share their art collections through the Internet and Social Media.

Art Collection of Derek and Christen Wilson

Here you’re able to see some of the additions to the collection of Derek and Christen Wilson in a recent installation in their Highland Park modern home.

Derek and Christen Wilson Art CollectionDerek and Christen Wilson Art CollectionDerek and Christen Wilson Art CollectionDerek and Christen Wilson Art Collection

John and Lisa Runyon at home in Dallas with Richard Phillips’s Mask, 1995.

Dallas

Once known for J.R. Ewing, a football team and an assassination, the Texas city is now—thanks to a civic-minded group of philanthropists—a bona fide arts destination. Meet the lone stars behind the Dallas cultural boom.

Dallas: Who's Behind the Arts Boom? -

Kenny Goss at home with, from left, Tim Noble and Sue Webster’s Excessive Sensual Indulgence, 1996, and Nigel Cooke’s Experience, 2009.

Dallas: Who's Behind the Arts Boom? -

Howard and Cindy Rachofsky in front of Richard Meier’s 1996 Rachofsky House.

Dallas: Who's Behind the Arts Boom? -

Marguerite Hoffman at home with Andy Warhol’s Little Electric Chair

 

It’s a bright spring morning in Dallas, and Deedie Rose, a stylish, sixtysomething philanthropist, has just emerged from her red vintage BMW in front of the AT&T Performing Arts Center. Composed of an opera house and a theater—designed by Lord Norman Foster and Rem Koolhaas, respectively—the center opened last October with a series of splashy galas and an open house that attracted tens of thousands. Today, Rose, who is considered by many to be a fairy godmother of the Dallas arts scene, having chaired the architectural committee that selected Koolhaas and enthusiastically drummed up financial support for the project from fellow members of her posh social circle, is bubbling over with facts and anecdotes as she leads a tour of the aluminum-clad theater. Rose relates how 135 families each gave $1 million or more to the endeavor—and not all of them are the type to quote Shakespeare or swoon over an aria. “Really, most of our money came from people who were not traditional performing arts supporters,” says Rose, whose husband, Rusty, once owned the Texas Rangers baseball team with George W. Bush. “There were people who said, ‘Don’t ever make me go to the opera because I’m never gonna go, but I’ll give you the money.’”That kind of thinking would be unusual in most American cities where, for example, major individual donors to New York City Ballet generally, well, enjoy ballet. But in Dallas these days, it’s civic pride as much as personal passion that’s driving cultural philanthropy—and judging by the Big D’s current arts boom, Dallasites have plenty of pride in their hometown. In less than a decade, the city has created, as if from scratch, one of the country’s most dynamic arts scenes. Since the 2003 opening of the Nasher Sculpture Center in an elegant Renzo Piano pavilion, a $1.2 billion contemporary art–filled Cowboys Stadium made its debut; and three local families—the Roses, along with Howard and Cindy Rachofsky and Robert and Marguerite Hoffman—pledged their entire collections, reportedly valued at $215 million, to the Dallas Museum of Art, setting the regional museum on the fast track to national stature. While local philanthropists seem split on whether to invest in content, as at the DMA, or trophy facades, they are united in the belief that the arts are worth paying for. Indeed, one way to look at the boom is through the prism of the so-called Bilbao effect, in which investment in an arts institution catalyzes a citywide revival. Played out on the larger Texas stage, the strategy might instead be called the Dallas ambition—an intent to build a complete cultural identity by funding a whole slate of projects.Of course, there are limits to the rush to culture. In early 2009 Dallas Opera general director George Steel, freshly arrived from New York, bolted town after only four months for a post at New York City Opera. And no amount of money can compete with weighty reputations accrued over decades—such as at the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth or Houston’s Menil Collection. Still, Dallas has many of the fundamentals in place. The three families’ 2005 gift to the DMA, selections of which were first exhibited in the aptly named 2007 exhibition “Fast Forward,” has both the breadth and depth (five Robert Rymans, for instance) to form the core of an important permanent collection.

Jennifer Eagle, whose husband, John, is president of the museum’s board, contrasts the donation with what she has seen in cities such as Miami, where the Rubell, de la Cruz and other families have founded their own mini museums. “Here, everyone is building our one museum,” she gushes. “It’s a beautiful thing.”

When asked to describe the thought process that went into giving it all away, Cindy Rachofsky says the story is so brief that it might be disappointing. It begins in the Napa Valley, where the Hoffmans and the Rachofskys always spend New Year’s Eve together. “We were there sitting by the fire, drinking great wine, and Robert looks at us and says, ‘Would you ever consider donating your collection to the museum?’” recalls Cindy. “We said, ‘Absolutely.’ It was as simple as that. There was no background.”

Later that evening, Howard, a retired hedge fund manager, announced that he also wanted to throw in their 1996 Richard Meier–designed house on acres of lawn dotted with sculptures. When the two couples told Deedie their plan, she signed on too. Cindy jokingly describes the scene as a “kumbaya” moment, while Howard concedes that the decision appears almost impulsive. But looking back he says he’s satisfied that it was “unequivocally the right thing to do.”

“It’s collaboration,” adds Howard, who has a showman’s charisma and often includes purple in his elegantly offbeat attire. “It’s working together to accomplish something that individually you couldn’t do as well.”

This collaborative spirit was forged as early as 2002, when the Rachofskys and the Hoffmans made the unconventional move of jointly buying a Gerhard Richter with the museum. “I call it our time-share,” says Marguerite, who with her late husband, a Coca-Cola bottling magnate, amassed a collection of luminous paintings (Diebenkorn, Twombly, Doig) and major sculptures (Judd, Whiteread, Gober). “It was expensive, but we really needed it here in Dallas.”

The Richter now hangs in Marguerite’s bedroom (the museum has first dibs), while a Gabriel Orozco currently installed chez Rachofsky is partially owned by the Roses. “We both have too much stuff,” says Deedie, who lives in a monumental modernist bunker by Antoine Predock that is stuffed with richly textural works by Robert Ryman, Piero Manzoni, Sol LeWitt and Gordon Matta-Clark. “Neither one of us can show everything that we’ve got; therefore we buy together,” she continues. “Sometimes we’ll get a piece that’s more expensive than what I might buy or he might buy alone. We’ll say, ‘Let’s pool our resources.’”

Deedie, who also serves as chairwoman of the DMA, has her hand in arts organizations all over town, but the true spiritual leader of Dallas cultural philanthropy is 98-year-old Margaret McDermott. Together with her late husband, Texas Instruments cofounder Eugene McDermott, she established an art-buying fund in 1960, and over the years Mrs. McDermott, as she is universally known, has dipped into it to pay for major gifts across nearly every

curatorial department of the DMA. To say that she remains active is an understatement. She flies to New York with museum curators to inspect works for purchase, communicates her expectations to board members (“When I took my job, she called me over to her chair, and said, ‘I want you to know who the boss is,’” John Eagle recalls with a smile) and insists that at the institution’s annual Art Ball fundraiser, the evening’s gala chair escort her through the galleries to preview new exhibitions.

“Of course, you’re running around like your hair’s on fire, but when Mrs. McDermott arrives, you have to stop whatever else you’re doing,” says former Houstonite Suzanne Droese, who now lives in Dallas with her architect husband, David. Suzanne is a worker bee on the young charity circuit, having chaired both the Art Ball and the equally glitzy Cattle Baron’s Ball. (This fall she will cochair the annual Two x Two benefit at the Rachofskys’ house, which will feature a well-stocked art auction—last year’s boasted a rare Marlene Dumas painting—and in its 11-year history has raised $25 million for amfAR and the DMA.)

The Dallas art scene’s junior crowd also includes art dealer John Runyon and his wife, Lisa, who, like Suzanne Droese, is doing what’s expected in this social setting—she’s chairing next year’s Art Ball. Elsewhere around town the most shocking art belongs to Kenny Goss, a Texas native, who, with his partner, George Michael—yes, that George Michael—collects once Young British Artists such as Tracey Emin, Damien Hirst and the Chapman brothers. At the moment the loudest “Have you seen it?” buzz surrounds an art-filled Philip Johnson mansion lavishly restored by Naomi Aberly, the most prominent Obama supporter in a community of rock-ribbed Republicans, and her husband, Larry Lebowitz, a hedge fund manager. And in the same swanky Preston Hollow neighborhood, the Eagles reside in a flat-roofed tropical-style villa designed by noted modernist architect Edward Durell Stone and hung with works by Elizabeth Peyton, Mark Bradford and Sigmar Polke—the last of which they share, yes, with the Rachofskys.

Though not a serious collector, Lucy Billingsley, a tough-minded, second-generation real-estate developer, has made her own substantial investment in the Arts District with One Arts Plaza, the first major new building erected downtown since the real-estate crash of the late Eighties. (It houses 61 condos, along with trendy restaurants and the corporate headquarters of 7-Eleven.) Billingsley, by her reckoning, is a fifth-generation Texan, and she counts her late father, Trammell Crow, as one of the outsize, almost heroic figures who threw their energies into building downtown after WWII, at a time when, she says, Dallas was an insignificant place where “two railroads crossed.”

“You talk about bravado? He had a huge spirit,” says Billingsley, who is no shrinking violet herself. “That is the essence of a Texan, right?”

Crow erected some of the marquee glass towers that today define the Dallas skyline, and a small museum near the DMA is devoted to his Asian art collection. He also helped fund the city’s most idiosyncratic public artwork: a life-size herd of cast bronze longhorn steers that the contemporary crowd seems to find an embarrassing reminder of old Dallas.

Today’s town boosters would rather highlight the Koolhaas and Foster buildings, which are named for the Wyly and Winspear families, respectively. Businessman Bill Winspear and his wife, Margot, gave $42 million to the opera house—one of the largest donations ever to an opera company. And mild-mannered entrepreneur Charles Wyly and his wife, Dee, wrote a $20 million check for the theater. In the eyes of one conservative Dallas stalwart, Koolhaas’s techno tower appears to be half finished at best. “Some might say that,” Deedie Rose fires back. “And what I’d say is that the play is what finishes it. It’s a machine for theater.”

With the performing arts center well on its way to completion, the focus has shifted to creating Woodall Rodgers park, which will span the freeway separating the Arts District from uptown. On the far side of the green space, the Perot Museum of Nature & Science—paid for in part by a large gift from Ross Perot’s family and designed by edgy Pritzker Prize–winner Thom Mayne—is scheduled to open in 2013. (Mayne will be the latest in a string of Pritzker laureates to build in Dallas, after Foster, Koolhaas, Piano, Johnson—whose oversize postmodern whimsies were popular during the punch-drunk days of the early-Eighties energy boom—and I.M. Pei.) And on the west side of town, work has begun on a pair of bridges designed by Santiago Calatrava. Again, the project is supported partly by private fundraising, which also draws heavily on corporations headquartered in the region, including AT&T, American Airlines, ExxonMobil and numerous financial companies that service the state’s oil and gas industry.

“It’s been a shock to some executives who have moved their companies here,” says Charles Wyly. “They have been floored by what they are asked to do. We have pretty high expectations for our leaders.”

Even the Dallas Cowboys have caught the culture bug. Out at the new stadium, team owner Jerry Jones and his wife, Gene—he’s as tough as Patton; she’s a Chanel-clad steel magnolia—made room for a serious public arts program. “We have nothing contemporary in our home, nothing,” says Gene, noting that her taste in decor runs toward Mediterranean, while her husband’s private, sports-theme art collection includes Norman Rockwell’s The Toss. “But anyone will tell you that a great home should have great art, and though this stadium isn’t our home—it is. We wanted to make it a great building, and I felt like it needed great art. Not just posters of football and sports.”

Gene convened an advisory committee that included Howard Rachofsky and hired San Francisco–based art consultant Mary Zlot. Fourteen site-specific works were commissioned from such artists as Olafur Eliasson and Matthew Ritchie. The large public pieces are prominently installed—a 126-foot painting by Terry Haggerty hangs above a concession stand, and a Franz Ackermann mural explodes with color in a stairwell—while smaller works by Doug Aitken, Eva Rothschild and others hang in the lobby and VIP areas. Jerry points out that Cowboys home games get bigger television ratings than Dancing With the Stars and that the Dallas-hosted 2011 Super Bowl will be seen by more than a billion people, which amounts to massive exposure for highbrow culture. “If between plays, Al Michaels and John Madden are talking about the art and architecture here, well, that’s something you don’t get from a normal museum,” Jerry says.

As innovative as the stadium project is, it also has a clear precedent in Dallas. In the early Sixties, real-estate developer Ray Nasher built one of the country’s first enclosed shopping malls, NorthPark Center, in cotton fields north of town, and installed pieces from his private sculpture collection to add a bit of high-toned polish. “At the time people thought he had literally lost his mind,” says Jeremy Strick, director of the Nasher Sculpture Center. The success of the Nasher, which is widely recognized as one of the country’s premier sculpture gardens, was something of a breakthrough for the city’s psyche. For years Dallas engaged in sibling rivalries with Houston, which has strong cultural roots thanks in part to the de Menil family, and with nearby Fort Worth, which is practically run by the deep-pocketed and socially preeminent—some might say snooty—Bass family. “When the Nasher opened, the art world flocked to Dallas to see it,” recalls Deedie Rose. “It was such an exquisite building and collection. People came and said, ‘This isn’t the Dallas of the assassination.’”

Now, with the new performing arts center and Cowboys Stadium, locals speak of Dallas as the “third coast,” a top-drawer all-American city fast on the heels of New York and L.A.—and a legitimate equal of international business centers, too. “Our competition is Shanghai and Frankfurt,” says Mayor Tom Leppert, standing in front of Pei’s brutalist City Hall. “That’s the mind-set we need to have. And that’s part of what’s important about the performing arts center. It puts us on a world stage.”

Back in the leafy enclave of Preston Hollow, Howard and Cindy Rachofsky sit down for a glass of wine in their dazzling Richard Meier home, which looks like an all-white spaceship landed among the McMansions. The house had been designed as Howard’s bachelor pad—there’s only one bedroom but a spacious gym—and was under construction when he met Cindy in 1993. After the couple married a few years later, they moved into a slightly more livable house nearby, which included rooms for Cindy’s two children. Nonetheless, the Rachofskys are often at the Meier showplace—its official name in the architect’s oeuvre is the Rachofsky House—where they host events such as a recent brunch to celebrate the Cowboys Stadium arts program, a fascinating cultural exchange where the straggly, nicotine-stained artist Lawrence Weiner chatted with Gene Jones in the shadow of her gravity-defying bouffant.

Asked about big hair and the other stereotypes that define Dallas for the rest of the country, the Rachofskys shake their heads. “We always say that if we can just get people down here, we can prove them wrong,” says Cindy.

Howard points to an event that bruised the city’s ego and pushed it to start literally rebuilding its image. In 2001 Seattle aerospace giant Boeing had announced that it was searching for a new corporate headquarters and winnowed the options down to three: Dallas, Denver and Chicago. Despite offering generous tax deals to lure the company and its thousands of jobs, Dallas lost out to Chicago. In the aftermath one theory that emerged was that Chicago had won on the basis of its better quality of life, which included a much wider array of cultural offerings. “It raised awareness that if we want to be relevant, it’s going to take more than just having America’s football team or a special tax break for corporate relocations,” says Howard. “It’s going to take building a city where people want to live.”

In other words, all the big gifts—in the form of art, buildings, parks and bridges—are investments in the city’s civic pride and, so the argument goes, in its economic future. But will it work? Howard Rachofsky is certain of it. “In the next decade Dallas may be considered the China of the States,” he says, “an area whose better days are ahead.”

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NYTIMESThe New York Times

From left, Jack Lane, director of the Dallas Museum of Art, with its patrons – Deedie Rose, Cindy and Howard Rachofsky and Marguerite Hoffman. They donated about 900 contemporary artworks valued at more than $300 million.


March 28, 2007
Philanthropy

When Serious Collectors Band Together

WHILE established museums are struggling with a drop in the philanthropy that has long helped to build their collections, a recent bequest to the Dallas Museum of Art stands out as a model of generosity.

The catalyst behind this gift — a joint contribution of 900 artworks, valued at more than $300 million and promised by local collectors — is Jack Lane, the museum’s director, who came to town with a history of building community support for the museums he has run.

At the opening in February of “Fast Forward: Contemporary Collections for the Dallas Museum of Art,” the collectors — Marguerite Hoffman, Cindy and Howard Rachofsky and Deedie Rose — addressed American and European art dealers and collectors about their promises to donate their collections, including works they buy in the future, to the museum. All three cited Mr. Lane’s infectious love of art, his leadership and his ties to the contemporary art world for galvanizing their support.

“If a director has a special interest,” Mr. Rachofsky said in an interview, “that’s where the funding gravitates.” Mr. Lane “was the glue,” he said, “that encouraged us to act together.”

Mr. Lane’s involvement with the museum, which is known for its encyclopedic collection, began in the spring of 1998, when he received a call from Ms. Rose, a trustee who was leading a search for a new director. Ms. Rose was familiar with Mr. Lane’s previous directorships of the Carnegie Museum in Pittsburgh and the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, which he had helped transform at pivotal moments in their history. He sensed an opportunity in Dallas. “Some great contemporary art collections were being formed there,” he said.

Still, while sophisticated in their tastes and purchases, the Dallas collectors tended to operate independently. “I’d been collecting on some level since the late 1970s,” Mr. Rachofsky said. “Not necessarily with a strong relationship with the museum, because the Dallas Museum of Art didn’t have a strong contemporary art program.”

Ms. Hoffman agreed, adding that before Mr. Lane’s arrival, the museum “had a fairly scattershot approach to collecting contemporary art” and that “there was no master plan, and there were no funds available. We were missing a whole generation of artists.”

Mr. Lane, whose résumé includes a degree from Williams College, a doctorate in art history from Harvard, an M.B.A. from the University of Chicago and service as a Navy lieutenant in Vietnam, arrived at the museum in February 1999 and began rallying support among Dallas collectors. After acquiring a complete set of multiples by Gerhard Richter, for example, Mr. Lane oversaw a retrospective of the artist’s work, exhibiting 20 of his paintings borrowed from collectors in the area.

Mr. Lane also appealed to the collectors’ pride, encouraging them to examine the history of other encyclopedic museums like the Art Institute of Chicago, whose extraordinary collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings, he said, resulted from bequests made in the late-19th and early-20th centuries, when “those artists were still considered contemporary.” If the Dallas collectors followed that example, he reasoned, the museum might one day “take its place among the great museums.”

Rumblings of a joint gift began on New Year’s Eve 2000, when Ms. Hoffman and her husband, Robert (who died in August), were sharing a bottle of wine with Mr. Rachofsky and his wife, Cindy, at a resort in the Napa Valley. To build support for a capital campaign honoring the museum’s centennial in 2003, the Hoffmans suggested that the two couples issue a challenge: if the campaign goal was met, they would make an irrevocable bequest of both their collections to the museum. The Rachofskys not only agreed, but offered to include their house, which was designed by Richard Meier. The two couples approached Ms. Rose and her husband, Rusty, who added their collection to the challenge.

But by the end of 2004, the campaign had not reached its goal. Mr. Lane said: “We needed to thank our donors and move on. So we decided to throw a party.” Several days before the event, in February 2005, Mr. Lane, who clearly had difficulty accepting defeat, called Ms. Rose, who handles the collection for the couple, and asked her to approach the Hoffmans about making their bequest anyway.

The Hoffmans agreed, provided that the Roses follow their lead. When the Roses agreed, the Hoffmans extended the request to the Rachofskys, who joined in.

“It was a truly transforming moment,” Mr. Lane said. “And it happened overnight.”

Well, not quite. Ms. Hoffman and Ms. Rose both cited Mr. Lane’s 2002 appointment of Bonnie Pitman as deputy director as one of his best decisions and a crucial ingredient in their generosity. “Collectors want their collections to be seen and appreciated,” Ms. Hoffman said.

“When Ms. Pitman first arrived,” Ms. Rose said, “she used to say, ‘You could roll a bowling ball through the concourse, and you wouldn’t hit anybody.’ That’s how few people were in the museum.” Ms. Pitman created programming tailored to increase visitors’ engagement with the art. Under her supervision, attendance has soared 42 percent, with a staggering 53 percent of visitors attending learning programs.

“Between Jack’s credibility in the international art world, and the partnership he and Bonnie have,” Ms. Hoffman said, “he’s been able to take the museum to the next level of distinction.” High attendance numbers, inevitably, brought the good will full circle.

The promised gift by the Hoffman, Rachofsky and Rose families will vastly expand the museum’s contemporary art holdings. “Fast Forward,” a temporary exhibition of 143 of the donated works, and visits to the collectors’ homes reveal a depth in Minimalism, Arte Povera and German painting. The art includes important works by Ellsworth Kelly and Philip Guston, a major 1990 installation featuring a rotating head by Bruce Nauman and a cluster of paintings by Mr. Richter and Sigmar Polke, namely one based on a clipping from a Dallas newspaper.

“I’m green with envy,” said Neal Benezra, the director of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, speaking by phone from his office. “It’s what every museum director dreams of, that his or her collectors will come together in this civic-minded way.”

The Dallas museum’s achievement is especially noteworthy given the slide in philanthropy and skyrocketing art prices, which together have left American museums struggling to keep their collections relevant. “U.S. art museums are highly dependent on the support of local collectors and trustees,” said Sir Nicholas Serota, the director of the Tate in London. To persuade collectors “to put the needs of the community over their own personal needs,” he said, “can be a tough call.”

Under Mr. Lane’s leadership, the Dallas collectors have begun consulting one another before making purchases and acquiring works for the museum jointly. In return for their cooperation, they have acquired top-notch artworks.

“Dealers always have a choice,” Sir Nicholas said. “They can sell major or less important work, depending. If they know a collector’s buying for a museum, then they’re more prepared to sell them a major work.” And collectors’ funds are typically more liquid than a museum’s acquisition funds, giving them an edge when buying works by sought-after artists.

Barbara Gladstone, a Manhattan dealer, said Mr. Lane’s persuasiveness was a great asset. “When he comes into a community,” she said, “he’s able to convince that community of the value of their museum as a part of their cultural life.”

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FD MAGAZINE

Young collectors to watch: The next Roses, Rachofskys and Hoffmans

Ask the average 30-something what his or her priorities are and inevitably it is clothes, cars, the house, the kids and vacation. But for these young marrieds, the musts include art. It is non-negotiable. Meet four couples who are building their collections — and why

by CHRISTINA GEYER / portraits by MEI-CHUN JAU

Lindsey and Patrick Collins

THE DAY JOBS  Patrick is in oil and gas and is president and CEO of Cortez Resources. The couple owns several businesses together, including one that buys minerals and royalties in Oklahoma.

THE FIRST PIECE  A Ryan McGinness painting. “After seeing the artist’s work a few times,” says Lindsey, “including a great drawing at MoMA, Patrick just picked up the phone and called the gallery one day, and a few weeks later we bought the painting.”

THE MOST VALUABLE PIECES  A video and installation by LA artist Dan Finsel and an armored 1993 Mercedes station wagon, part of a larger project by New York artist Jill Magid

WHY THEY COLLECT  At first, the collecting stemmed from “a general love of contemporary [art]and wanting to be more engaged with it,” Lindsey says, “to live with it and better understand it.” Their collecting has evolved. “We like the work to have a strong biographical quality,” says Patrick. “We want to know the artist is trying to express something personal, rather than just academic or stylistically skillful.”

HOW THEY DECIDE  “We both have to like the artist and the particular work,” says Patrick, “and then we have a long discussion about it before making an offer.” Says Lindsey: “I disagree totally with this answer! Patrick has purchased many works on his own that I ended up hating or loving. … If we had to totally agree on a work then we would never buy anything.”

WHAT DRIVES THEM  “We buy incredible work from artists who we love,” Lindsey says, “and that makes us happy.” Says Patrick: “We are still careful to make sure what we do buy is from respectable dealers and from artists with strong academic backgrounds. … It’s still important to know that the piece will at least hold its value, should you change your mind over the long run.”

FAVORITE ARTISTS  Dan Finsel, Tom Burr, Haroon Mirza and Jill Magid

MOST RECENT PIECE  A bronze work by Tom Burr and a white marble work by Pedro Reyes

THE HOLY GRAIL  “For Patrick,” says Lindsey, “it would be a Morris Louis Veil painting.”

WHY YOUNG PEOPLE SHOULD COLLECT  “You can enjoy plenty of art — visual art, music, theater, literature — without having to ‘own’ it,” Patrick says, “so it takes a very certain type of person to want to take this extra step. It’s important for the world to have collectors of visual art, because that’s what keeps artists making great work.” Says Lindsey: “It is a terrible idea for any young person with limited resources to think they will make any money from buying and selling art. You have to love what you buy from the start, and want to live with it. I guess you could consider it an investment in your mental health — to live with beautiful art.”

 

Lisa and Wayne Moore

THE DAY JOBS  Lisa is the co-founder and designer of the swimwear line Cover. Wayne is an equity investor at a hedge fund.

THE FIRST PIECE  A photograph by Christopher Bucklow

THE MOST VALUABLE PIECE  Roy by Chuck Close. “He is the most well-known artist in our collection,” says Lisa.

WHY THEY COLLECT  “We love the way it adds aspects of beauty, thought and feeling to the space we live in,” says Lisa.

HOW THEY DECIDE  They both have to love a piece before purchasing. “That,” say Lisa, “eliminates many works.”

WHAT DRIVES THEM  “Up until this point,” Lisa says, “it has been purely emotional. But we have started considering investment value in order to be able to change out work in the future.”

OTHER WAYS THEY IMMERSE IN ART  “I love to collaborate with artists for my swimwear line, Cover,” Lisa says. Her most recent collaboration: a swim shirt printed with a work by Richard Phillips.

FAVORITE ARTISTS  Chuck Close, Richard Phillips, Jim Hodges, Takashi Murakami, Kara Walker, Richard Serra, Richard Prince, Ed Ruscha

MOST RECENT PIECE  Marfa artist Leslie Wilkes’ painting, Untitled 12.02, from the Barry Whistler Gallery. “I’ve been told it looks like a kaleidoscope,” says Lisa, “but to me it looks like a colorful insect’s face.”

THE HOLY GRAIL  Lisa: “We haven’t come across it yet.”

WHO ADVISES YOU?  The Moores make most of their art-purchasing decisions on their own, but have purchased pieces recommended by John Runyon, Baker Montgomery and Spencer Young.

WHY YOUNG PEOPLE SHOULD COLLECT  “We are the next generation of arts patrons,” says Lisa. “It also makes life more interesting and provokes thought and conversation.”

 

Meg and Daniel Gotvald

THE DAY JOBS  Daniel is a portfolio manager at a hedge fund. Meg is on the board of the Dallas Contemporary and volunteers for various organizations, including the North Texas Food Bank.

THE FIRST PIECE  A gift from Ethan Couch, one of Daniel’s best friends growing up. The first piece Daniel purchased was a work on paper by Alexander Calder.

THE MOST VALUABLE PIECES  The couple is proud of two works by Chinese artist Ai Weiwei. “He plays with the idea of the real and perceived value of objects,” Daniel says, “and his work also directly addresses human-rights violations in China.” Also of value is a subway drawing by William Anastasi, plus works by artists the couple has a personal relationship with: Jason Willaford, Sedrick Huckaby and Josh Reames included.

WHY THEY COLLECT  Says Daniel: “As Hemingway adeptly stated in A Moveable Feast, quoting Gertrude Stein: ‘You can either buy clothes or buy pictures. It’s that simple. No one who is not very rich can do both. Pay no attention to your clothes and no attention at all to the mode, and buy your clothes for comfort and durability, and you will have the clothes money to buy pictures.’ We would rather buy art than a fancy car or other luxury items — to us it is almost a necessity.”

HOW THEY DECIDE  Love and instinct. The couple has a rule: After first seeing a piece, they consider whether they are still thinking about it a week, a month, even a year later.

WHAT DRIVES THEM  “A visceral reaction to a work and an indelible impression on the brain is the most important aspect,” says Daniel. “We also consider work in a historical context. Investment value only becomes more important once you pass a certain threshold in price and have to weigh relative value between works and what you can acquire.”

THE HOLY GRAIL  A Michael Williams painting

HOW THEY INSTALL  Daniel: “We actually rotate our works around and play around with different works in different spaces. Once it feels right, we stop moving the chairs.”

WHY ANYONE SHOULD COLLECT  “James Rosenquist was in town recently visiting Gallerie Urbane,” Daniel says, “and he said this: ‘An artist provides an abstract mental garden for other people to think, live, work and exist in, so if you fund the arts, you might impart a little humanism into your community.’”

 

Megan and Carson Hall

THE DAY JOBS  Megan is a registered dietitian specializing in pediatrics and Carson is an art adviser and private art dealer.

THE FIRST PIECE  A 1960s Roy Lichtenstein Seascape print

THE MOST VALUABLE PIECE  “All of our art is valuable for different reasons,” Megan says. “There is a story behind each one. The John Holt Smith painting is valuable because Carson commissioned it from the artist for me as a Christmas present. The Kenneth Noland painting is very valuable because we fell in love with it and bought it on the spot. Carson knew it was an opportunity we could not let pass.”

HOW THEY DECIDE  Having conversations about the work, envisioning it in their home and then studying the work.

WHAT DRIVES THEM  “Typically,” says Megan, “a fever to own a specific work, once we see it, starts things off. Next, we utilize Carson’s market knowledge and artist familiarity to decide if this is the right acquisition for our collection.”

FAVORITE ARTISITS  Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol, Helen Frankenthaler, Kenneth Noland, Willem de Kooning, Adolph Gottlieb, Teresita Fernández

MOST RECENT PIECE  A Kenneth Noland Circle on paper, the third work of Noland’s that the couple owns

THE HOLY GRAIL  For Carson: Mark Rothko’s White Center from 1950. For Megan: an Andy Warhol Diamond Dust Shoes silkscreen.

HOW THEY EDUCATE THE CHILDREN  “We have a 6-year-old and a 2-year-old. We mostly talk to them about the colors, the lines and what they like best about the art. The most delicate pieces are strategically placed. Just like anything that is precious in your home, they learn not to touch.”

WHY YOUNG PEOPLE SHOULD INVEST  “Not only does it enrich your life,” says Megan, “but if done correctly, it can also significantly increase your alternative asset base.”

 ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST

On Display in Dallas

Contemporary Masterworks Define a Gallery Guesthouse

Marguerite and Robert Hoffman call the latest addition to their property a guesthouse; their architect Bill Booziotis calls it a garden pavilion. However, with a world-class collection of modern and contemporary art and interiors conceived for the art by the French designer Andrée Putman, the house is more like a small private museum, today’s equivalent of the Frick mansion in New York City and the Isabella Stewart Gardner in Boston.

Certainly, the guesthouse takes a backseat to the 1960s Georgian-style house that dominates a four-acre lot in an elegant Dallas neighborhood. It is one of several smaller structures tucked discreetly into a landscape designed by Michael Van Valkenburgh. From the exterior, the home’s exceptional nature is suggested by the spectacular, undulating wall created at one side by Sol LeWitt.

Robert Hoffman began to collect art approximately 30 years ago with the proceeds from his sale of the National Lampoon, which he founded with two friends in 1969. His wife, Marguerite, holds a master’s degree in art history and has a long involvement with the Dallas art district. So it is no surprise that the couple chose to work with design professionals who had extensive experience with art-related spaces.

Like their friends Cindy and Howard Rachofsky, whose Richard Meier house (see Architectural Digest, April 1997) was recently pledged to the Dallas Museum of Art, the Hoffmans ultimately intend to donate their collection to the museum. With this in mind, the two couples have geared their acquisitions to complement each other’s. The Hoffmans concentrate on modern masters such as Marcel Duchamp and Willem De Kooning, as well as contemporary artists, such as Joseph Beuys, Jasper Johns and Frank Stella, while the Rachofskys, in addition to 1960s Italian Minimalism, acquire works by installation and video artists like Janine Antoni, Charles Ray and Pipilotti Rist.

From the exterior, the Hoffmans’ single-story guesthouse is self-effacing: Façades sheathed in green slate blend with the garden’s giant live and red oaks and pecan trees, as do the teak window frames. The interior is something else. A complex ground plan consists of a majestic 70-foot-long, 22-foot-wide and 21-foot-high gallery serving as an axis intercepted by various rooms. Like this main floor, a below-ground level is arranged for optimal display conditions.

Booziotis is well known in Texas for the spaces he has designed for art, including several museum interiors—most recently the Trammell & Margaret Crow Collection of Asian Art in Dallas—and residences for numerous private collectors. He says, however, that the Hoffman house is different from anything he has done before. Rather than create static rooms, the architect wanted spaces that would be activated by a person moving through them. He and project architect Jess Galloway combined this idea with the clients’ request for big walls, as much natural, but indirect, light as possible, reinforced vertical and horizontal surfaces that could support heavy objects, and living amenities for guests and entertaining.

Stepping directly into the long gallery from the porticoed entrance, visitors find themselves surrounded by arresting paintings and sculpture, including Franz Kline’s monumental Lehigh (1956), whose size was the deciding factor in favor of building the house. There is indeed a dynamic flow between the long gallery and the spaces around it. Two rooms angle out from either side of the axis: a tall gallery, also used as a formal living room, with a 26-foot-high ceiling, and a lower-ceilinged dining area. At opposite ends of the gallery are the kitchen and an informal sitting area. At an angle to the sitting area are a bedroom and a bath.

Each room is entered at its corners so as to reserve a maximum expanse of wall for hanging. Ceiling heights vary, as do the means of natural illumination, with clerestories adroitly inserted under the gently arched ceilings of the galleries and expansive windows elsewhere. The lower level is likewise divided into gallery-like rooms, with two glazed ceiling panels at the corners of the main one.

Putman found the commission’s challenge particularly pleasurable because the clients were, as she says, “so sympathiques—like two college students.” She was also intrigued by Robert Hoffman’s passion for vanguard figures of the 20th century, including Proust, to whose work a lower study with ample bookshelves is devoted.

Recalling her initial reservations about the living room furniture, Marguerite Hoffman says that Putman suggested she think of its rather firm sofa and chairs as “a shirt that is two sizes too small.” If, however, in this particular room, furnishings were chosen to make you sit up and take notice of the surrounding masterworks, other areas provide plenty of inviting, informal seating. For the designer, working with art is “a lesson in modesty.” Putman believes that “a quiet, pure décor with subdued colors should allow you to forget everything else in the room.”

When it came to placing the art, much of which the Hoffmans had never installed because of space restrictions, the couple enlisted the advice of a friend or two. Marguerite Hoffman remembers their early agreement to rule out a priori decisions and to work instead by trial and error. The method paid off. Artworks are shown to their best advantage in excellent space and light conditions; additionally, delightful surprises abound, such as an exquisite Cy Twombly sculpture positioned in a narrow corridor overlooking the garden and a Conceptual piece by Wolfgang Laib hidden in a powder room.

Art became a factor outside as well as in with the acquisition of an adjacent lot. The property’s enlargement changed the original garden project from a landscaped passageway between the main house and guesthouse into something quite different. The need for an attractive boundary wall at one side that would also be a sound barrier for traffic noise brought to mind the concrete-block constructions that Sol LeWitt had begun to show in 1986. Nothing the artist had done until then, however, prepared the Hoffmans and their crew for what Van Valkenburgh calls the “strip of ribbon candy” LeWitt proposed. The landscape architect remembers his first view of a maquette for the magnificent, exploded Jeffersonian structure as “one of the great moments of the project.” With the LeWitt at one side and a concrete wall at the other, Van Valkenburgh now saw the garden as a planted void between the two. “It was no longer about filling in,” he realized, “but rather about opening up as much space as possible.”

Into this space, Van Valkenburgh strewed narrow bluestone pathways that are elevated slightly above ground. No single path leads directly from one place to another, a random quality that evokes the wall as well. Surprisingly, LeWitt’s 560-foot, meandering brick structure does not dominate the property. The wall embraces rather than encloses, moving sensuously around trees, framing them and giving a feeling of depth beyond the boundary line.

Nothing in the appearance of LeWitt’s whimsical construction reveals the complex steel infrastructure that was needed to maintain a consistent height of 11 feet despite the base’s fluctuations (in response to the landscape and to drainage requirements). As in the case of the wall’s deceptive simplicity, the guesthouse belies a complex agenda. The Hoffmans belong to a long history of collectors who made art display a priority in their homes. As demonstrated when such houses are made public, these lived-in environments animate the art in ways rarely possible in an institutional setting.

MoMA’s “Inventing Abstraction 1910-1925″ Article Collection

Photo

Inventing Abstraction: 1910-1925, opening Sunday at MoMA, includes “Endless Column,” by Constantin Brancusi, and a wall of Kazimir Malevich paintings. Credit Philip Greenberg for The New York Times

In the second decade of the 20th century, abstraction became the holy grail of modern art. It was pursued with feverish intent by all kinds of creative types in Europe, Russia and elsewhere, responding to assorted spurs: Cubism and other deviations from old-fashioned realism, the beautiful whiteness of the blank page, communion with nature, spiritual aspirations, modern machines and everyday noise.

Painters, sculptors, poets, composers, photographers, filmmakers and choreographers alike ventured into this new territory, struggling to sever Western art’s age-old link with legible images, narrative logic, harmonic structure and rhyme. It was a thrilling, terrifying process, and in terms of the history of art, it is one of the greatest stories ever told.

“Inventing Abstraction: 1910-1925,” a dizzying, magisterial cornucopia opening on Sunday at the Museum of Modern Art, captures something of that original thrill and terror, in a lineup of works that show artists embracing worldliness and, in some cases, withdrawing into mystical purity. The show brings new breadth and detail and a new sense of collectivity to a familiar tale that is, for the Modern, also hallowed ground.

The 350-plus works on view include numerous paintings — most of the major ones from outside the museum’s collection — as well as stained glass, needlepoint, film, sculpture and illustrated books. Arranged loosely by nationality, they represent a herculean feat of orchestration on the part of Leah Dickerman, a curator in the Modern’s department of painting and sculpture, and Masha Chlenova, a curatorial assistant.

This is the kind of sweeping historical survey of a big chunk of modernism for which the Modern is justly celebrated, and in many ways it is a sequel to one of the first and most famous of the type, the pioneering “Cubism and Abstract Art” show mounted by Alfred H. Barr Jr., the museum’s founding director, in 1936. Barr’s effort sprawled over 50 years, from Cézanne to Surrealism. Ms. Dickerman has tightened the stylistic brackets and the time frame considerably and, perhaps in keeping with the Modern’s current performance-centeredness, deftly insinuated early dance films and recordings of poetry and music into the galleries.

She has also added American artists to the mix, and increased the numbers of British and Italian artists and women. As a result, it is at once more focused and more inclusive.

Ms. Dickerman places new emphasis on abstraction as a great collective endeavor that emerged simultaneously across several mutually influencing art forms, from the hands of players who often knew one another. She gets specific, adorning a wall outside the exhibition with an immense chart dotted with the names of the show’s 84 artists, all connected by radiating lines that represent relationships between correspondents, friends, spouses and collaborators. (The most connected, catalytic creators, highlighted in red, include Sonia Delaunay-Terk, Francis Picabia, Wassily Kandinsky and Alfred Stieglitz.) No artist is an island, the chart seems to say.

The first artist we encounter in the show itself is Picasso, represented by a stark Cubist painting from 1910 that — free of his characteristic legible details — flirts with total abstraction. It was a rarity for him, and is the only Picasso here; he left it to others to carry Cubism to its logical conclusion.

Next comes a key moment of cross-fertilization: The Munich concert of Arnold Schoenberg’s music, in January 1911, that inspired Kandinsky to broach abstraction, after pondering it for years. Two comical sketches of the event, with figures and instruments clearly visible, are here (along with its music, in both written and piped-in form), and so is the semi-abstract and rather Thurber-esque painting that resulted, “Impression III (Concert).”

From there the show has an urgent pace, its rhythms set by constant shifts and pivots in scale, medium, locale and style, as well as by different notions of form, space and even speed. Startlingly large canvases by Frantisek Kupka, Picabia, Morgan Russell and David Bomberg punctuate the proceedings, proving that the Abstract Expressionists were not the first to scale up abstract painting — it was born that way.

Equally stunning are clusters of small works, foremost a small gallery where 11 paintings by Piet Mondrian show him progressively flattening and magnifying the Cubist grid to reach pure abstraction, and a wall of nine Suprematist paintings by the Russian master Kazimir Malevich. In one of the show’s more astute juxtapositions, Malevich’s drifting, implicitly spiritual geometries confront three relatively crowded, boisterous German Officer paintings by the American Marsden Hartley, a canonical arriviste; their face-off is refereed by the earthy severity of an early, nearly seven-foot-tall version of Constantin Brancusi’s “Endless Column.”

The show has flaws and omissions. Paul Klee is absent because of a reneged loan; also missing is Joan Miró (too Surreal?), who might have brought a breath of whimsy to its sometimes earnest tone.

But there are numerous compensations, among them the sight of so much substantial work by women. We see not only Robert Delaunay but also his formidable wife, Delaunay-Terk, represented by her daring illustrations of the poetry of Blaise Cendrars and one small, radiantly prismatic example of Orphism — Guillaume Apollinaire’s name for a color-saturated, aggressively abstract kind of painting that echoed Cubism — that outshines her husband’s four works.

We see Hans Arp’s sly biomorphic wood relief next to the needlepoint abstractions of his wife, Sophie Taeuber-Arp, and Marcel Duchamp’s subversive incursions into art juxtaposed with his sister Suzanne’s subtly recalcitrant painting-collage “Funnel of Solitude,” from 1921.

There are also works by the German choreographer Mary Wigman, the little-known Russian-Polish sculptor Katarzyna Kobro and the English painters Vanessa Bell (sister of Virginia Woolf) and Helen Saunders. Georgia O’Keeffe is here too, of course, represented by, among other things, a mysterious watercolor of swirling blue from 1916.

This show is an experiential deluge, and unfortunately the labels don’t always illuminate the connections among artists. But slowing down and considering everything around you at any given point yields immense rewards.

At one of my favorite spots in the show, you can listen to a reading of poems by Apollinaire, abstraction’s first defender, while paging through a rare copy (in digital form) of the modest book in which they first appeared. Shifting slightly, you can peruse the actual book — concocted on a mimeograph-like machine that easily reproduced the poet’s visually eccentric arrangements of handwritten words — in an adjacent vitrine. Or you can take in a wall of paintings and drawings from 1913-14 by Fernand Léger that convert the delicacies of Cubist structure into fields of tumbling black lines and arcs, which are bulked up by brusque touches of white or color.

The Légers culminate in Picabia’s “Spring,” from 1912, a large, roiling abstraction whose blocky forms and terra-cotta tones connote a figureless but fleshlike expanse that seems intended as a response to the angular pink ladies of Picasso’s 1907 “Demoiselles d’Avignon.” Adjacent to it are two smaller paintings brimming with splintery forms — more decimations of Cubism — made in Russia in 1912 and 1913, one by Mikhail Larionov and the other by his wife, Natalia Gonchorova.

If you turn around, you’ll face the friendly giant that is Morgan Russell’s 11-foot-high “Synchromy in Orange: To Form,” from 1913-14, with its big fans of bright color and its painted frame, visiting New York from the Albright-Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo for the first time since 1978. To the right is a gallery devoted to the Italian Futurists and their clattering, brittle paintings, and a wall covered with some of their magical language drawings. In the opposite corner, a group of small colored-pencil drawings and a painting by Giacomo Balla might have been made yesterday.

All of which is to say that “Inventing Abstraction” is itself a marvel of a diagram, a creative circuitry variously visual, aural and kinetic, whose radiating lines yield new sights and insights at every juncture. Bravi!

NEW YORK MAGAZINE

art reviewJanuary 6, 2013 9:15 p.m.

Saltz: MoMA’s Inventing Abstraction Is Illuminating—Although It Shines That Light Mighty Selectively

By

Early-twentieth-century abstraction is art’s version of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. It’s the idea that changed everything everywhere: quickly, decisively, for good. In “Inventing Abstraction, 1910–1925,” the Museum of Modern Art’s madly self-aggrandizing survey of abstract art made in Europe, America, and Russia, we see the massive energy release going on in that moment. Organized by Leah Dickerman, the show is jam-packed with over 350 works by 84 painters and sculptors, poets, composers, choreographers, and filmmakers. The sight of so much radical work is riveting.

Yet art of this kind still poses problems for general audiences. They look on it warily. Indeed, even we insiders sometimes don’t get why certain abstraction isn’t just fancy wallpaper or pretty arrangements of shape, line, and color. It can take a lifetime to understand not only why Kazimir Malevich’s white square on a white ground—still fissuring, still emitting aesthetic ideas today—is great art but why it’s a painting at all. That’s the philosophical sundering going on in some of this work, the thrill built into abstraction. Insiders will go gaga here. But I wonder whether larger audiences will grasp the way this kind of art thrust itself to the fore in the West, coaxing artists to give up the incredible realism developed over centuries by the likes of Raphael, Caravaggio, Ingres, and David.

For 400 years, starting in what we now call Italy round 1414, a highly codified form of picture-making took hold in Europe. It was based rigidly on perspective, and all subject matter was soon depicted in the same perspectival space. Surfaces got smoothed out; traces of process all but disappeared. Thus came into being one of the greatest picture-making cultures of all time. By the nineteenth century, decadence was setting in. You could see it, painfully clearly, in the sea of stylistically similar salon paintings: frolicking children, middle-class life, society ladies, romantic views of nature and animals, and lots of voluptuous nude women seemingly worn out from masturbating. Constable, Corot, Courbet, the Impressionists, the Post-Impressionists, Cézanne, and others loosened the pictorial stranglehold. Yet by the early-twentieth century their painterly perestroika was no longer enough. A total break had to happen. Even Cubism, as radical as it was, wasn’t enough to do the trick: As the painter Robert Delaunay put it, “Cézanne broke the fruit dish, and we should not glue it together again, as the Cubists do.”

Which brings us to the first work in “Inventing Abstraction.” This being MoMA, I don’t have to tell you that it’s by the museum’s macho honcho Picasso. It’s Femme à la Mandoline, an intriguing, dusky-colored 1910 work with cubistic compartments, shapes, and slants. Apart from a curve that could be from a mandolin or a hint of hip, there are almost no defining real-world features. This is Picasso coming this close to pure abstraction. Then he blinks. “There is no abstract art,” he stated. “You must always start with something … even if the canvas is green—so what? In that case, the subject matter is greenness!” He’s right, of course. Even so, the rest of the show is dedicated to artists who didn’t blink.

Some sights that follow overwhelm. A wall of nine 1915 Malevich paintings wows with its all-out commitment to form, shape, and color arranged in ways that will never look like intellectual wallpaper. Back up, so you see these punctuated by Brancusi’s rough-hewn Endless Column, and you’ll witness astral geometric visions through some metaphysical Teutonic timberland. The sight of these two artists going for broke is unforgettable. As is the alcove of eleven Mondrians that lets us witness this Dutchman taking Cubism beyond the nth degree, transforming it into one of the most instantaneously recognizable and clear visual styles since the ancient Egyptians’. Starting with a 1912 rendering of bowing trees, Mondrian moves through fields of waterlike marks to crosshatched grids of wavering space, all the way to pure geometry. Absorb yourself in his infinitely rendered edges; see how your inner eye perceives pings of light (visible, but not painted; they’re all in your retina and your mind) where Mondrian’s lines cross. This isn’t just abstraction. This is the movement of visual elements, micron by micron, in ways not seen since Van Eyck.

A large Picabia from 1912 is so deadpan, ironic, and visually aggressive that you see in it future artists like Polke, Kippenberger, and Oehlen. Not far from there, seven different-colored geometric shapes, each on a white ground, by Russian Ivan Kliun radiate calibration and nuanced surface, and point directly to artists like Ellsworth Kelly, Agnes Martin, and Robert Mangold. The British painters (Wyndham Lewis, David Bomberg, Lawrence Atkinson) all surprised me by looking better than I’ve ever seen them. They’re still self-conscious to the core, contriving every effect, much as recent British artists do. Even the Futurists like Giacomo Balla and Francesco Cangiullo, whose cartoony ideas about movement can be annoying, look good confined to a small space in small numbers. Their posters and diagrams far outshine their paintings.

The show will still leave general audiences in the dark about why abstraction came into being. But careful observation reveals how powerful abstraction can be, how it is still a tool that circumvents language, disrupts identification, dissolves narrative, delays the crystallization of meaning, and becomes a reality unto itself. These days, abstraction is normal, not shocking, the expected thing in schools, galleries, and museums. Too many artists still ape the art in this show, throwing in Abstract Expressionism, post-minimalism, or surrealist twists and tics, adding things their teachers have told them about. Their work is as boring as it is derivative. The exciting news is that artists are doing away with purist cant, getting rid of academic dogma, dumping Clement Greenberg’s rigid nonsense about “flatness.” Artists are polluting and expanding abstraction in fabulously impure ways, bending its armature into whole new configurations. And abstraction, old and new, can still leave us floored. These days, I am stunned by Uri Aran’s sculptures, which conjure the logic of imaginary maps with objects laid out on tabletops, and by the painter Lisa Beck, who hangs pairs of canvases in corners, one with a mirrored surface that reflects the other; somehow the parts meld, become a whole that seems to act as a telescope into unknown dimensions.

At MoMA, it’s great that Dickerman allows masterpieces to share the stage with lesser-known works. She smartly puts stained glass, needlepoint, wood carving, posters, photos, and illustrated books on equal footing with painting and sculpture. For MoMA, which rarely mixes and matches media in its permanent collection, this is a big, praiseworthy step. Yet even with much to love, there’s something demented, even dangerous about this show. Only an institution this besotted with its own bellybutton would title a show “Inventing Abstraction, 1910–1925.” Abstraction wasn’t invented in the West in those years. Abstraction has been with us since the beginning. Westerners discovered it, or rediscovered it. In many cases, it soon became insular and overpurified. Consciously, conceptually, purposefully, fervently. Abstraction is there in the caves. It’s been practiced ever since, all over the world. All two-dimensional art is abstract, in that it’s a representation of something in the world rather than the thing itself. Neolithic stone sculpture and Chinese scholar rocks are as abstract as Brancusi’s Column and Vladimir Tatlin’s tower monument. Missing at MoMA are visionaries like Adolf Wölfli, whose manic abstraction can make Kandinsky look tame; George Ohr’s biomorphic ceramic configurations; Rudolf Steiner’s cosmic diagrams; and Olga Rozanova, who was making Rothkos and Newmans of her own. What about Antoni Gaudí, who’s about as out-there abstract as it gets, on a giant scale? All would have dovetailed perfectly with the wild-style work here by Nijinsky. The American sculptor John Storrs is MIA. Ditto Hilma af Klint, who was making fantastically abstract paintings as early as 1906. The deeper you dig, the worse it gets. There’s an empty gallery devoted to music by Stravinsky, Debussy, and others: Fine. But there’s no Scott Joplin! No Dixieland, Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, or Jelly Roll Morton. All are as original and as “abstract” as these Europeans.

Really, the title of MoMA’s show could be “High Museum Abstraction: History Written by the Winners.” Or “White Abstraction.” On some level, this show is MoMA talking to itself, looking for ways around its ever-present deluded, limited narrative. If it doesn’t open up this story line soon, MoMA will be doomed to examine the imagined logic of its beautiful ­bellybutton, alone and forever.

Inventing Abstraction, 1910–1925. Museum of Modern Art. Through April 15.

*This article originally appeared in the January 14, 2013 issue of New York Magazine.

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NEW YORKER MAGAZINE
The Art World January 7, 2013 Issue
Shapes of Things
The birth of the abstract.
By Peter Schjeldahl

2013_01_07

 

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Suprematist paintings by Kazimir Malevich, and Constantin Brancusi’s “Endless Column, version 1” (1918), at MOMA.
Suprematist paintings by Kazimir Malevich, and Constantin Brancusi’s “Endless Column, version 1” (1918), at MOMA. Credit Photograph by Raymond Meier

In “Inventing Abstraction, 1910-1925: How a Radical Idea Changed Modern Art,” a splendid historical survey at the Museum of Modern Art, the most beautiful work, for me, is “Vertical-Horizontal Composition” (1916), a small, framed wool needlepoint tapestry by Sophie Taeuber-Arp. Rectangles and squares in black, white, red, blue, gray, and two browns, arranged on an irregular grid, generate a slightly dissonant, gently jazzy visual harmony that is pleasantly at odds with the tapestry’s matter-of-fact, nubbly texture. The work bespeaks a subtle eye, a sober mind, and an ardent heart. If you could make something like that, you would drop everything else and do it. You wouldn’t need any great reason. I was mildly shocked by how unshocking Taeuber-Arp’s work is, amid rooms of strenuous sensations from the epoch of abstract art’s big bang. But, in a show that raises the question “Why?” at every turn, I kept coming back to it.

What possessed a generation of young European artists, and a few Americans, to suddenly suppress recognizable imagery in pictures and sculptures? Unthinkable at one moment, the strategy became practically compulsory in the next. Many of the artists had answers—or, at least, they cooked them up. The trailblazing Wassily Kandinsky and the bulletproof masters of abstraction, Piet Mondrian and Kazimir Malevich, doubled, tortuously, as theorists. They initiated what would become a common feature of determinedly innovative art culture to this day: the simpler the art, the more elaborate the rationale. That’s easily understood. We need stories. When they are banished within art, they re-form around and about it. But most interesting to me are the early abstract artists’ personal motives.

The Swiss Taeuber-Arp and her husband, Hans Arp, from Alsace, were Dadaists in Zurich during the First World War. They seem to have been excited by the prospect of a passably pure, toughly modest aestheticism that jettisoned the traditions of a Europe gone mad with slaughter. Arp was making sprightly geometric and free-form collages and reliefs, often composed by games of chance—for example, shapes in colored paper dropped onto sheets of white paper and glued down more or less where they fell. The couple took comfort and delight in carefully irrational, morning-fresh ways of creating. Abstraction, for them, was a haven and a test of character. Little else in the show makes such humanly grounded sense, though there’s no gainsaying the appeal of the abundant flavors of an international aesthetic cuisine: French color, Italian locomotion, Russian tectonics, Dutch severity, American pep. There are more than three hundred paintings, drawings, prints, books, photographs, films, and music and voice recordings, but they barely summarize the phenomenon’s fantastic variety.

The invention and contrariety of that brainstorming age—in a rewarding introduction to the catalogue, the show’s curator, Leah Dickerman, cites “cars, photography, relativity, and the death of god”—conferred a special prestige on creators, in all of the arts, who dramatized the effects of change. Music led the way, as is often the case when cultural foundations shift; the composer David Lang, one of twenty-five essayists in the catalogue, tracks the abandonment of “functional harmony” from Wagner to Debussy and then, with a lurch, to the atonal Arnold Schoenberg. Analogies to music enabled painters to escape from the logical stylistic developments in their field—at the time, mainly Cubism, which Picasso and Braque derived from suggestions in the work of Cézanne. An ecstatic mess of a painting by Kandinsky, “Impression III (Concert)” (1911), registers his response to a Schoenberg concert, with sketchy hints of audience members assaulted by shapeless floods of black and yellow. There is something forced, a hysteria of the will, about the work, as there is about the drive of the Italian Futurists to represent motion, which stumbles on the fact that paintings hold dead still. But the intensity of ambition of the Futurists and of Kandinsky batters misgivings.

The show opens with a surprise to me: Picasso, as a closet inceptor of abstraction. He painted “Woman with Mandolin,” and a few similar pictures, in the summer of 1910. It is a typically early-Cubist, dun-colored congeries of arrowing lines and shaded planes, nudging in and out of shallow pictorial depth. But it lacks any visible subject matter: no discernible woman, nary a mandolin. It is, in a word, abstract. So, it seems from Picasso’s own testimony, were at least some of his later Cubist works, before he added what he called “attributes”—a bottle, a mustache—to make them still-lifes or portraits. This fleeting episode in his career is obscure, because he would never take credit for conceiving non-figurative art, an idea that exasperated him.

Picasso’s arguments against abstraction still carry weight. He reasoned that there can be no such thing as non-figuration. “All things appear to us in the form of figures,” he said. “A person, an object, a circle are all figures; they act upon us more or less intensely.” (One early term for abstraction, “non-objective,” is especially fallacious in this light—as if any function of the human brain, let alone a work of art, could evade subjectivity.) Picasso also said that, without reference to things we experience as real, art sacrifices its one indispensable quality: drama. Such was the challenge for artists who embraced the racy new looks: how to make the manipulation of circles, say, or of fugitive marks seem to matter. A few—certainly Kandinsky, by fits and starts; Malevich, for a torrid spell; and Mondrian, with steadily growing command—faced down the Spanish basilisk. They did it by activating a figure outside the work: the viewer.

The MOMA show, though exquisitely selective, is unconcerned with rankings of quality. It aims to inform. Mere coincidence in time puts grandly scaled but clumsy painterly cadenzas by the Czech František Kupka, the Frenchman Francis Picabia, and the American Morgan Russell on an undeserved equal footing with Kandinsky. Pretty-good color compositions by Robert Delaunay—which the dashing poet-propagandist Guillaume Apollinaire fancifully termed “Orphism,” after the mythic bard—are no match for Fernand Léger’s joyously tumbling forms in red, white, and blue. A wonderful sequence of Mondrians—from a 1912 picture of semi-abstracted trees to the dawn, in the early twenties, of his mature manner of taut horizontal and vertical black bands, and of blocks of primary colors, all keyed to a physical sense of gravity—far outshines the designy efforts of Theo van Doesburg and his colleagues in Dutch Neo-Plasticism.

Just one movement, that of the Russian avant-garde, after it was cut off from Europe by war and revolution, achieved something like collective genius. A stunning array of Malevich’s thumpingly material, lyrically gravity-defying Suprematist paintings affirms him as the first among equals, including Vladimir Tatlin, who is memorialized by a reconstruction, from 1979, of his gigantic maquette for the “Monument to the Third International” (1920). It is a symbol, like none other, of twentieth-century aspiration and tragic folly. Striking works by Liubov Popova, Alexandr Rodchenko, Ivan Kliun, and other Russians make for a superb cameo survey within the show.

Dickerman and her curatorial crew have worked up a flowchart of affinities and influences, along the lines of the famous chart that MOMA’s first director, Alfred H. Barr, Jr., created for the modern movements, circa 1936. Neuron-like webs converge on “connector” individuals, socially adept Pied Pipers who fostered the formation of the time’s avant-gardes. The prime artists include Picasso, Picabia, and Léger, in France; Mikhail Larionov and Natalya Goncharova, in Russia; and Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, in Italy. There are two poets, Apollinaire and the Dadaist honeybee Tristan Tzara, and one dealer, New York’s Alfred Stieglitz, the shepherd of the native modernist painters Marsden Hartley, Arthur Dove, and Georgia O’Keeffe, and of the photographer Paul Strand. The chart is an effective aid to memory, a free-fire zone for disagreements, and fine intellectual fun.

On the point of intellect, the show makes an awkward but compelling case that Marcel Duchamp stands centrally in the history of abstraction. Some of his jarring provocations—including a film he made with Man Ray, “Anemic Cinema” (1926), in which spinning, optically disorienting patterns alternate with punning French wordplay—share a room with works by Americans, in the Stieglitz orbit, on whom he exercised a catalytic influence. Dickerman, in the catalogue introduction, analyzes Duchamp’s mordant take on the problem, which bedevilled early abstraction, of finding meaning in art that had no recognizable subjects. Far from trying to close the gap, he made it abysmal. His readymades give meaningless objects meaning-laden titles—most notoriously, the urinal called “Fountain” (1917). “The readymade was thing plus text,” Dickerman writes. With abstraction as the hinge, Duchamp opened a trapdoor at the bottom of Western thought and feeling.

Between Picasso’s conservative critique and Duchamp’s radical one, abstract art was sternly tested. This returns me to Sophie Taeuber-Arp’s humble, radiant tapestry, which obliterates all skepticism. The proof of any art’s lasting value is a comprehensive emotional necessity: it’s something that a person needed to do and which awakens and satisfies corresponding needs in us. Such a payoff remained intermittent in the abstract art of the period covered by the MOMA show. It came to full fruition later, in the singing expanses of Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and other Abstract Expressionists. But that’s another story. ♦

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LONDON REVIEW OF BOOKS

At MoMA

Hal Foster

When Alfred H. Barr Jr launched the Museum of Modern Art in New York in 1929, it was a paradoxical enterprise: a museum for an avant-garde art that was very much a work in progress. Nevertheless, for his landmark show Cubism and Abstract Art in 1936, Barr drew up a flow chart that funnelled the various streams of modernist practice to date into two great rivers that he named ‘geometrical abstract art’ and ‘non-geometrical abstract art’. In effect the diagram was a confident projection of a history that the museum would move, strategically, to display and to define. If modernist art was first made in Europe, it was first narrated in the US, and abstraction was its Geist.

Flash forward 77 years. For Inventing Abstraction, 1910-25 (until 15 April), the curator Leah Dickerman offers a different diagram: not a diachronic chart of tributary movements but a synchronic network of charismatic ‘connectors’, such as Vasily Kandinsky, F.T. Marinetti, Guillaume Apollinaire, Francis Picabia, Tristan Tzara, Theo van Doesburg and Alfred Stieglitz, all of whom were polemicists (critics, editors, exhibition-makers) as much as they were artists. Like the diagram, the exhibition looks back to the period when abstraction emerged, not forward to its eventual triumph; rather than project a telos to come, it historicises a moment a century ago. In doing so, the show suggests, perhaps involuntarily, a closure to this practice. Is abstraction ‘a thing of the past’, a form of art that, however world-historical once, is well behind us now?

Liubov Popova, ‘Painterly Architectonic’ (1917).

Liubov Popova, ‘Painterly Architectonic’ (1917).

Inventing Abstraction opens with a complicated Cubist figure by Picasso. It is a conventional enough beginning (recall the title of the Barr show), yet there is no way around it, nor should there be: even if Picasso never went abstract (neither did Matisse, for that matter), Cubism was the fountainhead of abstraction, and key protagonists like Piet Mondrian and Kazimir Malevich felt they had to work through it. Dickerman features Kandinsky next, but she does not present abstraction as having a simple origin. Its sources are transhistorical and multicultural (modernist inspirations include African art, Byzantine icons, and Islamic ornament): abstraction is always discovered as much as it is invented. That said, the purview of the show is strictly European (including Russia and Britain), though the selection is broad and various within this frame, with many provocative juxtapositions and far more women than in past shows (Sonia Terk and Sophie Taeuber, for example, get equal billing with their husbands, Robert Delaunay and Hans Arp). At long last such movements as Italian Futurism and Polish Constructivism are given their due, and lesser figures like the Britons Lawrence Atkinson and Duncan Grant, and the Americans Stanton Macdonald-Wright and Morgan Russell, have their day too. Given the cost of insurance, conservation concerns and political problems (Russia has an embargo on loans), we are not likely to see such an extraordinary gathering of abstract art from this period ever again.

Although Inventing Abstraction includes sculpture, photography and film, it runs heavy on painting. It wasn’t obvious how absolute abstraction was to be achieved in those other media, and the modernist project of ‘purity’ – of an art freed from both resemblance to the world and function within it – privileged painting in any case. At the same time, many painters needed the aid or at least the analogy of the other arts, music and poetry above all. Music had long been seen as the most abstract (‘all art constantly aspires to the condition of music,’ Walter Pater had said), and Dickerman points out the importance not only of Wagner’s chromaticism and Schoenberg’s atonality for Kandinsky (a Schoenberg concert in Munich on 2 January 1911 was an epiphany for the artist) but also of the structural reflexivity of Bach for Paul Klee (who was a gifted musician). As for poetry, Mallarmé had already announced a crisis, and the next generation took the attack on conventional sense to an extreme in Futurist parole in libertà (‘words in freedom’), Russian zaum (transrational) texts, and sound poems (Kandinsky, Arp, van Doesburg and Kurt Schwitters all produced important examples).

The tension between medium-specific and cross-media impulses was generative for early abstraction. Against formalist critics, from Roger Fry through to Clement Greenberg, who stressed the decorous ideal of painting as strictly visual and spatial, Inventing Abstraction shows how abstract artists were concerned often with the tactility of materials (faktura or ‘texture’ was a watchword of the Russians) and sometimes with the temporality of animation (alongside abstract films by Hans Richter, Viking Eggeling and László Moholy-Nagy, there are unexpected projects by Grant and by Léopold Survage, an artist of Finnish descent active in Paris). ‘Tested by abstraction, the boundaries of painting and other media began to dissolve,’ Dickerman argues in a riposte to the medium-specific position. For one thing, abstract painting prompted a loosening of the ground under the viewer: Malevich suggested aerial perspectives in some of his early abstractions, and El Lissitzky rotated his diagrammatic Prouns as he painted them in order to confound any sense of orientation. Such experiments led some painters – Kandinsky, Lissitzky, van Doesburg – to abstract interiors, both actual and projected, and there were other crossings as well. Dickerman opposes medium-specificity and cross-media exchange, but the two principles are not in complete contradiction: however opposed in method, the Gesamtkunstwerk and the pure painting are both committed to the idea of aesthetic autonomy.

Artists were on the verge of abstraction well before the breakthrough year of 1912: why was it such a difficult concept to accept, even for champions like Kandinsky? The principal reason was that it seemed to expose art to the arbitrary, the decorative, the subjective. If art was no longer rooted in the world, what might ground it? If it was no longer governed by the referent, what might motivate it? By and large artists sought a basis for abstraction at the two extremes, in the transcendental realm of the Idea (usually Platonic, Hegelian or theosophist) or in the material register of the medium; in this respect abstraction provided an aesthetic resolution to the philosophical contradiction between idealism and materialism, either of which it could serve. Against the arbitrary, artists like Kandinsky also asserted the ‘necessity’ of abstraction – history demanded it, art required it – and such assertions in turn prompted a flood of words: individual proclamations, group manifestos, lectures, treatises, journals. Dickerman views this visual-verbal relation as a symptomatic ‘split’, even a dissociation of sensibility: ‘This structure – of images and words existing in parallel spheres, the two held at a distance – suggests a division in modernism.’ Yet one might also see it as a relation of supplementarity, and deconstruct it accordingly: which term in the binary truly determines the other in each instance? However parsed, the insight that practice and theory (or, for that matter, performance and publicity) would thereafter compensate for one another in 20th-century art is an important one.

Abstraction had recourse not only to artistic analogies and textual reinforcements but also to radical developments in the sciences of the time, such as the theory of relativity, quantum physics and non-Euclidean geometry; yet more germane, Dickerman argues, were new philosophical paradigms like phenomenology and semiotics. According to phenomenology, perception is not detached and objective – not ‘realist’ in this sense – but subjective and embodied and thus to an extent ‘abstract’. So, too, semiotics discarded the belief that language referred directly to the world (here the intimacy of the linguist Roman Jakobson with Malevich is very telling). Although Dickerman alludes to the impact of new technologies and culture on abstraction, one would like to hear more on this score. The exhibition offers a strong sense of the ambiguous attractions of the abstract world of the industrial machine, as differently evoked by the Futurists, Fernand Léger and Marcel Duchamp, but little sense of the abstractive force of the mass-produced commodity, the becoming-abstract of capitalist life, as variously explored by Georg Simmel, György Lukács and Alfred Sohn-Rethel. After Greenberg (not to mention Theodor Adorno), we often think of abstraction as a withdrawal from the modern world, almost a safehouse for art, but the converse is just as true: the modern world became too abstract to represent in the old ways.

Dickerman revises Barr dramatically, but not when it comes to the affirmation of abstraction, in which MoMA is still very invested. ‘The propositions were many, and at times contradicted each other,’ she concludes, ‘but in their aggregate they marked the demise of painting in its traditional form and its opening to the practices of the century to come.’ But was abstract painting as absolute a rupture as this makes out? Dickerman insists on its fundamental break with the old model of the perspectival picture, with its metaphor of a window onto a world, its sublimation of the materiality of the painting, its assertion of ‘the primacy of the visual’, its assumption of ‘a discarnate gaze’ and so on. This is true enough: for some artists, such as Aleksandr Rodchenko, abstraction did put paid to the project of representation. Yet for others it was the purification of painting, not its end but its epitome (this is an essential meaning of ‘pure painting’). Given the Hegelian cast of some theorists, abstraction might be understood in large part as the sublation of representation, that is, as its simultaneous negation and preservation. Thus, even as abstractionists like Kandinsky, Malevich and Mondrian cancelled any resemblance to reality, they also affirmed an ontology of the real; even as they rejected painting as a picture of the epiphenomenal world, they insisted on painting as an analogue of a noumenal world: appearance was sacrificed at the altar of transcendence. So, too, even as these artists broke with representational painting, they often did so in a way that continued the tradition of the tableau, reaffirming its criteria of compositional unity for the artwork and epiphanic experience for the viewer. In this respect the glorious Windows of Delaunay reflects on picturing in a way that rivals any self-aware painting by Velázquez or Vermeer.

Robert Delaunay, ‘Windows’ (1912).

Robert Delaunay, ‘Windows’ (1912).

So if ‘the demise of painting in its traditional form’ was not total, what about the ‘opening to the practices of the century to come’? Inventing Abstraction contains examples of avant-garde inventions nearly coeval with abstract painting, such as non-objective collage, relief and construction (an impressive model of the unbuilt Monument to the Third International by Vladimir Tatlin dominates one gallery). For Dickerman, abstraction prepares these devices and others too, including all that we comprehend by the name ‘Duchamp’: the readymade, experiments with chance, the artwork as idea and so on. Yet this strong claim is open to argument: already in the chart drawn up by Barr for MoMA, and later in the theory of ‘modernist painting’ promulgated by Greenberg, abstraction comes to displace these other strategies, and it would not be until after the dominance of abstract expressionism, in the neo-avant-gardes of the 1950s and 1960s, that they returned with any force. Abstraction was a break, to be sure, but it was also used to defend against other breaks that were perhaps more radical.

The final gallery of the show suggests the mixed fortunes of abstraction: there is a testament to abstraction as the necessary future not only of modernist art but of modern life tout court in the form of experimental pieces by Moholy-Nagy, a near travesty of abstraction as a kind of Dadaist nonsense in ornamental objects by Taeuber and Arp, and a set of essays in abstract form by Katarzyna Kobro and Władysław Strzemiński which, however exquisite, also appear stunted, with nowhere to go historically. And what about abstraction today? It does not pretend to the great ambitions – revolutionary, utopian, transcendental – of this early period; that is obviously not our mode. Many artists treat abstraction as a distant archive to cite more than as a continuous tradition to develop – but then nothing can be world-historical twice.

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BOMB MAGAZINE

Avant Garde Without Borders: Inventing Abstraction at MoMA

by Kevin Kinsella

Back-dated art works, Picasso’s frustration, and the transnational creation myths of Abstract art.


Exhibition view of Inventing Abstraction, 19101925. Photo by Jonathan Muzikar. Photo courtesy of The Museum of Modern Art, Imaging and Visual Resources Department.

According to Gabrielle Buffet, her husband Francis Picabia invented abstract art in July 1912 on a drunken drive across France with Claude Debussy and Guillaume Apollinaire. Mix equal parts artist, composer, and poet in a car at the dawn of the modern age, let it bump around for a while, then throw the doors wide, and out pours a brand new cocktail of color, space, and time.

Of course, Vasily Kandinsky might have begged to differ—and he did. An often-told anecdote has it that the Russian-born painter and critic had stumbled upon Abstract art as far back as 1896. One evening, just after arriving in Munich, Kandinsky saw one of his own paintings leaning on its side in his unlit studio. He couldn’t make out the subject of the work in the darkness, but the forms and colors before him nonetheless struck him—an event sparking the revelation that “objects harmed my pictures.” Despite this epiphany, it took Kandinsky nearly 15 years to bring an abstract painting into the light of day, so to speak. It is perhaps more illuminating that this story started going around in 1913, just as the same lightbulb seemed to be switching on in everyone’s head.

Everyone, it seems, wanted to be associated with abstraction’s creation myth—and some went to extraordinary lengths to secure their positions, including going so far as to backdate key artworks as proof of their having been there since the very beginning. For example, an untitled piece from 1913 by Kandinsky was given a new birthday in 1910; Robert Delaunay’s Soleil, Lune, Simultante 2 (Sun, Moon, Simultaneous 2), which was originally shown by the artist in 1913, was reassigned to 1912, as well as Le Premier Disque (The First Disk). The Russians seemed particularly sensitive to their own role in the development of abstraction, with pieces by Natalia Goncharova, Mikhail Larionov, and Kazimir Malevich all receiving reverse facelifts to suggest that their works were anywhere from two to five years older than they actually were. Given the geographic and political barriers at the time faced by these Russian artists, one might understand their insistence that they receive a handicap when it came time to assigning credit for what Leah Dickerman, curator of the Museum of Modern Art’s Inventing Abstraction, 1910-1925 exhibition, calls the “greatest rewriting of the rules of artistic production since the Renaissance.”

Abstraction is now so central to our conception of art that it’s hard to imagine a time before the idea of an abstract artwork. But until 1911, it was impossible for artists and the public to let go of the long-held notion that art is supposed to describe things in a real or imaginary world. So, when examples of nonreferential artworks started popping up about a hundred years ago by the likes of Kandinsky, Picabia, Robert Delaunay, František Kupka, and Fernard Léger, observors didn’t know what to make of them. With such unexpected and dazzling glimpses into the Fourth Dimension, these early exhibitions in the so-called real world were felt almost immediately. Within five years, other artists from across Eastern and Western Europe, as well as the United States—Hans Arp, Vanessa Bell, Sonia Delaunay-Terk, Arthur Dove, Goncharova, Marsden Hartley, Paul Klee, Mikhail Larinov, Malevich, Franz Mark, Piet Mondrian, Hans Richter, Wyndham Lewis, and more—were producing abstract artworks. Things happened so suddenly that comparisons with the past were impossible.


Morgan Russell. Synchromy in Orange: To Form. 1913-1914. Oil on canvas, 11’3″ x 10’1½”.© 2012 Peyton Wright Gallery. Photo courtesy of Albright-Knox Art Gallery / Art Resource, NY.

Inventing Abstraction, which runs at MoMA until April 15, 2013, explores abstraction as both a historical idea and an emergent artistic practice. But while it is tempting from a historical perspective to nail down just who “invented” it, the story of the movement’s sudden proliferation may have something more to say about the nature of innovation itself. Abstraction was not the inspiration of a single artist working in isolation, rather it was, according to Dickerman in her introduction the show’s catalogue, “incubated, with a momentum that builds and accelerates, through a relay of ideas and acts among a nexus of players, who recognize and proclaim their significance to a broader audience.” Indeed, the central tenant of the exhibition is just how much the phenomenon of abstraction was the product of ideas moving between artists and intellectuals working in different media and between far-flung places. If abstraction was “invented,” it was “an invention of multiple first steps, multiple creators, multiple heralds, and multiple rationales,” says Dickerman.

From its start in the years immediately before World War I, Abstraction was an international phenomenon. With less-restrictive passport regulations and increasingly porous borders, people were traveling internationally more than ever before. And when they weren’t traveling, the availability of telegraphs, telephones, and radios kept them in touch and up to date with cultural and scientific developments across Europe and the Atlantic. Within the art world, specifically, the notion of a borderless avant garde was fed by the flourishing of artistic and literary journals—in Paris alone, some 200 “little reviews” of art and culture were being published in the decade preceding the war.

Accordingly, Inventing Abstraction takes a transnational perspective. Surveying key episodes in the movement’s early history, including works made across Eastern and Western Europe and the United States, the exhibition explores the relationships among artists and composers, dancers and poets, in establishing a new modern language for the arts. It skillfully brings together a wide range of art forms—paintings, drawings, printed matter, books, sculpture, film, photography, sound recordings, music and dance footage—to draw a rich portrait of this moment that brought us that hopelessly frustrating question: “Yes, but what does it mean?!”


Sophie Taeuber-Arp. Untitled (Triptych), 1918. Oil on canvas on board, three panels. Photo courtesy of Kunsthaus Zürich, © ARS, New York/ProLitteris, Zürich.

Above the entryway to the gallery, visitors are confronted with the central question of Kandinsky’s seminal theoretical text On the Spiritual in Art, which first appeared in 1911: “Must we not then renounce the object altogether, throw it to the winds and instead lay bare the purely abstract?” It’s almost a cue to brace oneself before entering the gallery, which isn’t a bad idea when one is about to step into a whirlwind of color, space, and time.

Of course, one can’t confront art at the beginning of the 20th century without first paying respect to Pablo Picasso, represented by the starkly Cubist Girl with a Mandolin from 1910. A rare flirtation with total abstraction for the Modernist master, one is left with a sense that he wasn’t particularly serious about it. And Picasso was the first to admit it, announcing at the time: “There is no abstract art. You always have to begin with something”—a statement which appears on the painting’s label. In the end, Picasso pronounced the painting unfinishable and so too his experiment with abstraction.

With Picasso out of the way, visitors are free to move on to Kandinsky. Without himself realizing an abstract painting in 1910, Kandinsky had described Picasso’s early foray into abstraction as, “splitting the subject up and scattering bits of it all over the picture,” an effect that was “frankly false” but nonetheless an auspicious “sign of the enormous struggle toward the immaterial.” According to Dickerman, “Kandinsky could theorize abstraction before he was capable of doing it. Picasso, on the other hand, was dissecting the mechanics of identification, when he came to abstraction, he was horrified by it.” But things came together for Kandinsky after attendng a performance of composer Arnold Schoenberg’s Second String Quartet on January 2, 1911.


Vasily Kandinsky. Impression III (Concert), 1911. Oil on canvas, 30 7/8 × 39 9/16 inches. © 2012 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ADAGP, Paris. Photo courtesy of The Städtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus, München.

Impression III (Concert) depicted Kandinsky’s first encounter with the Austrian composer’s pioneering atonal compositions. Two sketches for the painting, though with figures and instruments clearly visible, demonstrate that Kandinsky was depicting neither the particular concert he had experienced that fruitful evening nor a particular composition; rather, the pictures portray his overall impression of a musical performance. The dominant contrast of the picture is apparently the clash between two color masses: black (the piano) and yellow (the audience). Completely lacking in depth, the yellow is bold, a typically “worldly color,” as Kandinsky described it in a letter to Schoenberg. Black, on the other hand, “is the most soundless color to which any other, including the weakest one, would therefore resound more powerfully and more precisely. . . Bright yellow contrasted with black has such an effect that it appears to free itself from the background, to hover in the air and to jump at the eyes.”

From there, the pace and progression of the show suggests that as soon as Picasso and Kandinsky helped work through the initial theoretical kinks, abstraction gained viability as a movement. The 400-odd works on view include numerous paintings—a majority from outside the museum’s collection—as well as stained glass, needlepoint, film, sculpture and illustrated books. At once open and intimate, the layout reveals a panorama of works of varying scale and media installed in different galleries, giving the impression that the ranging artworks are part of a single rich moment or narrative. The effect can only be described as dizzying.

A bit down from Kandinsky, visitors encounter Sonia Delaunay-Terk and Blaise Cendrars’s stunning text-image collaboration La Prose du Transsibérien et de la petite Jehanne de France (Prose of the Trans-Siberian and of Little Joan of France, 1913) The book, illustrated in loose and sensual geometric shapes of blues, yellows, orange, and black, features a poem by Cendrars about a journey through Russia on the Trans-Siberian Express in 1905, during the first Russian Revolution, printed on an abstract picture by Delaunay-Terk. Cendrars himself referred to the work as “a sad poem printed on sunlight.”


Kazimir Malevich. Painterly realism of a boy with a knapsack color masses in the 4th dimension, 1915. Oil on canvas, 28 × 17 1/2 inches. Photo courtesy of The Museum of Modern Art, Imaging and Visual Resources Department.

Pushing on, the grouping of Marcel Duchamp’s broken glass painting, To Be Looked at (from the Other Side of the Glass) with One Eye, Close to, for Almost an Hour (1918), his kinetic sculpture, Rotary Demisphere (Precision Optics) (1925), the wooden objects of his 3 Standard Stoppages (1913-1914) and his oil and pencil on canvas Network of Stoppages (1914) demonstrate the Frenchman’s vaunted range. In these quirky works, it’s as though meaning is excised from the objective world. For instance, in 3 Standard Stoppages, Duchamp challenges the French metric system as an intellectual construct rather than an universal absolute by undoing the metric standard through a random placement of three meter-long threads. In Network of Stoppages, he complicates that idea, by reproducing each one of the three threads three times and positioning them in a diagrammatic arrangement on a previously used canvas (a sketch for his ongoing The Large Glass). By painting over the threads and the images of a female figure and a somewhat mechanical drawing from the earlier work, the visible and semivisible layers oppose three systems of representation: figurative, chance, and the diagram, which maps the world without picturing it.

The Russian wall, a tribute to the earth-shattering 1915 exhibition 0,10: The Last Futurist Exhibition of Painting, where Malevich introduced geometric Suprematism to Petragrad, and so the world, is a show in and of itself. Dickerman and assistant curator Masha Chlenova went to great lengths to bring together the original works to recreate as close as possible the original wall, including the iconic Painterly realism of a boy with a knapsack color masses in the 4th dimension, White on White and Self-Portrait in Two Dimensions. Placed opposite French-born Romanian sculptor Constantin Brancusi’s oak Endless Column, version 1 (1918), consisting of a single symmetrical element, a pair of truncated pyramids stuck together at their base, then repeated to produce a continuous rhythmic line that suggests infinite vertical expansion, it offers one of the most arresting views of the exhibition.


Exhibition view of Inventing Abstraction, 1910–1925. Photo by Jonathan Muzikar. Photo courtesy of The Museum of Modern Art, Imaging and Visual Resources Department.

And just around the corner looms a model of Vladimir Tatlin’s staggering Monument to the Third International (1920) a work whose original-yet-unrealized plans called for a structure taller than the Eiffel Tower and made out of steel and glass to show the transparency and modernism of the new Soviet party. Still, anchored confidently among El Lissitsky’s cathedral-like Prouns, MoMA’s scale model, itself is a soaring temple to the future, and a near-religious experience to behold, which could be said for much of the exhibition itself.

In many ways, Inventing Abstraction is a sequel to one of the first and most famous of the types of exhibitions for which MoMA is so well-known: the pioneering Cubism and Abstract Art show mounted by Alfred H. Barr Jr., the museum’s founding director, in 1936. Barr’s show covered some 50 years, from Cézanne to Surrealism. Dickerman’s is tighter yet also more ranging, including early dance films and recordings of poetry and music into the galleries. Another difference is that she also included American artists (Hartley, Morgan Russell, Arthur Dove, Georgia O’Keeffe, Paul Strand), and increased the numbers of British and Italian artists and women.

Dickerman also places new emphasis on abstraction as a collective endeavor that emerged simultaneously across several art forms, from artists and intellectuals who knew and influenced each other. The story of the origins of abstraction is about relationships, of collective participation. The network through which abstraction spread is suggested in a diagram, made with a nod to the famous chart that appeared on the cover of Barr’s catalog for Cubism and Abstract Art. Visitors are confronted with Dickerman’s own diagram before they enter the Joan and Preston Robert Tisch Exhibition Gallery. Vectors link individuals who knew each other, suggesting the unexpected density of contacts among the movement’s pioneers, by turns casting shadows and throwing light upon those who claimed to have invented abstract art.

Kevin Kinsella is a writer and translator (from Russian) living in Brooklyn. His latest book, a translation of Sasha Chernyi’s Poems from Children’s Island, is now available through Lightful Press.

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THE NEW REPUBLIC

Art

January 19, 2013

The MOMA’s “Inventing Abstraction” is Exhilirating, Challenging, and Completely Wrong

By

It has been a long time since I saw museumgoers as fully engaged as the crowds moving through “Inventing Abstraction: 1910-1925,” the visual and intellectual banquet at the Museum of Modern Art this winter. Visitors are wide-eyed, attentive, quietly exhilarated. And why not? They are having the kind of full-out artistic experience on which the Museum of Modern Art built its legendary reputation, but which it has rarely managed to produce in recent years. From the first work you see, Picasso’s austere Woman with Mandolin (1910), through to the final room with its wealth of work by Jean Arp, Sophie Taeuber-Arp, and László Moholy-Nagy, this is a show that electrifies through its sure-footed presentation of the early abstract avant-garde in France, Germany, Russia, England, and the United States. Leah Dickerman, the MoMA curator who organized the exhibition, knows how to install works of art, and that’s a far rarer talent than is generally acknowledged. The grace with which Dickerman juggles a wide range of material is thrilling to behold. She never allows the many extraordinary books and more ephemeral items on display to detract from the explosive power of gatherings of paintings by Robert and Sonia Delaunay, Léger, Mondrian, and Malevich. “Inventing Abstraction” is almost too good to be true. And that’s where the trouble begins. Dickerman has achieved this end-to-end visual coherence by denying the dizzying heterogeneity that characterized the early years of abstract art

“Inventing Abstraction” is packed with tremendous works and formidable ideas. That the exhibition is also, at least in my view, deeply wrongheaded does not in any way detract from its importance. “Inventing Abstraction” is so forcefully, lucidly, and persuasively wrongheaded that it achieves its own kind of intellectual glory, instantly recognizable as the latest in a great Museum of Modern Art tradition of shows that make arguments that practically beg to be contradicted. “Cubism and Abstract Art,” the legendary 1936 MoMA exhibition with which “Inventing Abstraction” has much in common, was in its day said to be wrongheaded by many people, including Meyer Schapiro, at the time a very young art historian. Alfred H. Barr, Jr, the founding director of the Museum of Modern Art who organized “Cubism and Abstract Art,” would most likely have agreed with Leah Dickerman when, in the opening wall text of the present show, she declares that “Abstraction may be modernism’s greatest innovation.” I certainly agree. The trouble begins when Dickerman goes on to define abstract art as an art that “dispensed with recognizable subject matter.” And the trouble only deepens later in the show, when in a wall label for Marcel Duchamp’s 3 Standard Stoppages, we are told that “the emergence of abstraction spelled the demise of painting as a craft and its rebirth as an idea.”

As Dickerman tells the story, abstract art is a prescription rather than a permission. This is a terrible mistake. She is fascinated by work by Mondrian and Malevich, where at least for a time it seems that abstraction is a way of limiting and thereby intensifying the possibilities of painting. She banishes from the exhibition Paul Klee and Joan Miró, two seminal figures whose profoundly abstract visions did not exclude “recognizable subject matter.” What Dickerman cannot admit is that abstraction in fact released painters to approach experience in an extraordinarily wide variety of ways.

Dickerman weaves so many fascinating strands into her story that some museumgoers may not even notice what has been left out. She has found a remarkable early abstract painting by Vanessa Bell, a compact composition of rectangular forms that has a blunt, pragmatic integrity. And although she could have perhaps done with a little less Georgia O’Keeffe and Marsden Hartley, Dickerman is right to emphasize how early and how forcefully American artists come into the story. The trouble with the way Dickerman tells this story, however, is that abstraction becomes too much of an absolute. She emphasizes the nobility of artists who were either on the verge of entirely banishing recognizable subject matter or had already done so. But abstraction, which arguably originated with the symbolist impulse in late-nineteenth-century art, was always less a matter of banishing reality than it was a matter of creating new realities, each of which had its own relationship with what the painters who in the nineteenth century set up their easels out of doors referred to as reality. In order to maintain the scheme of “Inventing Abstraction,” it sometimes seems that Dickerman is forced to willfully ignore the evidence before her eyes. If Miró and Klee have been excluded for the sin of recognizable subject matter, then why is it that Léger’s Les Disques, with its evocations of machinery and wrought iron, makes the cut? If “recognizable subject matter” has been banished, how is it that so many of the works in the exhibition contain letters or numbers, which are recognizable to any child?

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The absolutism that this exhibition imposes on abstract art is not an absolutism that many of the artists embraced, at least not for very long. Arp, one of the heroes of Dickerman’s story, spent his later years carving abstracted human torsos in marble, neoclassical visions that owed as much to Ancient Greece as to cubism and abstract art. Mondrian in the 1920s and 1930s did paintings that excluded pretty much all associations with the recognizable world, yet when in his later years he titled paintings Place de la Concorde, Trafalgar Square, and Broadway Boogie Woogie, I think you can certainly argue that he was encouraging his audience to recognize some fundamental relationship between abstract form and particular local realities. If Duchamp was a critical figure in the history of abstract art—and this is the formulation of Dickerman’s that strikes me as most wrongheaded—what does she make of the readymade, which is arguably the most realistic of all works of art?

As for Klee and Miró, the two most egregious absences from this exhibition, they believed that abstraction liberated the artist to embrace nature—or “the nature of nature,” as Klee put it—in a whole new variety of ways. Dickerman would perhaps file Miró under Surrealism, which many would say is itself a form of abstraction. And she did apparently intend to have one Klee in the exhibition, his Homage to Picasso, although the truth is that Klee should have been as central a player in this exhibition as Léger, Malevich, or Arp. The longer I consider the exclusions of Miró and Klee, the more difficult they are to comprehend. Some will say that “Inventing Abstraction” reflects an old orthodoxy at the Museum of Modern Art, where sometimes (although by no means always) abstraction has been regarded as a one-way street leading to ever increasing purity. But if MoMA’s vision of abstraction embraces the work of the Abstract Expressionists, then it makes no sense whatsoever to exclude Miró and Klee, whose richly poetic understanding of the content of abstract art left such a deep impression on the American avant-garde in the 1940s.

Leah Dickerman’s enthusiasm for the work that she embraces here is so heartfelt that it can’t but be infectious. When she places the dark silhouette of Brancusi’s Endless Column before a wall of preternaturally lucid paintings by Malevich, she produces a theatrical effect that museumgoers are going to remember long after this show has closed. And it is pure dramatic genius to set Tatlin’s Monument to the Third International under a skylight, so that the thrusting form seems to be taking off into the stratosphere. Yet in this instance the brilliance with which Dickerman puts together an exhibition—and we have seen it before, with her involvement in exhibitions devoted to Dadaism (when she was at the National Gallery) and to the Bauhaus and the murals of Diego Rivera (at MoMA)—tends to tie the story all too neatly together. The technique of dedicating parts of galleries or entire galleries to work done in particular geographic localities, which brought coherence to heretofore chaotic material in her great Dada show, makes the story in “Inventing Abstraction” look more logical and seamless than it really was. At times, by shifting from one country to another, she seems to be trying to draw our attention away from what might be uncomfortable thoughts. Léger, one of the heroes of her story, would be painting figure compositions well before Dickerman’s closing date of 1925, but before we can even consider that uncomfortable fact we’ve been whisked off to Russia and Malevich’s abstractions. And so it goes.

Considering that many of the artists Dickerman includes had at best a passing interest in her definition of abstract art, you might think Dickerman herself would have begun to ask a few questions. The problem begins at the very beginning of the show, when in the label for Picasso’s Woman with Mandolin, Dickerman quotes Picasso’s famous statement: “There is no abstract art. You always have to begin with something.” For Dickerman, these are fightin’ words, dividing the non-abstract artists (beginning with Picasso) from the abstract ones. Interestingly, Dickerman does not include Picasso’s next line, which in fact complicates the story because what he says is that in the end “you can remove all traces of reality.” In a catalogue essay, the well-known scholar Yve-Alain Bois makes the same point even more aggressively, proclaiming Picasso’s “loathing of abstract art.” My feeling is that both Dickerman and Bois are drawing the lines a little too sharply. Picasso was quite evidently fascinated by Mondrian’s most radically simplified compositions of the 1920s, a fascination reflected in the white expanses, black lines, and primary colors in his Painter and Model series of the late 1920s. And as for the revolutionaries who are the subject of “Inventing Abstraction,” as I moved through the show I found myself coming back to Picasso’s statement, because more often than not the artists were precisely “begin[ning] with something.” If Dickerman really believes what she says, why on earth has she included photographs by Alfred Stieglitz and Paul Strand, which merely look at recognizable sights in a fresh way?

As for the interesting emphasis that Dickerman places on the art of dance—with vintage footage of modern dance performances toward the end of the show—this also raises serious questions about the exhibition’s basic assumptions. Modern dance, with its dramatic reconsideration of the human body’s potential for movement, might be said to be the most realistic art of all, grounded as it is in an exploration of immediate physical experience. Perhaps the point of modern dance was not to regard the body abstractly, but to regard the body in a radically different way than classical ballet, which is arguably the more abstract art in that it imposes on the individual an ideal order, a physical discipline in many respects highly impersonal. By comparison, the modern dancer Mary Wigman, seen here in a performance from 1930, establishes a veritable cult of personality—a naturalism or an expressionism, take your pick, grounded in her own private reality. Dickerman is on far more solid ground when she turns to the relationship between the visual arts and music, a theme at the very beginning of the exhibition, where Vasily Kandinsky and Arnold Schönberg are paired. It is true that music is the most inherently abstract of all the arts, and certainly provided a model for many painters, going back to Fantin-Latour in the nineteenth century. But even here the situation is more complex than Dickerman may allow, because the avant-garde interest in music was also an interest in the Wagnerian unity of the arts—in Gesamtkunstwerk—and even as this encouraged the abstractness of the visual arts it encouraged new forms of symbolic storytelling and image making, which deeply affected the subject matter of Klee, Kandinsky, and many others.

The more I think about “Inventing Abstraction,” the more I find myself arguing with its fundamental assumptions, but the pleasure of the argument is grounded in the intricacy and solidity of Dickerman’s work. Like the great Museum of Modern Art shows of the past—like “Cubism and Abstract Art” (1936), “Dada, Surrealism and their Heritage” (1968), “Primitivism’ in 20th Century Art” (1984), and “Picasso and Portraiture” (1996)—“Inventing Abstraction” challenges us to think our own thoughts. I am left thinking about how often the will to abstraction returns us to representation of one kind or another. I am left thinking that a broader definition of abstraction—a definition that fully embraced the achievements of Miró and Klee and the later work of Kandinsky (which with its symbolic forms may strike Dickerman as insufficiently abstract)—would make it easier to see the art of the twentieth century as a whole. And I am left thinking that a more honest and inclusive view of early modernism would render irrelevant all the talk of postmodernism, because so many of the values we tend to associate with postmodernism—narrative, symbolism, heterogeneity—are in fact aspects of early modernism. As for Picasso’s comment that “you always have to begin with something,” this may reflect not so much a rejection of abstract art as a rejection by this supremely pragmatic and skeptical artist of the spiritual longings that were so often associated with abstract art. The fact is that every artist in “Inventing Abstraction” began with something, even if that something was only a rectangular shape. The invention of abstraction was not about replacing something with nothing or craft with idea (as Dickerman would have Duchamp telling us). Abstraction was the new reality. Apparently we are still catching up with that reality.

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Abstract Critical
14 February 2013

Inventing Abstraction

Written by Ben Wiedel-Kaufmann

‘The movement of abstract art is too comprehensive and long-prepared, too closely related to similar movements in literature and philosophy, which have quite other technical conditions, and finally, too varied according to time and place, to be considered a self-contained development issuing by a kind of internal logic directly from aesthetic problems. It bears within itself at almost every point the mark of the changing material and psychological conditions surrounding modern culture.’ Meyer Shapiro, Nature of Abstract Art, 1937

‘The answer to the question “How do you think a truly radical thought?” seems to be you think it through the network’. Leah Dickerman, Inventing Abstraction, 2012

© 2011 The Museum of Modern Art

The first quote is taken from Meyer Shapiro’s response to the vision of abstraction put forward by Alfred Barr in his exhibition Cubism and Abstract Art, at the Museum of Modern Art, in 1936. The importance of Shapiro’s objection, or indeed Barr’s formalism, bear little repeating here – both  trace long and embellished histories across the last 75 years of art historical thinking. Upon crossing the five-storey high bridges of the new MoMA to enter into the show Inventing Abstraction, however, one might be forgiven for questioning where exactly this last 75 years has led us – aside from across a narrow gangway towards attendant vertigo.

At the entrance one is confronted by a diagram that looks like the remnants of a secret service briefing on Al-Qaeda cells (minus the mug-shots), or a potential app for Facebook: in fact the now forgotten ‘friend circle’ on said social networking site is pretty much exactly what it is. The roughly geographical diagram, connecting individual names (or nodes?) by confusing yet impressive webs of red lines is central to the conception of an exhibition whose subtitling claims to present ‘How a Radical Idea [Abstraction] Changed Modern Art’: ‘How do you think a truly radical thought?… you think it through the network’ asserts curator Leah Dickerman (backed up by social scientists) in the perhaps understandably sweeping tones of the catalogue introduction. This explanation might carry in the context of a secret service briefing, or a study of group dynamics. For the purposes of exploring the genesis of abstraction, however, it seems wildly deficient.

Inventing Abstraction, 1910–1925. The Museum of Modern Art, Imaging and Visual Resources Department, photo Jonathan Muzikar © 2011 The Museum of Modern Art

This is particularly evident if we place the diagram (as we are invited to do) in contrast to the famed diagram Alfred Barr presented on the dust jacket of the catalogue for the aforementioned exhibition. From Barr’s perhaps simplistic, but nonetheless reasoned, exploratory and propositional map of formal influence are reduced to a geographically inspired dot-to-dot.

The absence of an axis of time and the exclusion of any attempt to penetrate the ideas that flowed through the maze of red communication channels are troubling. If Shapiro could criticize Barr’s model for excluding the myriad historical factors external to formal progression, what are we to make of this presentation, where surrounding cultural and historical influence is reduced to an annotated who’s who of abstract practitioners. It is – one might say – a very cogent embodiment of the loss at which, one hundred years after the advent of abstraction, the art world finds itself. Isolated and distanced from both historical and formal analysis, enthralled by the pretences of postmodern social sciences and encumbered by the uncritical trappings of the cult of celebrity we seem unable to form a cohesive historical framework; and are left facing an infographic.

Inventing Abstraction, 1910–1925. The Museum of Modern Art, Imaging and Visual Resources Department, photo Jonathan Muzikar © 2011 The Museum of Modern Art

It would be unfair to unfold an entire analysis of the exhibition on the basis of this diagram alone (although as with Barr’s it may yet stand as the most permanent visual reminder of the historical vision proposed). It is a relief, therefore, after the vertigo of the entrance well, that the exhibition presents one of the more impressive and complete displays of early 20th century abstract painting that is likely to have been compiled anywhere in the world (though Paul Klee is notably absent owing to a failed loan). Accumulated are a huge range of breakthrough works from Arp, Dove, Duchamp(!), Kandinsky, Malevich, Mondrian, Kupka, Leger, Picabia, Popova, O’Keeffe and many more besides. Laid out in an unfolding succession of roughly geographically grouped rooms, this breadth, and much else, makes the exhibition worthy of repeated visits (difficult, of course, from this side of the pond).

Morgan Russell. Synchromy in Orange: To Form. 1913-1914. Oil on canvas, 11’3″ x 10’1½” (342.9 x 308.6 cm). Collection Albright-Knox Art Gallery Buffalo, New York. Gift of Seymour H. Knox, Jr. © 2012 Peyton Wright Gallery. Photo courtesy of Albright-Knox Art Gallery / Art Resource, NY.

If far from all emerge as heroes, grouping together so many artists makes apparent the incandescence of fifteen years of production which witnessed what the exhibition’s organisers and many more before have described as ‘the most dramatic rewriting of the rules of artistic production since the Renaissance’. Looking through the works I was struck by how many of the formal enquiries of the succeeding century were prefigured in that brief period. Picabia’s The Source (1912) and Morgan Russell’s Synchromy in Orange: To Form (1913-14) put pay to the myth that abstract painting owed a monumental scale to Abstract Expressionism (the suppression of scale surely, therefore, falling at the feet of early 20th gallerists); Carlo Carra and Robert Delaunay were, albeit tentatively, raising the possibilities of shaped canvasses some half century before Richard Smith and Frank Stella; and right across the rooms we see multiple investigations into surface tactility, grids, colour theory, deep space, suppressed space, frontal composition, word images and hermetic attempts to forge abstract languages.

For all this vitality, I could not help but feel distanced by MoMA’s presentation. In their attempts to emphasise abstraction’s commonality and novelty they have excluded its historic roots. Whilst a 1910 Picasso (‘abstract in all but name’) bars the entrance wall to the exhibition, its inclusion is intended to attest to abstraction’s ‘conceptual impossibility in 1910’ rather than its artistic lineage. (A usage which conveniently sidesteps Picasso’s continued assertion of abstraction’s conceptual impossibility). And throughout the show works have been selected and organised not to show the evolution and continuity of ideas – the multiple paths which led towards abstraction – but to emphasise the drama and commonality of the conclusions. The Futurists, Leger and Delaunay appear stripped of their evolving interests in simultaneity, urban experience and light and are presented as in some manner homogenous with Kandinsky’s spiritualism. The Americans are presented as Parisian voyagers or strange floating nodes in the network and Dada’s assaults on rationality appear uncritically alongside O’Keeffe’s floral close-ups and Matissean Bloomsbury paintings.

Inventing Abstraction, 1910–1925. The Museum of Modern Art, Imaging and Visual Resources Department, photo Jonathan Muzikar

It is unfortunate that the extensive and beautifully produced catalogue (in which a unifying introductory essay is followed by a series of specific studies) does little to underpin and investigate the foundations of these often quite distinct explorations. Whilst the now standard references to the linguistic experiments of sound poetry, non-Euclidean geometry, Einstein’s Theory of General Relativity, parallel editing in film and breakdowns in subject / object relations in psychology are all present, they are awkwardly pushed into the background by the continued insistence on viewing abstraction as a monolithic invention, pulled from the rib of the network. In this worryingly ahistorical model we are left with very little idea as to the proposed relation of these wider events to the works on display; very little concept of the extent to which such ideas constituted the fabric of the artists’ interests or communications; little to no idea, in short, of the multiple contexts in which the move to abstraction was sown.

Paradigmatic of this approach is the emphasis on cross-media exchange as an apparent source of abstraction. Time and again we are presented with moments in which this exchange is said to have spurred abstraction; be it in the form of Kandinsky’s reaction to a Schoenberg concert or a car journey involving Francis Picabia, Apollinaire and Claude Debussy. But rather than a consideration of the common interests aired in such exchanges we are more often than not left with reductive parables: ‘Put a modern artist, a poet and a composer in a car, rumble along, and what do you get? Abstraction’ states Dickerman. In placing emphasis on such moments without exploring the wider discursive frameworks which informed them, the actual contents of the exchanges remain shrouded in mystery, even as the concept of cross-media exchange (and indeed exchange of any kind) is exalted. As such, for all the attempts to channel music into the gallery (far fewer than I had, in fact, anticipated), we do not move far beyond the problems which Shapiro identified in Barr’s model: for whilst the definition of artistic endeavour is broadened, ‘The history of modern art is [still] presented as an internal, immanent process among the artists.’ (Shapiro)

The contexts in which abstraction came to flourish are of course diverse and complex. Nonetheless, by shortcutting them I cannot help but feel that we move towards reinforcing myth rather than understanding and leave abstraction as a fragile and awkward edifice. In investigating these roots we are not aided by the dissolution of the Marxist certainty that underpinned Shapiro’s analysis nor (and perhaps more disruptively) by the distance which has emerged between the comments and thoughts of so many of the pioneers of abstraction and our own time. It is striking that whilst so many of the formal concerns of the last hundred years seem prefigured in these early works, the pronouncements of many of the leading figures now seem hopelessly distant. Take Kupka’s thoughts on straight lines, ‘a taut cord, energetic beyond nature. Solemn, the vertical is the backbone of life in space’, ‘the horizontal is Gaia, the grandmother’, or Kandinsky’s general spiritual waffle.

František Kupka. Localisation des mobiles graphiques II (Localization of graphic motifs II). 1912-13. Oil on canvas, 6’ 6 ¾” x 6’ 4 3/8″ (200 x 194 cm). National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C, Ailsa Mellon Bruce Fund and Gift of Jan and Meda Mladek. © 2012 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris. Photo courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.

Whilst the current catalogue’s writers (and many art historians before) have attempted to push Kandinsky and Kupka into a contemporary framework by casting their spiritualism as a matter of secondary importance, it seems clear that these spiritual interests provided an essential context for several of the artists who pushed towards abstraction. Kandinsky, Kupka and Mondrian all referred repeatedly and explicitly to the influence of Theosophy on their adoption of abstraction. That these three, coming from different countries and different backgrounds – and not directly connected by the network chart – should all find inspiration in a hybrid form of Eastern mysticism which cast the material world as an illusory fiction seems to offer a more concrete and illuminating path of enquiry into the genesis of abstraction than a million unexplained lines on a diagram. Yet it has been consistently ignored and sidelined.

Vasily Kandinsky. Impression III (Konzert) [Impression III (Concert)]. 1911. Oil on canvas, 30 7/8 x 39 9/16″ (77.5 x 100.5 cm). Städtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus, Munich. © 2012 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris. Photo courtesy of: the Städtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus, München

In presenting the case for abstraction as a ‘radical’ product of the network without acknowledging the heterogeneity of wider interests surrounding the network, the curators belittle the truly radical aspects of abstraction and the exchanges upon which it was built. For whilst Theosophy does not, of course, offer a comprehensive handle by which to approach all of the artists grouped in this exhibition, the shattering of the long-dominant modes of Western thought, which Theosophy’s popularity across Western Europe points towards, surely does. It seems self-evident that, ‘the most dramatic rewriting of the rules of artistic production since the Renaissance’ did not spring magically from the internal logic of the network, but from an equally dramatic shift in social conditions. Ironically, in their obsession with the social scientist’s network theory the curators have, in fact, veiled the influence of a much wider social exchange in which non-Western concepts of spirituality and an increasing familiarity of non-Western modes of art had a transformative role in the evolution of European art.

Writing in his introduction to the third edition of his landmark 1906 study Abstraction and Empathy Wilhelm Worringer described ‘the one-sidedness and European-Classical prejudice of our customary historical conception and valuation of art’ which his study attempted to redress. It is a contribution which has made his study a key text of the period – paralleling as it does a similar shattering of historical conceptions across the arts. Be it through Picasso’s study of African sculpture, Leger’s enthrallment with urban experience or the Russians’ pursuit of a ‘non-objective’ painting, time and time again we witness the artists of the period pulling away from the model of representational aesthetics which had become predominant over the preceding half a millennium. It is a withdrawal which is at once distinct from and bound up in abstraction, a wider centrifugal movement in which abstraction formed a vector. In their vague attempts to present abstraction as the transformative Invention and Idea of the age, however, the curators have lost sight of this context, disembodying abstraction from its wider historical sources and producing a hollowed structure in which diverse experiments are reduced to a series of amorphous and clipped exemplars of abstraction’s networked rise.

The most jarring and perhaps explanatory example of the dismembering of abstraction from the wider contexts of modernity comes at the end of Dickerman’s catalogue introduction. Here she presents Duchamp as the rightful heir of abstraction, the figure who more than anyone else has ‘played out the implications of abstraction in his practice’. She continues: ‘In its inscription of artwork as idea, its expansiveness across media, and its divided structure in which work and text are integrally linked but held apart, and the artist is a producer of both images and words, its implications are vast. In all of these senses, abstraction is a form of ur-modernism: it serves as a foundation for what follows. Today, when we see an obdurate object, an encompassing media installation… text presented as image, or a conceptual script, we see the legacy of the invention of abstraction’.

Inventing Abstraction, 1910–1925. The Museum of Modern Art, Imaging and Visual Resources Department, photo Jonathan Muzikar

Here Dickerman reveals the underlying motives of a context stripped focus on abstraction as an ill-defined Idea. In merging abstraction with the wider pull away from ‘historical conceptions of art’ of which it was a part, she attempts to brand abstraction as the progenitor of the conceptual movement. To do so overlooks the fact that Duchamp’s ‘anti-retinal’ work is, at best, only tangentially aligned with the wider logic of abstraction. For whilst Duchamp was undoubtedly a product of the same historical movement away from tradition, his assaults upon visuality (often launched through playful modes of representation) were by no means intrinsic or central to the wider moves towards abstraction. In merging abstraction with Duchamp’s legacy, whilst stripping it of its wider relations to society, Dickerman disinherits much of the greatest artwork of the previous century, condemning its visuality and social relevance as anachronisms.

Inventing Abstraction: 1910-1925 is on at the Museum of Modern Art until the 15th of April. You can download Meyer Shapiro’s Nature of Abstract Art here

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Wild Things: What Was Abstract Art?

MoMA’s monumental exhibition recalls the time when abstraction affected people like love or revolution.
By
Barry Schwabsky
February 19, 2013

Sometime around 1912, painting changed. Artists from Moscow to Westport, by way of Munich and Paris, began making abstract works. “Observers spoke of the exhilaration and terror of leaping into unknown territory,” Leah Dickerman writes in the catalog for “Inventing Abstraction, 1910–1925: How a Radical Idea Changed Modern Art,” the monumental exhibition she has curated at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City, on view through April 15. This saut dans le vide, she notes, was “accompanied by a shower of celebratory manifestos, lectures, and criticism, a flood of words flung forth perhaps in compensation for their makers’ worry about how the meaning of these pictures might be established.” It also brought a deluge of labels: “pure painting,” “nonobjective painting” and many more, with “abstraction” being merely the stickiest. In the century since then, the squalls of talk haven’t stopped, with art historians and cultural critics joining artists, their promoters and detractors in worrying at the meaning of abstraction. That so much has been said about abstraction has itself become a topic of discussion. In his 1975 book The Painted Word, Tom Wolfe dismissed contemporary art as mere illustrations of art theory—which some of it has been. What’s more striking to me, though, is that after 100 years of abstraction, no one has been able to state conclusively just what it is.

Sometimes I think that indefinability is the defining feature of abstraction: if you can identify what a painting depicts, then it’s not abstract. The problem is that this notion excludes a good deal of the art normally categorized as abstract. I can say that a Josef Albers painting depicts some squares or a Gene Davis painting shows some stripes, and this ought to disqualify them from being called abstract—just as much as my being able to identify a Philip Pearlstein painting as showing some nude models or one by Rackstraw Downes as depicting an industrial landscape would rule out those works.

At other times, I think the opposite. Although abstraction may have been a thrilling venture into the unknown, it could not remain so. Falling in love leads to marriage; there are no permanent revolutions. In the long run, far from being ineffable, abstraction is an artistic genre like any other, like still life or history painting. If a definition is hard to come by, the general parameters are not: abstraction means paintings of things like squares and stripes, brushstrokes and drips, the basic elements of pictorial form and painterly activity.

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I don’t much care for this second definition, but it’s hard to avoid. The virtue of ”Inventing Abstraction” is that it seductively reminds us of the time when abstraction was still a leap, when it affected certain people like love or revolution. And more like revolution than love, for it was a group effort instigated by a determined, committed few, a pivotal fact that “Inventing Abstraction” gets wrong. “Abstraction was not the inspiration of a solitary genius but the product of network thinking,” announces the opening text panel. This seems to promise a new outlook on what is, after all, a pretty familiar history, of which MoMA has been the central proponent for many years. The problem lies in trying to realize it through the evocation of “network thinking,” a trendy concept that tends to downplay the importance of agency—and not only of individuals, whether or not they are “solitary geniuses,” but also of organized groups, movements, coteries. Many of the key nodes of Dickerman’s proposed network are, as she says, “editors of little reviews,” thanks to their ability to connect far-flung artists and writers. Boosters of networking seem to assume that it is always advantageous to accumulate more and more “weak ties,” as they are called—but the classic avant-gardes who contributed to the invention of abstraction valued intense connections and decisive action. As Renato Poggioli pointed out long ago, “the avant-garde periodical functions as an independent and isolated military unit, completely and sharply detached from the public, quick to act, not only to explore but also to battle.”

For all the trendy lingo, MoMA is repeating the story about abstraction it has always told, only with a few of the details filled in differently, and with a concerted effort to point out connections to parallel developments in music, poetry and dance rather than cordoning off the visual arts as a self-contained realm. Dickerman’s appeals to “network thinking,” and her borrowing of terminology from the likes of Malcolm Gladwell—Guillaume Apollinaire as “connector”—are more decorative than transformative. And despite abjuring “solitary genius,” Dickerman begins the story with Picasso, Mr. Genius himself, where MoMA’s tales of modern art so often begin. Picasso, as is well-known, periodically flirted with something like abstraction but consistently pushed it away, even denying its existence: “There is no abstract art,” he once said. “You must always start with something. Afterwards you can remove all appearance of reality; there is no longer any danger, because the idea of the object left an indelible mark.”

Yet beginning with Picasso does make sense, and especially with one of his early Cubist paintings from which the “appearance of reality” has been so successfully effaced that, if not for its title, Femme à la mandoline (Woman With Mandolin; 1910), we could not make out its subject—or is it just that we imagine we can discern it? In any case, our effort to reconstruct the image helps us see the painting as a whole. Such paintings, as well as slightly later ones like “Ma Jolie” (1911–12), which Picasso endowed with a few more visual cues about the possible subject, are still amazing: solidly constructed and entirely evanescent. As Yve-Alain Bois explains in the exhibition catalog, “Each facet, each plane, whether included in the grid or contravening it, is lit and shaded independently, to the effect that no solid is depicted in the round yet at the same time a sense of depth”—and, I would add, a sense of concreteness—“is conveyed.” The wonder of these paintings is not just that the real-world referent has been nearly expunged, but that the painting itself has been endowed with such a distinct sense of presence.

For painters across Europe, Picasso proved that a different kind of painting was possible, one that would no longer have to “start with something” other than the gestures and materials of painting. Even Arthur Dove, in relative isolation in Westport, had seen in New York City a Picasso drawing that Edward Steichen described at the time as “certainly ‘abstract’ nothing but angles and lines that has got [to be] the wildest thing you ever saw.” Yet these painters continued to look to real things as inspiration for paintings that would no longer depict real things. Consider a painting from 1911 by Vasily Kandinsky, who knew Picasso’s work from photographs; he thought that something about the Spaniard’s paintings was “frankly false,” but also constituted a “sign of the enormous struggle toward the immaterial.” Kandinsky’s Impression III (Konzert) (Impression III [Concert]) announces its subject in its subtitle, yet that clue proves insufficient. It takes a comparison with a sketch Kandinsky made that year at a performance of Schöenberg’s music to see how literal a transcription the work really is: the large black shape that rises toward the upper right is nothing other than a piano lid; the oval blobs and fingerlike forms below it are members of the audience. Unlike Picasso’s painting, Kandinsky’s gains little from being sourced; on the contrary, it seems stronger if seen entirely as an implacable assertion of the force of color and texture. Kandinsky needed an abstraction that would no longer have to “start with something,” and having gone this far, he would reach that goal soon enough, for instance in his Komposition V (Composition V), also from 1911. Note not only the lack of subtitle, but also that the musical reference (this is not a depiction of a concert) is conveyed not visually but structurally. Just as, in the nineteenth century, Whistler had given his paintings titles incorporating words like “symphony” and “nocturne” to suggest that his real subject was not the depicted scene but pure form, Kandinsky invokes a musical analogy to tell the viewer not to look for a depicted subject, but rather the relations between the various “notes” of color.

The pairing of Picasso and Kandinsky presents in a nutshell all the dilemmas of abstraction. Whether starting from something already seen was better than starting with the materials of painting was a new problem for painters, but it didn’t spare them the old ones, such as the age-old conflict between the primacy of drawing (as seen in Picasso’s early cubism) or of color (as with Kandinsky). And that’s only the start. Does abstraction, by eschewing pre-established conventions, offer an expression and celebration of “those things that make us individually different and separate from each other,” as MoMA’s former chief curator Kirk Varnedoe once claimed? Picasso might have been pleased to father an art of this sort, just as he would probably have smiled on hearing Vanessa Bell describe a visit to him, in 1914, as one in which “the whole studio seemed to be bristling with Picasso”—where each thing, however unfinished, presented its maker back to himself. But abstraction can also be the herald of whatever is common and universal, as Kandinsky must have believed when he later threw in his lot with the Bauhaus. On this view, the point of abstraction was not just to level the old academies but to supplant them with a new one propagating the new shared values.

In an all-too-contemporary fashion, the metaphor of the “network” allows Dickerman to finesse such disagreements. A network is not an individual, but it’s not a collective either. It is a function neither of inner will or insight nor of shared decision-making. And it lacks discrimination, tending to accept far more than it rejects. But by the same token, Dickerman’s LinkedIn approach makes the exhibition—as Willem de Kooning once said of art itself—seem “like a big bowl of soup,” because “everything is in there already, and you stick your hand in and you find something for you.” At the same time, through its density and the way so many unexpected differences and similarities are provoked, the exhibition communicates something of the giddiness that artists must have felt upon realizing that the rule book was being torn up and would possibly be pieced back together differently. The galleries hum with the feverish mood of a gold rush.

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All the marquee names are here: not only Picasso and Kandinsky, but also Malevich and Mondrian, Duchamp and Léger, Arp and Schwitters, Albers and Lissitzky. They may not have been solitary artists, but that’s no proof they weren’t geniuses. Some play a bigger role than might be expected. Because Francis Picabia gets routinely associated with Dada and Giacomo Balla with Futurism, we may not remember them as great proponents of abstraction. This exhibition tells us otherwise. It also cogently charts the way abstract painting gave birth to abstract sculpture—not so much because sculptors imitated what painters were doing, but because abstraction drew the attention of painters toward the tactile substance of their materials, which turned many of them into sculptors.

But as an exhibition on this scale should do, it also offers surprises. I didn’t know that abstraction had found a toehold in Bloomsbury as early as 1914, when Duncan Grant created a long, scroll-like Abstract Kinetic Collage Painting With Sound and Vanessa Bell made several abstract paintings—including one, with floating rectangles of various colors against a yellow surround (now in the collection of the Tate), that is far more thoroughly reduced, flat and frontal than anything anyone else, even Mondrian, had made at that time. Yet Grant and Bell must have found these experiments unsatisfactory (I certainly do), because they soon returned to making figurative art.

Also from 1914 is a striking Chromatische Phantasie (Chromatic Fantasy) by Augusto Giacometti, cousin of the far more famous Alberto Giacometti. The very few of his works I’ve seen before have been landscapes and still lifes of a broadly post-Impressionist stamp, and no more abstract than a work by Gauguin or Bonnard. But this piece—made, it seems, by roughly dabbing colors onto the canvas with a palette knife—is not only resolutely nonrepresentational but also an abstraction of a sort that seems out of place with anything else in the show, and out of time. With its confident formlessness, and the way touch and color become one, I’d have guessed it to be the work of a tachiste of the 1950s.

For a contrast to Giacometti’s cultivation of the near-random-seeming placement of quite physically distinct bits of paint, there are three drawings by Wacław Szpakowski. Made in 1924, they describe patterns formed by continuous black lines undergoing incessant movement, though always at right angles: the line is always moving either horizontally or vertically, but the patterns created include diagonals. If Giacometti is an unheralded precursor of tachisme, then I suppose Szpakowski plays the same role in relation to Op Art, which makes much of similar optical effects. But as with Giacometti, what’s exciting is not that Szpakowski anticipated a later development; it’s that even within his own time, there is something inexplicable about his having done what he’s done. Using ideas and information similar to those of his peers, he’s arrived at something that is abstract in the strong sense of remaining somehow uncategorizable and even, in a deep sense, unknowable—abstract in a way unlike anything else in “Inventing Abstraction.”

Unfortunately for an exhibition goer who wants to know how Giacometti came to make his Chromatische Phantasie or why he didn’t continue along this line, there’s not a word about him in the catalog. In Szpakowski’s case, one can learn from Jaroslaw Suchan’s contribution that he “was drawn to abstraction by his fascination with the mathematical laws observable in nature” and that “he developed his work not just in isolation from the Polish avant-garde but in complete indifference to the art of the time.” You might find his drawings difficult to distinguish from the kinds of mathematical, scientific or even spiritualistic images that Dickerman insists “are not art at all” because “they were intended to produce meaning in other discursive frameworks.” But that is part of what makes his drawings unsettling and strong. Szpakowski died in 1973, and his works were first exhibited in 1978. The network isn’t everything, and isolation can be necessary even to those who may not quite be geniuses. Szpakowski wasn’t concerned, as Picasso was, with expressing his own anxiety; he was searching for impersonal patterns of universal order. Yet his art was distinctly personal, with a flavor peculiar to itself. Perhaps this is the great lesson of abstraction: that sometimes it can overcome its own antinomies.

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For curators, the inconsistencies between an exhibition and its catalog can be hard to overcome. Anyone who has seen Dickerman’s previous blockbusters for MoMA—on the Bauhaus in 2009 and on Dada in 2006—knows that she is adept at organizing complex exhibitions with scads of material in a lucid way. The same is mostly true here: only the attempt to integrate music into the story falls flat. However, such exhibitions have a particularly symbiotic relation with their catalogs, which need to fill in and give perspective to the historical narrative. In this respect, “Inventing Abstraction” is a disappointment. Perhaps in deference to her fascination with networks, Dickerman’s substantial but fairly succinct introductory essay is followed by thirty-six brief texts on various topics by twenty-four authors (including herself)—not only art historians but luminaries from other fields, such as the composer David Lang and the historian of science Peter Galison. As a result, there is insufficient mediation between her overview and the multitude of details it ought to encompass, and which have been parceled out to the various contributors, who do not always agree with each other or with her.

In her introductory essay, Dickerman seems to take at face value Picasso’s assertion that his first Cubist paintings were done more or less as “pure painting, and the composition was done as composition,” with any identifying “attributes” added only as an afterthought. But in his entry, Yve-Alain Bois refutes this, concluding that Picasso’s interlocutor, Françoise Gilot, had either misunderstood the painter or that he had been indulging in some kind of “convenient” fib. At times, for that matter, Dickerman’s introduction doesn’t even agree with the exhibition. She ends her essay with a brilliant stroke, by claiming Duchamp’s readymades as products of abstraction, and she’s right—but then why isn’t one of them on view? I don’t normally think of Duchamp as a great painter, but really, it’s good to be reminded that Le passage de la vierge à la mariée (The Passage From Virgin to Bride; 1912) is as ravishingly painted as anything in the show. Even so, the inclusion of his Bottle Rack (1914) or his snow shovel, In Advance of the Broken Arm (1915), would have shown another outcome of his interest in abstraction altogether. Like much of the best abstraction, those works are at once paradigmatic and almost inscrutably idiosyncratic.

New York Painter Stanley Whitney’s Formalist Inventions and Biography

 

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HYPERALLERGIC

GalleriesWeekend

Stanley Whitney in the 1990s

Stanley Whitney, "In Our Songs" ( ), oil on Linen 77 x 103 inches (all images courtesy Karma gallery)

Years ago I saw a drawing in a modest exhibition at the Centre Pompidou that Picasso made on a sheet of stiff cardboard while he was on a picnic with his friends, Michel and Louise Leiris. Not one to waste space, Picasso divided the surface into a grid, and in each small square he made a quick contour drawing of his longtime friends. Here was Picasso, a person who loved making art so much that he had to be doing it all the time, including while relaxing in the French countryside. I recalled that drawing the other day when I saw the exhibition, Stanley Whitney, at Karma (June 15–July 26, 2015).

There are eighty-one works displayed on one wall in the front room of this bookstore/gallery. They range from around seven by nine inches to twenty-two by twenty-eight inches. They include small oils done on prepared canvas, crayon on paper, and graphite on paper. Whitney made them between 1990 and ’99, and I suspect this selection is just a glimpse.

And there are five large paintings from the ‘90s in the gallery’s spacious back room.

Installation shot of Stanley Whitney's "Radical Openness" (1992), oil on canvas, 81 1/2 x 103 1/2 inches

Drawing and mark making are what all of the artist’s works, whatever their size, share. In an interview that I did with Whitney in The Brooklyn Rail (October 2008), he talked about the importance of drawing to his work:

You know, I began working in this studio in ’72. The paintings were going nowhere. I remember that I always liked Van Gogh’s drawings, and there were always some at the Guggenheim. So I made these big black-and-white landscape drawings that were reminiscent of the works of Van Gogh. The drawings were very important to me; they were key to figuring out the space. Even now with the paintings, no matter how structured they are, the lucid stuff really belongs to drawing.

Van Gogh freed line from description, which appealed to Whitney for a number of reasons, including his love of abstraction. In the small oils and works on paper, he uses a coiling energetic line and quick daubs to define shapes that evoke masonry or heads. The shapes are arranged on shelf-like bands that span the length of the composition. Sometimes they are close together, like morning commuters on the subway, other times there is a substantial space between them. 

Working within the self-imposed restraint of a loosely defined structure, Whitney draws different colored lines within a rounded abstract shape. In the two earliest paintings in the exhibition — “Radical Openness” (1992) and “My Whatever Means Necessary” (1992) — Whitney insets a series of rounded shapes on shelf-like bands against a uniformly colored ground. Within each shape he drew an energetic line in paint, a flurry, that wants to burst beyond the shape’s boundaries, but doesn’t. Sometimes he draws another line over the first. He places one color on top of, as well as beside another. There is a dissonance within the structure, but there is also air and space. The paintings are gritty, urban and brisk. They evoke graffiti, but don’t cite it.

An installation view of Stanely Whitney's "My Whatever Means Necessary" (1992), oil on canvas, 81 1/2 x 103 inches

In the three later paintings, which Whitney did after he went to Egypt in 1994, he begins emptying the air and space out of the paintings. As he told me in the interview:

[…] it was in Egypt that I discovered density. That’s what Egypt was about. In Rome, you have all this great architecture. That was the big thing: architecture. But then I went to Egypt — the pyramids and all the tombs. I realized that I could stack all the colors together, and not move the air. I realized in Egypt — it just came to me — that I could get the kind of density I wanted in the work. Egypt was the last key to the puzzle.

It is in 1996, after traveling to Egypt, that Whitney began bringing the planes of color closer together. In the large horizontal paintings “The Trials of Misfortune” (1996) and “In Our Songs” (1996), you see Whitney moving towards the kind of density that he eventually arrived at in his work, and for which he has become known since the turn of the century.

By the ‘90s Whitney has pretty much established his palette, which consists of variations of primary and secondary colors, along with brown, black and white. What he had to give up was linear mark making, the line. Only by jettisoning the line, something he loved making, could he achieve the density of color and solidity that he long desired. Whitney belongs to that select group of artists who are willing to give up what they know how to do well, in order to move on

An installation view of 80 works on paper and canvas (1990) by Stanley Whitney

In the small canvases and works on paper, which were done throughout the ‘90s, Whitney’s restlessness and single-mindedness are evident. It is this combination — and the evident pleasure that he got from making these works — that brought Picasso’s drawing on cardboard to mind. I don’t imagine Whitney thought that he would one day exhibit paintings done on inexpensive prepared canvases measuring seven by nine inches, and he didn’t do them for that purpose.

Genius, a word that is handed out like candy on Halloween, especially when it comes to monetarily successful artists in our lucre-obsessed world, is beside the point. Picasso and Whitney both need and love to draw, to make something out of whatever materials are at hand. And for Whitney, whose first New York solo museum exhibition, Stanley Whitney: Dance the Orange, is about to open at the Studio Museum in Harlem (July 16–October 25, 2015), this exhibition of work from the 1990s at Karma, along with its beautifully designed book, which spans the years 1978–2015, serve as both an introduction to what the artist has been up to, often while few people were looking, and, more importantly, as a reminder that beauty can come from hard work, especially when you love doing it.

Stanley Whitney continues at Karma gallery (39 Great Jones, Noho, Manhattan) until July 26, 2015.

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Stanley Whitney’s work “My Name Is Peaches” is at the Studio Museum in Harlem. Credit Chang W. Lee/The New York Times

Abstract painting moves in mysterious ways. Sometimes it leaps ahead and challenges us to keep up, as with Malevich’s black square of 1915, Jackson Pollock’s dripped skeins from the late 1940s, or Frank Stella’s shaped canvases and metallic stripes of the early ’60s. And sometimes abstract painting seems to stall, its devotees settling for cautiously repeating accepted conventions — monochrome, grids, stripes and so forth.

But certain artists stick with these conventions until they find themselves in them and show us something new. An example is Stanley Whitney, who, with a freehand geometry and a fierce and extensive range of color, found his way to a painting style all his own, one that neither stops history in its tracks nor repeats it, but has quietly and firmly expanded abstraction’s possibilities of both form and meaning.

This much is demonstrated by two excellent complementary exhibitions that combine paintings and works on paper to their great benefit. “Stanley Whitney: Dance the Orange,” at the Studio Museum in Harlem, features efforts from the last seven years, when Mr. Whitney greatly heightened the power and clarity of his work. And Karma, a gallery and artists’ book publisher on the Lower East Side, has mounted a group of little-seen works from the 1990s that give some idea of the diligence that led to the pieces in Harlem, most exuberantly in a wall hung salon-style with scores of drawings in graphite or crayon and tiny oil studies. (For a more detailed account of Mr. Whitney’s creative path, a new Karma book reproduces 311 drawings and paintings, dating from 1978 to 2015 — and no text.)

Photo

The exhibition “Stanley Whitney: Dance the Orange” at the Studio Museum in Harlem includes the 2013 title work, center, surrounded by four untitled paintings, with “My Tina Turner” visible in the outer gallery. Credit Chang W. Lee/The New York Times

He has energized abstraction for himself and others by using saturated color and the Modernist grid for their mutual reinvention. In so doing, he has devised an improvisatory, enriched Minimalism, whose hard edges, ruled lines and predetermined systems have been loosened and destabilized, whose colors are more random — all of which gives the viewer an immense amount to look at and mull over.

Mr. Whitney’s system is flexible and simple: On square canvases, he arranges sturdy blocks of singing color into vibrant grids, without benefit of straight edge, reinforcing them with at least three horizontal bands. When these bands match the blocks, space is altered by the effect of banners hanging from ribbons. These grids are always irregular, and slivers of color often intrude from the edges, implying other blocks that might yet slide into view, creating a different arrangement.

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Another exhibition, “Stanley Whitney,” is at the Karma gallery on the Lower East Side. Credit Courtesy the artist and Karma, New York

All of these relationships are in play in every painting at the Studio Museum, but they occur with special complexity in “Dance the Orange,” the 2013 work that gives the show its title. Five different oranges crowd an expansive block of yellow, reinforced by horizontal bands of orange that blend — or don’t — with them. Their conflagration is balanced on the right by a stack of two blues and a black.

Like all of the work by this African-American artist, the painting encourages an epiphany: Every block of color is different, with its own shape and proportion, as well as its own hue, surface and relationship to the whole. This is a condition rich in visual, philosophical and political implications.

The Studio Museum show features work from the last seven years. Credit Chang W. Lee/The New York Times

Mr. Whitney was born in Philadelphia in 1946 and grew up there. He moved to New York in 1968 after earning his B.F.A. at the Kansas City Art Institute, and he received an M.F.A. from Yale in 1972. As he suggests to Lowery Stokes Sims, a former director of the Studio Museum, in an interview that is the catalog’s most substantial text, his artistic development may have been somewhat prolonged by his blackness. He always knew he was a painter, but it took him until the late 1970s to feel entirely at ease with being an abstract one, and until the early ’90s to hit his stride. He had to contend with the assumption that, as a black artist, he should tackle social issues head-on. Referring to his blackness and maleness and to “just being a human being,” he tells Ms. Sims, “When you’re facing a blank canvas, you need all these things to make it something.” His totality as a person would be evident in his paintings if they were strong and truly his own.

Mr. Whitney’s art has affinities throughout the history of 20th-century painting. His palette echoes that of other African-American artists, in particular the figurative artists Bob Thompson and Jacob Lawrence, both advocates of bright, opaque color, who rarely use white.

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Untitled works from 2014. Credit Chang W. Lee/The New York Times

The virtual absence of white in Mr. Whitney’s work creates a great visual heat and internal pressure — an alloverness that reflects his careful study of Pollock — but, of course, it also has symbolic overtones. It links Mr. Whitney’s paintings to textiles that minimize white — Amish and Gee’s Bend quilts and African kente cloth — and also to the unrelenting black, green and red of the Pan-African flag. It also reflects a society in which nonwhite skin tones are proliferating, and whiteness, both as a construct and a fact, is changing and shrinking.

Although “Dance the Orange” is a line from Rilke, the titles of Mr. Whitney’s paintings sometimes touch on political attitudes or cultural identity: “Radical Openness” and “Unpronounceable Freedom” (at Karma); and, at the Studio Museum, “Congo” and “James Brown Sacrifice to Apollo.” Also at the museum, “My Tina Turner” conjures a special, private understanding, and repossession, of a widely celebrated black artist. The exceptionally beautiful “My Name Is Peaches” is titled with a line from Nina Simone’s “Four Women.”

But Mr. Whitney has many connections to a more mainstream Modernism. His intuitive, improvised color, for example, echoes Matisse’s but from within a formal structure closer to Mondrian’s. In the catalog interview, he admires Hans Hofmann’s bright canvases (the best of which lack white, by the way) and Giorgio Morandi’s narrow yet intuitive focus on still life. There are comparisons to be made with Josef Albers’s concentric squares of color and also Mary Heilmann’s freehand geometries.

You can see the primacy of color emerge in the Karma show. Here, the color blocks are more like irregular stones and covered with bright, contrasting scribbles that evoke graffiti and children’s drawings. In the Studio Museum show, which was organized by Lauren Haynes, the associate curator, the blocks have filled out, closed off the background and gone solid. Scribble-free, they are opaque monochromes — smooth and delicate as skin, and matte — although the brush and underlying colors are sometimes visible. Undiluted, with no reflections, color is greatly empowered.

At a moment when looking at a static art object is often dismissed unnecessarily by advocates of performance, participatory or social-practice art for encouraging only “passive contemplation,” Mr. Whitney’s paintings are opulently interactive and engaging. Instead of “What you see is what you see,” Mr. Stella’s closed-off pronouncement about his own early abstractions, Mr. Whitney might propose, “What you see is where you start.” To speed our journeys, each one different, his paintings provide a nearly inexhaustible cache of provisions.

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BROOKLYN RAIL MAGAZINE

In Conversation

Stanley Whitney with John Yau

On the eve of his three-person exhibition (January 8th–February 14th, 2009) at Team Gallery, Rail Art Editor John Yau paid a visit to Stanley Whitney’s Cooper Square studio to talk about his life and work.

John Yau (Rail): Because you’re such a well-kept secret, I want to start with your background.

Stanley Whitney: I grew up in Philadelphia and went to the Kansas City Art Institute—East Coast to Midwest. It was strange, but I needed to get away. You know: The Vietnam War. But, before going to Kansas, I went to the Columbus School of Art and Design in Columbus, Ohio. That’s how little I knew about art. Kansas City was recruiting people in those days. I looked at Chicago, but Kansas gave me a great deal, so I went there from ’66 to ’68, then came to New York to go to the Studio School.

Stanley Whitney’s studio in Cooper Square, Manhattan. September 18, 2008.

Rail: How old were you when you came to New York?

Whitney: I must have been about twenty-two.

Rail: Didn’t Guston help you get here?

Whitney: Yeah. I met Guston at a summer program in ’67. And he loved the work. I was going through a lot of changes—I had changed from being a figurative painter to an abstract painter. I was drawing a lot, and not painting much. He wasn’t painting much either. He liked the drawings, and recruited me to go to the Studio School. I ended up going there, but I didn’t like it. I wanted to hang out at Max’s Kansas City, so I dropped out. But Guston was very good about it. At the time I worked at the Strand bookstore, and he bought supplies at a nearby art store; he would come by and talk to me at the Strand. I was going through a lot, being in New York, and he was very supportive of what I was dealing with. He said, “Do what you gotta do.”

Rail: And you ended up going to Yale.

Whitney: Yeah, I ended up going to Yale. Around the time I met Guston I met Bob Reid, an African-American painter who studied at Yale. He was teaching at Skidmore, before that at a summer program. While I was in New York, I wanted to go up there to work in the summer, so I wrote Bob about that, and he wrote back and told me he was at Yale, and that I should go there for graduate school. He sort of recruited me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go. I had been in New York a year and a half and I was trying to keep my foot in the door. I thought, why go back to school? But I did. And people encouraged me. Al Held was a teacher of mine at Yale. He was a great teacher.

Rail: Al was also changing his paintings.

Portrait of the artist. Pencil on paper by Phong Bui.

Whitney: At the time he was making black and white paintings, which were lines, and no color. I liked those paintings a lot. There was a lot of great artwork in New York in ’68 and ’69. I saw a lot that I didn’t quite know what to do with. Everything was new. Looking at a Newman, a Pollock, a Rothko. I mean, what can you do with that? You saw a painting and you liked it, but there was no room for you to say, Well, I’ll do this. And you had all these Color Field painters that were doing process stuff. I kind of did that, but I found that work structurally weak. I liked the color. I was always a colorist, but I didn’t know what to do with that kind of color and lack of structure. It was a difficult time in terms of figuring out how to re-invent painting. I mean, now I kind of get it. Now you go to Newman, you go to Judd. And then from that you get back to painting. For me, in my work, you can sort of say “Newman, Judd, then Me.” Because Judd helped me reinvent painting. With those people, there weren’t any drawings.

Rail: Drawing is central to you, even though you’ve barely ever shown them.

Whitney: You know, I began working in this studio in ’72. The paintings were going nowhere. I remember that I always liked Van Gogh’s drawings, and there were always some at the Guggenheim. So I made these big black-and-white landscape drawings that were reminiscent of the works of Van Gogh. The drawings were very important to me; they were key to figuring out the space. Even now with the paintings, no matter how structured they are, the lucid stuff really belongs to drawing.

Rail: Are you still drawing a lot?

Whitney: The last two or three years I’ve been doing little paintings instead of drawing. It took me a long time to move out of drawing. Once drawing allowed me to figure out the space, I stopped except for some color drawings. I do a little drawing, but haven’t done any major drawings for the past six years. But drawing helped me to get here. I showed drawings last year for the first time in a long time. I have a sketchbook that I draw in all the time. But I don’t really show them.

Rail: One person that you knew when you came from Kansas was Don Christensen, Dan’s brother.

Whitney: Yes. Don was also painter. He left Kansas for New York in ’67, earlier than the rest of us, and didn’t come back. We all lived on Bowery because David Stratford and Don had a place there. All the galleries were uptown and everyone lived downtown.

Rail: And there was this whole group of Color Field painters, like Dan Christensen, and it included a number of African Americans. Did you meet them when you got to New York?

Whitney: I did. I met Jack Whitten and Peter Bradley when I was twenty-two. They were hanging out in the scene. With the whole music thing and color, there is something there with African-American color. They were in that Color Field scene, which was really open, because it was a party scene. They had a lot of great parties. We didn’t sit around and talk about art too much. Greenberg would be in the corner with his “people” who you couldn’t talk to. If you went over there, they’d stop and look at you and not talk. I was in that scene for a while but dropped out of it because I could see that I didn’t fit in.

“James Brown Sacrifice to Apollo”
oil on linen 72″ × 72″ 2008

Rail: You didn’t seem to fit into any scene. You dropped out of the Studio School scene, and you didn’t feel like you belonged to the Color Field scene or with the African-American painters working that way.

Whitney: There were always aspects of the scene I liked, but I didn’t really feel comfortable. I didn’t see myself in any scene. That was even true when I came out of Yale and hung out with Bob Rauschenberg and Al Taylor, who I knew from Kansas. That scene was Pop to me. So I never belonged to any scene. I was just there in the Pop scene, witnessing things, mostly because I wasn’t very interested in the subject matter. I definitely related to the Color Field artists, but the work didn’t have enough structure for me. I watched all of it, but I wasn’t about to act on it. I was in the studio, struggling and struggling, from ’72 to the late ’80s, just trying to make work. People quite liked the work, but I had too much of it. I had drawings and paintings. I had work all over the place. Even Rauschenberg said to me, “You’re giving people too many choices, you can’t give people too many choices.”

Rail: And didn’t going to Egypt change all this?

Whitney: Yeah, that was really the place. I knew how to draw, so I was drawing a lot. And I was teaching at Tyler in Rome. Now at this point I was really working with the kind of structural work I do now, but they were much looser. I was painting a lot of bold color into the field, a great deal of it. I knew I should go to Egypt. This was about ’94. And it was in Egypt that I discovered density. That’s what Egypt was about. In Rome, you have all this great architecture. That was the big thing: architecture. But then I went to Egypt—the pyramids and all the tombs. I realized that I could stack all the colors together, and not move the air. I realized in Egypt—it just came to me—that I could get the kind of density I wanted in the work. Egypt was the last key to the puzzle.

Rail: You got to New York in ’68, and for 25 years you struggled to figure out how to structure color, which you did around ’94.

Whitney: I think that’s about right.

Rail: When did you switch from acrylic to oil?

Whitney: That must have been in the late ’80s, early ’90s. I wasn’t loose enough in the painting because I couldn’t really draw in acrylic. Going to Italy was a big thing. I remember going to the Etruscan museum in Volterra, and seeing all the stuff stacked on shelves. And I thought, just stack the color. Before that I was trying to move the color around, and being baroque. Then I thought, just stack it, make it really simple. Let the color really be magic. Italy was a good thing, getting out of the States, out of New York.

Rail: For an abstract artist to be independent, particularly in the late ’60s, meant not following in the path of Frank Stella or the Color Field painters.

Whitney: Yeah, that’s true. Stella was always all over the place. I watched all that work but I was always very critical of it. The way he used color, the idea, “right out of the can,” I thought, touch is more important. I would say my work was somewhere between Pollock and Rothko. I liked how open Pollock was, but I liked how wide and still Rothko was. There was never any one thing I could say, “this is it.” I was sort of in between everything. I remember thinking, well, Stanley, you could change the work. The color threw people off. People would say, are you from the Caribbean? What’s this about?

Rail: They’d project on to you because of being African-American.

Whitney: Well, people thought the color should be more playful, and it wasn’t. If you use color, then color should be this. The color wasn’t that. The paintings were always a little too off, a little too tough. People wanted the color to be loose and playful.

Rail: And yet, at the same time, there are references in some of your paintings. There’s that painting you did after Katrina devastated New Orleans; I realized the purple and green were associated with the city. The references are never really obvious. Someone else said the color came from African blankets and textiles.

Whitney: Yeah, all that’s kind of true. Sometimes there are references, and sometimes there are events that hit you. Most of the time I can’t control the color, it just comes.

Rail: But it’s not set.

Whitney: No, I’m kind of all over the place. I think that’s why I was a slow developer. African textiles, any kind of textile, quilts, all those things influenced me. It’s like the difference between Matisse and Picasso. In the Matisse show at the Metropolitan, you saw some of his sources, a Romanian blouse, for example. Picasso would never use a Romanian blouse as a total source, like Matisse. Women’s work, or things made by people who are ex-slaves or field people, also influenced me.

Rail: But you don’t make it a thing about it in your work either. You don’t want to be closed into any one thing. The Matisse show, the colors of New Orleans, and African textiles—all of them are useful. How do you start?

Whitney: I start at the top and work down. That gets into call and response. One color calls forth another. Color dictates the structure, not the other way around. I wanted something very simple that would allow the color to have a life. I start at the top and put down a color and then another. I just want it to be whatever the painting needs.

Rail: Do you go back into it?

Whitney: Usually there are two or three sessions and I go over every color. If there’s a yellow, it probably takes two or three different layers of yellows to make it looks the way it does. I kind of feel the color. Color for me is all about touch. Whether it’s thicker or thinner—how you touch the canvas is different. If I put it on at a different weight, it’s a different color. The question for me is whether to repeat a color. I want to paint every color in the world. If I repeat a color—I work hard at repeating, so a lot of times I’m reducing the painting. I usually have a lot more color and take some out.

Rail: I didn’t know that. I feel like that’s one of your projects—how much color can you get into a single painting?

Whitney: With a painting what you see is not what you get. They’re to live with and not to look at. As you live with them you see more and more.

Rail: Do the titles come to you before or after?

Whitney: After. It’s like trying to name your kids. I read a lot. I write a lot in my sketchbook. I think about titles that make sense. This one’s called “James Brown: Sacrifice to Apollo.” which people will probably mistakenly call “James Brown at the Apollo”. This happened after Brown died. This is what I want to do. Who owns what? Who names what? Titles for me are clues. If someone wants to dig deeper in a literal way, they can get in there.

Rail: I would say that your palettes couldn’t be a higher key. It’s largely primary. Primary and secondary colors with some other colors mixed in.

Whitney: Yeah it is, but I have no control of that. Red is dominant. Red, yellow, blue, green. The palette just comes. I follow my work wherever it goes—out the door, around the corner. I gotta follow the work. It’s high key now because I’m focusing on intensity. It’s kind of a heavy beat—it comes from the West African drumbeat. Music in the African-American community is what saves people. I grew up and music was everything. That’s a big part of my painting.

Rail: You said you used to make moody, expressionist paintings in undergraduate school.

Whitney: Yeah, and the color got depressed; I was struggling with oil paint. I got involved with Spanish painting: Goya, moody, dark. In those days it was more about controlling paint—so I really couldn’t get the color. I think the way it ended was that it got too psychological. “This means this and this means that.” I realized I wasn’t a storyteller. Once I realized I wasn’t a storyteller, I asked, “what do I do?” That’s when I saw Morris Louis, his color, and realized there was another way.

Rail: As an African-American, you’re expected to tell certain stories.

Whitney: Yeah, who or what do you paint? Bob Thompson did a great job painting in colors. He figured that out. He had just died and I remember going to the New School to see some of his paintings. Painting in New York at that time was really big, so I got to see a lot. But I couldn’t find my piece of the puzzle.

Rail: We’ve also talked about Alma Thomas, and how little people know about the long history of abstraction among African-Americans.

Whitney: Thomas is a well kept secret. She is so difficult because she was so good and she got good after she retired, in her sixties or seventies, in Washington D.C. So you have [Kenneth] Noland and [Gene] Davis, and you have Alma Thomas, this older African-American woman painter. I think people had a hard time deciding what to do with her then and even now.

With African-Americans, race is always a big issue, and how the art answers the call to race. Everyone understands how to be a doctor or a lawyer—a social activist—to answer the call to race, but what does painting have to do with it? There is this need to see yourself, so you’ve got to pretend you don’t see yourself; you’re told you’re an outsider, but you’re not an outsider. You want images of yourself. You want to go to movies and museums and see yourself. And you’re there, just like women are there. When you go to the Met, you’re in the quilt section, not with the paintings. So that’s a big thing. Being an abstract painter, what does that do? Where does that fit in? People have a hard time with that. Take MoMA, and how they have it all lined up—where does abstract painting or Thomas fit in? They don’t. Hopefully in the 21st century, things will get rewritten, and you’ll see that work, or people will get interested in that work, which is really a secret.

Rail: And you know that there are many others in that position.

Whitney: Yeah, there are. David Hammons curated a show in Vienna at Christine Koenig Galerie, “Quiet as It’s Kept.” I wanted an Alma Thomas there, but I couldn’t get one. So there were three generations; I was in the middle. It was a whole history of abstract work that people don’t know how to deal with. In America, people want to simplify. With my work, I want people to ask difficult questions.

Rail: Wasn’t that something you were conscious of all along?

Whitney: When you’re painting, you’re fixing the painting you’re painting. When you’re on the street, you’re not. Outside the studio, it’s very complicated. When I’m not painting or when I’m looking at the paintings, I’m kind of aware of that. But when I’m painting, I’m just a painter. You do so much work outside the studio, going to look at work, reading, or discussing. I never like my work when I’m painting. It took me a long time to like them. I paint them, but then I hate them. I never get what I want. It takes me a long time to relax and see what I have, as opposed to what I wanted. It takes me a while to see it.

Rail: That’s an interesting split, because you can bring all that street stuff into your studio and have that determine what you paint. Or you can say, there is another way that isn’t beholden to an external agenda.

Whitney: I think I was always difficult, even when I was young. I was getting into a lot of trouble in high school and college. I was a big troublemaker. In the ’60s there were the Panthers, Civil Rights, and Dr. King, and I wanted to paint. How could I justify that? I avoided the Panthers in Kansas City because I wanted to paint, and I thought, God, I can’t tell them that I’m a painter; it’s a bourgeois activity. When people were telling you that you were African-American, and you should be a voice of the race, and this is what you need to do, and you’re a painter.

Rail: And painting, as we’ve been told, is a white, European, decadent, bourgeois activity.

Whitney: Yeah, and you’re born as a painter, so what is that? So you had to hide out and protect yourself and go paint. And through painting, you discover why it’s important. I think that I was always that individual.

Rail: The other thing you said was that you felt like you were a witness, because others didn’t know what to do with you. Like with Rauschenberg.

Whitney: Well, I wasn’t an entertainer. I think people—if they walked into a room—wouldn’t listen to you as the artist. I was very quiet and not particularly aggressive. I was clear about what I was striving for in the studio, but I wasn’t clear about what I wanted from the art world. It’s two different things. It took me a long time to grow up and get real.

Rail: That takes patience. It’s figuring it out in the studio, rather than on the street.

Whitney: Yeah, I guess so. It’s funny because now I’m reading a lot of art criticism. Reading is a bigger thing now than going to museums to look at art, because I feel like I did my homework earlier. I’m looking at my path (when you get older you have a past, the present, and the future) and think what I did or why I did it. Why didn’t I hang on Guston’s coattails, and use that to better my career? But at the time I was so involved in my work. The studio was everything for me. I had a salary, I could teach, I could make work. I was willing to put the time in—that was a big decision, to realize I wanted to put the time in. The scary thing is to think as a young painter now, that if you put the time in, and make the work, and twenty years later people go, “I don’t like it or want it.” You’re gambling, because the world changes quickly. There’s also the money factor, which says you better show early. Because when you’re showing early and you’re building your career, it’s one brick at a time. So you really want to show the work, have it out there, have a conversation, and meet people. I wanted to be left alone, and paint. I think of myself still pretty much as a hermit.

The Rail: Who came to New York.

Whitney: I always loved New York. Even as a kid I remember coming to New York, and I wanted to be an artist. I remember coming with my mother and a friend of hers; we went down to the Village, and walked by a basketball court on 4th Street. There were street artists drawing portraits, and one guy said, “I’m the best artist in New York.” I thought, “Oh my God, I just got here, and I’m ten years old, and I’ve met the best artist in New York.”

Rail: In New York, you can go out every night and still feel like you missed something. Or you decide to stay home and do your work.

Whitney: It’s funny because Al Taylor and I used to try to hang out. There were lots of parties on 14th street, wild scenes, but after a while you realize if you want to paint, you can’t do that. You really can’t; you have to put the time in. And then you bounce back. So I got into this rhythm: teaching, painting, teaching, painting.

Rail: What about now?

Whitney: I retired. I realized that I didn’t want to teach. I taught for over thirty years. I also chaired, hired people, had graduate students, and undergraduate students. That was enough. There’s nothing else I would have accomplished, and I wanted to spend more time in the studio.

Rail: Do you have any theories about color?

Whitney: I wouldn’t want to go there. I want to leave it to itself. You know, color’s very magical, and I want to leave it magical. People in the West always want to have control and science, and they have a hard time, sometimes, with it being just what it is. Someone could ask why I put that blue next to that gray—because it feels good. That should be there, that amount, that density. It just feels right. Those kind of things—you know when you go to a movie in a theater, how do you pick a seat out? It just feels right. If you think about it, you get fucked up.

Rail: It’s about ownership.

Whitney: I remember going to see a show at the New York Public Library on 42nd street. It was a show on New York; there were no African-Americans, Asians, anybody of color. And, as a painter, it’s like what I should be drawing or who owns this or who owns that. I was always aware of ownership. I’m standing in front of this Cézanne in this museum in Ohio; it had a beat. I could see it as music. I’m sure the people who write about Cézanne wouldn’t write about Charlie Parker. You know what the great thing about art is, painting reinvents time and time doesn’t exist. Today or tomorrow doesn’t exist in a painting. You look at Caravaggio, and it’s really contemporary. Time doesn’t exist. That’s the good thing about painting. And also painting was where I could take responsibility. Painters are well-disciplined; they want the responsibility. You don’t rely on someone else—what do you think? Should we do this, should we do that? You do everything. I didn’t really want to work somewhere. I made myself up. People have mentioned Malevich, Carl Andre, and Matisse, this color and that. There’s lots of ways it can go if you really have the knowledge. Look at the title, figure things out from the title, James Brown: Sacrifice to Apollo. I guess with me, I really want that kind of depth.

Contributor

John Yau

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BOMB MAGAZINE

Stanley Whitney

by Alteronce Gumby

BOMB’s Oral History Project documents the life stories of New York City’s African American artists.Download this Oral History as a PDF, EPUB, or MOBI file for your ereader.


Stanley Whitney at his studio in Parma, Italy, 2012. Photo by Marina Adams. Courtesy of the artist.

It gives me great honor to present BOMB Magazine’s Oral History of Stanley Whitney. Stanley is a New York based artist born and raised in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. He studied art at various institutions, including Columbus College of Art and Design, Kansas City Art Institute, and Yale University. He is represented by TEAM Gallery in New York City, Nordenhake Galerie in Berlin, Christine König Galerie in Vienna, and Albert Baronian in Brussels. Stanley spends his time between New York City and Parma, Italy with his wife, the painter Marina Adams.

During the final year of my BFA at Hunter College, I was looking for Afro-American abstract painters. It was my subject of interest at the time. I wanted to know how contemporary Afro-American artists used abstraction and for what functions. Were they talking about identity, race, stereotypes, or politics in their work? After five years of studying art intensively, I arrived at the podium with a handful of names. Stanley Whitney was one of them.

I first met Stanley at an exhibition opening. I, being an overly curious student, had so many questions about his work. I remember being really nervous and asking him five questions at once. “Stanley, what does the grid mean to you, do you consider yourself a modernist, what’s your favorite color?” I remember standing there waiting for his response to, hopefully, at least one of those questions—some words of wisdom from a great artist. Stanley shook his head slightly, glanced up at me and said, “Look, I’m doing this talk next week at SVA on my work. You can ask me all the questions you want then.”

The information a fine art student gets from an art history class and the knowledge one gains from talking with an actual artist about their work are two separate things. I believe both forms of information are needed for an enriched understanding of their ideas and direction toward making art. Stanley told me once, “There are many art histories … and many art worlds.” The more I talked to him about his work and influences, the more I found that statement to be true. Every artist creates their own history, their lineage through other artists and practices that lead them to this “thing” called art, and it takes place in their studios, their world. It takes more than just a BFA or MFA degree to arrive at a place in one’s practice where subject, material, and image project a new idea and perspective of the world around us. The amalgamation of life experiences is present in every painting, every gesture, and every decisive mark Stanley makes in his work.

I remember walking into TEAM Gallery for Stanley’s solo show, Other Colors I Forget, and being completely blown away. Stanley’s world and the world around us were right in front of me in those paintings. The colors, structure, space, rhythm, soul, human interaction. I heard the music, I felt the beat, the energy and intellect of the painting; it mirrored the life of the artist. “It’s all a part of it,” Stanley said.


Stanley Whitney in his Cooper Square studio, New York, 2015. Photos by Richard Goldstein.

Alteronce Gumby Today is April 12, 2014. It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and the work in Stanley’s studio is just as vibrant as the streets of New York are right now. Stanley, let’s start from the beginning. Can you tell us where you’re from, where you grew up?

Stanley Whitney Yes, I grew up outside of Philadelphia, in the Main Line, in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, which is a wealthy, old area associated with the Pennsylvania Academy. Where Grace Kelly comes from. I grew up in a very small Afro-American community. Basically we were two streets of Afro-Americans, two or three streets of Irish. It wasn’t really segregated; but even though you saw the Irish community, you didn’t really deal with them, and they didn’t deal with you, though we went to school together.

AG What did most people do there? What was the main trade?

SW Well, most of the black community was help for the rich people. Actually, the rich people had two choices. They had black help or Irish help. The second generation of the Irish became small businesspeople—grocery stores, fish stores, beverage stores, you know, corner stores. The black community didn’t get into this kind of trade. They did things like landscaping. And they mostly worked for the rich people.

AG What kind of work did your parents do?

SW My father attended Howard University where he had Ralph Bunche as a professor. My father was a real estate and insurance man, and an accountant. He did a lot of things. He had a shoe shop, he had a cleaning business, but in the end he did insurance and real estate. In those days, he wasn’t allowed to be on the board of realtors because they were segregated. So, basically, he sold houses in the black community. When he sold a house in the white community and put up his “Sold” sign, they’d take it down—because he was a black realtor. But all in all I had a fun childhood. We played in the street—handball and football. I remember the community very fondly. I had great friends all through my childhood.

AG What about your mother?

SW My mother went to Temple University. She worked for my father a while, then she got a job working for the education board in Philadelphia. She’s still alive. She’s ninety-eight. My mother was a really great athlete. Even in her nineties she could bend over and put her whole palms on the floor. I have an older sister and two brothers—I was the third child—and we’d help out at my father’s small store. Everyone was poor, but we didn’t really think about it because all the black people were poor. The Irish were kind of poor too, and then you had the super-rich people who had estates with mile-long driveways.

AG Were there any other artists in your immediate family?

SW No, I was the only one. I drew since forever. I always drew on everything. I drew all over the wall. I drew on paper. I was always drawing. There was another guy, Harry Pollitt—we called him Flubby. He was very talented. And there was Jimmy Phillips, who became part of AfriCOBRA. So, there were three of us black students. It was a very small black community, in every grade maybe two or three black people.

AG What was your first art experience?

SW Well, my first art experience was going to a Saturday art program in Bryn Mawr when I was ten. I knew I liked art, but in the community no one ever thought about it. I never thought much about it either. I didn’t know what it meant to be an artist. I thought I could make money being a commercial artist. So I went to this program.

I remember it clearly. We painted this model, in oil paint, and I used every color on the palette. The art teacher loved it, but all the other kids’ paintings were either sepia, black and white, or trying to be real realistic. And mine was full of color. I had no idea why I had done that, and I took it home, and my parents said, “What’s this?” So I put it in the back of the closet and never went back to the program.

It was hard, because I wasn’t used to being around white people—while it wasn’t segregated, you really didn’t socialize with them. You went to school with white people, you had white teachers and white classmates, but outside of that, you never talked to anybody white. You socialized with black people. In this art class I was the only black student, and then I was such an oddball—I’d painted this odd painting. So, I just couldn’t handle it. I never went back. My brother, who was a year older, was already in the Boy Scouts. I was a Cub Scout. So, I went to the Boy Scouts, where I would do camping and stuff like that. I didn’t go back to the art program. That was my first real art experience.AG When did you first recognize what art was?

SW Well, that’s a hard one. All through grade school to junior high, my friend Flubby and I did all the decorations for prom, and we did the drawings for the school newspaper—illustrations, stuff like that. But I didn’t know about the Philadelphia Museum, or the Barnes Foundation, or the Pennsylvania Academy. I just knew I could draw, and people said to me, “If you can draw those illustrations, like in a newspaper, you can make a lot of money.” The big thing was, like I said, we were really, really poor. My siblings and I grew up above my father’s store, basically a two-bedroom apartment with six people in it. It was tight. I knew I wanted to make art. I knew even in high school. I wasn’t academic. I wasn’t going to go to college. I didn’t participate well in high school because I just didn’t like it. My older brother did pretty well. He got a soccer scholarship to Lycoming College, and my sister went to Howard University. My brother ended up transferring to Howard. But I was really anti-establishment. I just didn’t participate. So, I knew I’d go to art school.


Stanley Whitney, Double Self-Portrait, 1966. Oil on canvas. Collection of Jeff Boerger. Courtesy of the artist.

AG Did you take any art classes in high school?

SW I majored in art in high school, but the teacher was a guy who did these pretty watercolors. I couldn’t really make pretty watercolors like he could, and, actually, in my last year in high school, I got a hold of oil paint again, and I made a couple of oil paintings with a lot of color. In fact, my mother still has those two oil paintings.

AG Were they abstract or figurative?

SW They were figurative, but the images were made up. It’s funny because I used, again, every color you can imagine. (laughter) People liked them a lot, and so a friend’s parents tried to get me a scholarship to Pennsylvania Academy. I spent high school hanging out with a lot of what, in those days, you would call bohemians, in Philadelphia, and trying to go to clubs. I knew about the jazz scene. But I didn’t want to stay in Philadelphia. The city was tough in those days, in the late ’50s, early ’60s. If you were Afro American, you’d take one step, and the police were on you. The bohemians were more mixed, of course, and everybody was into jazz. But I wanted to get out of Philadelphia, so I didn’t take the deal to go to the Pennsylvania Academy. Not that I knew what the deal was, or what the Academy was anyway. However, in the back of a magazine I saw that the Columbus College of Art and Design was offering every class in the world. So, I went off to Columbus, Ohio.


Stanley Whitney in studio, Columbus, Ohio, 1966. Courtesy of the artist.

AG When was that?

SW ’64.

AG And what kind of work were you doing there?

SW Well, it was an art school. It didn’t even offer a BFA yet, but it was a four-year program. It was affiliated with the Columbus Museum of Art. We had a Bauhaus kind of program—we had painting, two-dimensional and three-dimensional design, anatomy. It was a really basic, European idea of how to have an art education. We even had anatomical drafting. So, you had to learn all the muscles to draw the figure. It was almost like an old trade school, you went to school during the day, then school shut down and everyone was on their own. Most people were from Detroit, many from Tuskegee, Alabama, and there were some from West Virginia. It was a poor man’s school. I think it cost like three hundred and something dollars a semester to go. But it was right by the art museum, and I got to see paintings there. And when I saw the Cézanne painting, everything kind of clicked.

AG Which Cézanne painting?

SW Oh, yeah. I have a reproduction here. It wasn’t very big. In fact, I saw the original again a couple years ago in Paris, at a Cézanne show.

AG I’m looking at Cézanne’s Portrait of Victor Chocquet, 1877. This is great! You saw this at the museum in Columbus?

SW Yeah. When I saw it for the first time I was already deeply involved in painting. I didn’t want to do anything else but paint. And that Cézanne painting set me off.

AG Where there any instructors that guided you during your time in Columbus?

SW No, not at that point. Most of the instructors there were not that interesting. I was there from ’64 to ’66. In ’66 I transferred to the Kansas City Art Institute.

AG What sparked that decision?

SW Well, a lot of things. Kansas City had just built a whole campus, with dorms, school buildings, everything like that. And they were actually going about recruiting for it. They came once to Columbus and we met them at a hotel, and they were recruiting students. Many of my friends from Columbus went down there. It just seemed like a better program—it was an accredited school and they gave you a BFA. A good friend, Wilbur Bruce, another Afro-American artist who I met in Columbus, went down to Kansas City. Bruce and I were both deep into jazz at the time. I knew more about jazz than I knew about art. I used to come to New York on the weekends and go to the jazz clubs. I didn’t know about the Museum of Modern Art or the Met, but I knew about jazz.

AG What kind of jazz were you listening to back then?

SW When I was in high school, all through the ‘60s and ‘70s, there was a lot of great music. I listened to John Coltrane, of course, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Charlie Mingus, and Sonny Rollins. And if you came to New York, you could go to the Five Spot, to the Village Gate, to Slug’s, Lee Morgan … you could see all these people. I remember going to the Village Gate on Bleecker Street and hearing Charlie Mingus. Then, during break time, Mingus went across the street to a café, and I went across the street with him and sat right beside him at the café. I didn’t say a word, but I sat right beside him. (laughter) Just listened to him talk. I mean those people were very special. The music was very special. I was lucky. There was a lot going on. You had the Beatles, the Rolling Stones; you had Bob Dylan. In those days the audiences of these different kinds of music didn’t intermingle. Either you were a folk person, or a jazz person, or a rock and roll person. You didn’t go from one thing to the other. But I did. I liked all of it. I liked Eric Dolphy, but I also liked the Beatles, which kind of confused me.

AG (laughter) It’s kind of hard not to like the Beatles.

SW Yeah, but most people were deep into the music they liked.

When I got to art school I thought, This is it. I had been a total outsider in high school, so when I got to art school I realized that I was finally doing what I love to do. I was a really good student. The teachers said do something, and I did it. I took lettering, drafting, I did everything I could. My father had sent me saying, “Look, I’ll pay for one year. After that, you’re on your own.” So I was working to get that scholarship, and, believe me, by sophomore year, I was like, I got it.

AG You got it.

SW Yeah, I wasn’t going back home.

AG What kind of work were you doing in Kansas?

SW You know, it took me forever to find my subject matter. I was looking at works by Cézanne and Edvard Munch, who I really loved. People were really into de Kooning at the time because most of the art professors came from Abstract Expressionism. I was doing a lot of experimenting—self-portraits, painting my table with food on it, painting everything I could. I didn’t paint landscapes. We had an assignment, going outside to paint the landscape, and painting outside was just a disaster for me. I think it was the fall. I got leaves all over everything, and I said, “I’ll never paint outside again.”


Stanley Whitney, Still Life, 1966. Oil on canvas. Collection of Zach Boerger. Courtesy of the artist.

AG The late ‘60s was the heyday of Abstract Expressionism. Were you aware of that while you were traveling back and forth to New York City, listening to jazz?

SW No, I really wasn’t aware of it. When I was in high school I didn’t know there was such a thing as another black painter. I had no clue that black people even made art. I didn’t know or meet anybody, and nobody told me about anybody. Not at all.

AG How did that make you feel? Making art, in this time when social tensions were very high in the United States, and here you are making paintings and not seeing anyone in the mainstream scene who’s an African American artist?

SW Well, it was definitely a hard time, no matter what you did. It was really a difficult and interesting time. The country was in turmoil. I was in Kansas City in art school during the riots. I was there in art school when King got shot. I was there when Malcolm got shot. I knew Black Panthers, and I had a hard time explaining why I wanted to paint. When the Panthers asked me, “Stanley, what are you doing for the race?” I didn’t know how to defend myself or say what art is about. I called them the black police. Amiri Baraka also haunted me in terms of what that meant in relation to race. I was always in my basement painting. I didn’t participate. My white friends, they would go to San Francisco where the whole hippie thing was going on. The music thing, the Doors; we went to that. And there was a lot of good rock and roll in those days. The white folks were even cool in those days.

AG With all this going on, did you ever feel the need to talk about identity or politics within your work?

SW No. At this point in my work, when I was a sophomore and a junior in Kansas City, I was still figuring it out. What do I paint? I’d paint my girlfriend. I’d paint people. I’d take a figure from a Courbet painting, and then a background from a Rothko, or I would steal a figure from Piero della Francesca, then take something from a Jasper Johns. Or I took a figure from a Piero della Francesca fresco and an image of a background from a Francis Bacon painting. I was trying all kinds of things. I would paint, then go across the street to the museum and look at Velasquez or Goya.

A lot of people at Kansas City were into Diebenkorn, that kind of painting that was going on in ’67 or ‘68. Some students were very much involved with whatever was hot in Artforum magazine then. So we had one class where we were taught to paint like Cézanne, and I thought, God, I’m not doing that. Another class was painting out of Artforum magazine. I went to a class with Richard Lethem where people were all over the place, making things up. I just tried everything—looking, experimenting, trying to figure out what I liked. I liked a little bit of everything. That’s how I painted.

But I knew I wasn’t a storyteller. I felt that art should be something that encompassed more. At that time I was reading a lot of poetry. I didn’t know any poets, but I knew that I wanted my work to be more than one single story.

AG Is that why you leaned toward abstraction?

SW I didn’t lean. I didn’t know about it. I hadn’t seen any abstraction that I liked. Then, Dick Lethem, who was my professor there, showed me a Morris Louis painting and something clicked. When I saw that painting, his Veils, and other ones where the color seeps in the center and opens up—that really turned me around. That was my introduction to modern painting. Before that, my work was just like art history; it was all Velázquez, Goya, Cézanne, and Soutine. But when I saw Morris Louis I saw a way into the present. So, I stopped painting these dark, figurative, Goya and Velázquez kind of paintings. And then, as a junior, I got a scholarship to go to a summer program. Perfect timing. It was at Skidmore in Saratoga Springs and was called Summer Six. It was where I met key people in my life.

AG Who were some of those people?

SW I met Robert Reed, who later became a professor at Yale. And I also met Philip Guston, who got me to New York and a scholarship to the Studio School.

AG So what kind of work were you doing up there in Saratoga Springs?

SW The painting had kind of died. I didn’t know what to paint. So, I was drawing a lot. I drew landscapes, a lot of trees. I’d bring a twig back to my studio and just draw and draw.

AG So it was pretty open? It wasn’t as structured of a program?

SW It was. You had a drawing class and a painting class, and they gave you a studio. Bob Reed taught a drawing class, so maybe there were assignments. Guston liked my work a lot. I remember his enthusiasm for painting. I was going from figurative to abstract work, and he was going from abstract work to figurative work. So that’s kind of how we met. He’d try to get me to go paint or draw downtown, there, in Saratoga Springs. But I wanted to go the other way and thought, Why is he telling me to go downtown and draw some life when I’m trying to move to abstraction!

AG (laughter) Yeah.

SW I had no idea what he was doing at the time. No one knew he was making those changes in his work. I got along with Guston really well. He had his favorite students, and I was one of them. I remember one time walking the street with him, and he got so excited over this beautiful red car—it must have been a Cadillac, with red leather seats. And here I was, I must have been twenty. He was in his fifties maybe. He seemed like an old man to me. And he was so excited by this red Cadillac. And I was like, Man, this guy’s older than me, and he’s more excited about life than I am.

Anyway, after the summer program, Guston said, “Look, you should go to the Studio School in New York.” I said, “Well, I’m finishing up at Kansas City. I have one more year.” “Go there through them. I’ll get you a scholarship. You come and finish your last year in New York.” I thought, Well, that’s a great idea. Once school was out, while I was in Columbus or Kansas City, I came to see friends in New York who were living on the Lower East Side. I’d go to the clubs, then I’d spend some time at the museums.

AG What year was this that you came to New York after the Saratoga Springs residency?

SW Probably the winter of ’67 and the spring of ’68. I used to get in a lot of trouble in Kansas City because of the race thing. The police always harassed us, the black students. But I was so used to it—my whole life, being harassed by the police—that I never told anybody. With a friend of mine, who was also a painter, we got a place outside of the art community. We had this loft in downtown Kansas City. It used to be a big dance studio, the Arthur Murray dance studio. We threw a big party, and I invited people from the black community, the Panthers, along with everybody from school. It was a huge loft party, and there was a lot of marijuana in the arts community. The police raided us and threw everyone in jail, even the professors. The padded wagons came. They put everyone in the holding cell, but me they put in a lone cell by myself.

AG Why was that?

SW Because they found a lot of marijuana there.

AG And you took the rap for it?

SW I was going to take the rap for it, that’s what they told me. They said ten to twenty! They let everyone out of jail, but kept me in. Anyway, the next day, they let me out. It turned out that Clarence Kelley, who later became the head of the FBI, at that point was head of the Kansas City Police Department. His brother, another Kelley, was head of the design department at Kansas City Art Institute. And so, because of the brother, they got everyone out of jail. And somehow the newspapers never got a hold of it, so they dropped all the charges on me. The only reason they busted the party is because they said there were blacks and whites mingling together. They actually wrote that in the report. So I got out on a technicality.

So, the dean of the school told me, “Look, Stanley. You want to go to New York? Go ahead. We’ll let you go to New York to the Studio School program. Work there, and then bring the work back here, we’ll look at it, and we’ll give you a degree.” They kind of kicked me out of town, which I was happy about. I was like, Great, I’m out of here.

AG I’m sure.

SW I had been in Kansas City two years. I did my tour of duty out there in the Midwest, and I wanted to come back east anyway. I knew New York was the place to be.

AG So you came back to New York what year?

SW I think it was ’68. I started at the Studio School in New York, but that was too romantic for me, and I dropped out of that.

AG Was it just one semester you did there?

SW I was going to do one semester there. It ended up being more like two weeks. At the Studio School, which wasn’t accredited and couldn’t give a BFA, they were very excited about the exchange program with Kansas City. So, here I was a test case for having an accredited school working with a non-accredited school. When I came to the Studio School, there were Morton Feldman, Leland Bell, Elaine de Kooning, and Mercedes Matter. Everyone was talking about, you know, the old days. I felt like I was done with that. In Kansas City, in the Midwest, you actually have all the time in the world to be romantic about everything. I wanted to be in New York and hang out with contemporary painters. I knew this guy Dan Christensen, who was a Color Field painter. His brother, Don, was a friend of mine in Kansas City. Dan had a loft on Great Jones Street and hung out at Max’s Kansas City. There was a lot going on in my life. I was breaking up with my girlfriend, and the draft board was after me. I had to go for my physical. I really wanted to be done with school.

AG What were your ideas about art then? Here you are, finishing school, you just moved to New York City, it’s ’68, there’s a huge art scene. What was your work like?

SW Well, I had done that summer program at Saratoga, with Guston. I was getting into more abstraction and doing big oil paintings. They were about seven by four feet. I was working with staining, color, and line. And just looking at a lot of art.


Stanley Whitney, Untitled, 1972. Acrylic on canvas. 8 × 10 feet. Courtesy of the artist.

AG Who were you looking at?

SW Well, in those days in New York there were a lot of gallery shows, at  Marlborough, Emmerich, Bykert. Brice Marden was showing a lot. Barnett Newman was sort of King of the Hill. I don’t really remember Judd at that point. A lot of young Color Field painters, and Pollock.

AG Did you get a chance to see any of those Morris Louis paintings in person?

SW Yeah, I got to see all of those. All the galleries were uptown, so on Saturdays, a group of us would meet on 57th Street, mostly people I knew from Kansas City, like Al Taylor. Al and I moved to New York from Kansas City around the same time. We would go look at art together. We would just cover every gallery on 57th Street.

AG As a young artist coming to the scene and being African American, did you feel it was easy for you to tap into those social circles?

SW Well, when I was in Kansas City I hung out with this guy, Wilbur Bruce, and we were the only Afro-Americans out there. It was complicated because on some levels you dealt with people because you were a painter, and on some levels, you couldn’t. You had your own music, and if people can’t get to your music, you can’t hang out with them. When I went to look at art, I hung out with people mostly because of their art, not because of their race. When I got to New York I didn’t know many Afro-American painters. I knew this one guy, James Philips, who was in AfriCOBRA, but he had moved to the West Coast because New York was too rough. In terms of art, race wasn’t really an issue for me at all. My best friend was Al Taylor, who was from Wichita, Kansas. We met at Kansas City in ‘66 and were best friends until the day he died. We went everywhere together. We had a great dialogue and understood the seriousness of our endeavor as artists. Al was painting abstract paintings that were very loosely painted connecting lines, each line being a different color. I think they were in acrylic. The art, for me, always has been everything.

AG In ’69, here in New York City specifically, the major art institutions were showcasing a lot of African American artists. There was the exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum, Harlem on My Mind, the Whitney’s series of abstract African American artists, starting with Al Loving, then Jack Whitten and Alma Thomas. Were you seeing these shows? What was your reaction to them?

SW Yeah, a lot was going on. It was such a complicated time. What was happening was that all the institutions were scrambling, trying to convince people they weren’t racist.

AG (laughter)

SW So they were trying to have a few token Afro-American shows: everyone who came out of Yale before me, like William T. Williams, or Al Loving, who came from Detroit. Danny Johnson was an Afro-American artist. He got a whole building in SoHo. Some deal! I came to town almost like a country bumpkin and didn’t really know what was at stake. I was young. But what I got out of all that turmoil was that I got to go to Yale. People went to jail; I went to Yale.

AG When was that?

SW Well, I was there ’68, ’69, and ‘70. I had stayed at the Studio School for not even one semester, dropped out of that. Morton Feldman and Mercedes Matter tried to sit me down, but I walked out the door, left my paintbrushes and paint, and thought, I’m not coming back. Kansas City let me graduate anyway and gave me my degree. I was living with Richard Lethem in Brooklyn for a few months. Richard is Jonathan Lethem’s father, in fact. Jonathan was about ten at the time. Then my girlfriend and I got a place on our own nearby, on Dean Street in Boerum Hill. About a year later, I took Al Taylor’s subleased loft on Canal Street, above the Three Roses Bar, and he moved into a loft at 94 Bowery. I had stayed on Bowery off and on the previous few years and that loft became our main hangout. Al got the loft through Peter Young and Larry Strafford, whom Dan Christensen knew. That was great because Young had left New York, and all his paintings were there. So, I lived there with Peter Young’s paintings.

AG Did that influence the work you were making at the time, having those paintings around?

SW It did, and it was the dot paintings, almost like candy dot paintings. They were real interesting. I remember the loft exactly and seeing the paintings laying out. At that point, everyone was figuring out radical ways of painting—you know, besides painting with a brush, which I experimented with too.


Stanley Whitney in his Cooper Street studio, New York, 1983. Photo by Marina Adams. Courtesy of the artist.

I was searching. Going to museums, to galleries. I was looking at everything. You didn’t see much figurative work at that time, and I wasn’t interested in it anyway, although I liked Alex Katz’s work. Abstract work was really big in those days. I saw a lot of great Pollock paintings, like ones with black enamel on dark linen. I don’t know where those paintings are today.

AG This was also the time of Pop art, and Minimalism was starting to come around about that time.

SW Yeah, you could say Barnett Newman was a Minimalist. But, back to the race thing, like I said, I benefitted from that. Bob Reed, who I’d met at Saratoga, got a job at Yale, probably because they needed a black professor. I would assume, but I don’t know that for a fact. When I wrote to Bob he got back to me asking if I would be interested in going to Yale for graduate school. I said no, because I was just out of school and getting settled in New York. All of a sudden there were these new galleries in SoHo—Ivan Karp, OK Harris. All this stuff was happening in SoHo, and I was living in this loft on Canal Street above the Three Roses. I worked at Pearl Paint, and I wasn’t interested in going back to school. But then Dan Christensen, who I used to work for sometimes, stretching canvases, said, “No, Stanley, look. Yale’s a really good program. A lot of good people have come out of there—Brice Marden and Chuck Close went to Yale.” So, Bob came down to my studio, looked at my paintings, and rolled them up and took them to Yale.

AG What kind of paintings were those?

SW I was working in acrylic, and I was working on the floor because I couldn’t afford stretchers. I was copying tantric art. I had seen this book of tantric art with these big half moons. And the shapes were stacked.

AG Were you playing around with color then?

SW Yeah, I made these constellations of round circles about three to five inches in diameter, and I put them on a colored field. They were stacked either vertical or horizontal. And I was staining—a lot of young artists were staining in those days. Acrylic was really big. So, I was making flat color, then I’d make this constellation; it wouldn’t be like the Big Dipper, but I would just make these shapes.

AG How big were these paintings?

SW They were maybe five by seven feet, horizontal. I never showed them. The only person who has one is Al’s widow, Debbie Taylor. I traded one with Al, and he kept everything. I don’t know what happened to those others to tell you the truth.

AG So Bob Reed came to the studio, and he saw these paintings.

SW Rolled them up and took them to Yale. I didn’t go up. I was young and arrogant in those days. I didn’t really care that much. But he did. Like I said, everyone was looking for black students, black professors. You have to understand, I’m sixty-seven, but people in their seventies now, they didn’t know anybody black. They didn’t socialize with black people. Even if you went, like myself, to a high school that wasn’t segregated, you went to class together, but that was it. You didn’t socialize. You didn’t date. We knew we were the Other, and they knew we were the Other, and they didn’t deal with us. There are always a few exceptions, but that was my experience.

AG Jeez.

SW I mean, they talked to you, like we’re talking. But that was it. After school, you didn’t. There were a few people who wanted to hang out with the black kids because they knew we had great music and great parties. But these people were rare. And they were strange. Because we were always being harassed, we were always told we were nothing. In high school, there was never anyone black who did anything good. Maybe George Washington Carver, but that was it. You never heard of anything black that was good.

AG Were you still experiencing this kind of racial tension when you went up to grad school in New Haven, within the student body there?

SW No, never with other artists. The art community was like a tribe. So with artists, it wasn’t the case, but with dealers and collectors, it was. I talked with Ed Clark, who’s in his eighties, almost ninety, about his time in Paris—he didn’t just hang out with other black artists. People often pretend they all hung out together, but they didn’t. Not every black artist likes every piece of art that black people do. We’re just like everyone else. Some people we like, and some people we don’t like. So, I was hanging out with anyone whose work I liked. I didn’t care if they were female or male, black, Chinese. I didn’t care about race. All of that stuff that is put on you—you’re this, you’re that. I personally think it’s the state making this up to control you. I don’t really believe in it at all. So, I was hanging out with anyone who I thought was making interesting art. In fact, my best friend from the time was Al Taylor, and we met in Kansas City in ’66.

AG Yeah, it’s great, there’s no segregation amongst artists.

SW Not that way, no. When it came to the galleries, and making money, and showing, then there was.

AG Yeah, and most artists would agree.

SW I did really well at Yale, and when I got out no gallery or collector would touch me with a ten-foot pole.


Stanley Whitney, Untitled, 1983. Acrylic on canvas. 24 × 36 inches. Photo by Richard Goldstein.

AG Let’s talk about Yale a bit. What kind of work were you doing there?

SW I was still experimenting. I continued doing those circle paintings, then I started doing more linear things, with line. And, I have to say, Al Held was a big influence. Up until that time, before Yale, I was mostly influenced by Clement Greenberg and the Color Field painters, because with them there was a black presence. I worked my way through that. Peter Bradley was one of the African American artists in that scene, who I became friends with. At those parties there’d be a lot of jazz musicians.

AG You went to a lot of the Greenberg parties in New York?

SW Yeah. That was a scene where you felt like black culture was part of it. They thought black people were really hip, and they are, and so their parties were kind of like that. They were very fun, big loft parties, lots of dance music. And that was a combination of both the jazz things I knew really well and also the art things. So, I hung out in that scene, and I was trying to make these acrylic Color Field paintings. But I had a lot of questions and a lot of doubts about that work. I thought it was very thin; they were interesting paintings, but they didn’t go far enough. But the color was there. Like in the works by Kenneth Noland and Larry Poons. I liked Brice Marden’s work. By this time Judd was really big, and I knew that work, the structure of that.

At Yale, Al Held was my professor. I had already met Al at Pearl Paint, the last job I had in New York. Before that I worked at the Strand Bookstore. Dick Lethem got me a job there. And then I quit that job and worked as a carpenter on the construction site of Electric Ladyland recording studio for Jimi Hendrix, on 8th Street. But I was a terrible carpenter. I just faked it until they realized I was faking it. And then I got a job working at Pearl Paint. That was where all the New York artists would come in—Barnett Newman, Al Held. Most people painted in acrylic. It dried faster, it was cheap, and you could buy big jars of it. Pearl paint was the brand new art supply place, and it was small in those days. Only three people worked there in the art department.

So, that’s how I met Al Held, and he was teaching at Yale. When I got into Yale Al offered me a ride up to New Haven because I had this big trunk full of acrylic paint. When we rode up in his station wagon he asked me who my favorite painter was, and I mentioned some Color Field painter, and he said, “Oh, they’re lousy! They’re terrible painters, those Color Field people.” And I was like, “Uh, okay.” And he laid into me. I almost wanted to jump out the window. He went on about it all the way from New York to New Haven. “How can you like that work?” And I couldn’t really defend it. I was a young artist, and I didn’t know. I was just figuring things out.

Al was a big influence. I’d say he was a big influence on a lot of people. Al would always challenge me. He came up to the studio about once a week, and it was like a boxing match. It was toe to toe.


Stanley Whitney’s Cooper Square studio, New York, 1975. Photo by the artist.

AG Is there anything Al said to you that still resonates with you now?

SW No, there’s nothing in particular. It’s just that he was really tough, and he’d question everything. He’d make you defend your work. Al got me thinking about structure and drawing and space. At this point, I was still working on the floor. I would draw something with a piece of cardboard instead of a brush, using acrylic on cotton duck. If I didn’t like the image, I’d cover it with a random color of thin acrylic and draw again, and get an image, and draw again. You know, building layers. I never knew, preparing the painting, what the painting would even be or look like.

I think Al said one time, “You should just take a mop. Why use a brush? Just mop the whole thing.” So I’m painting with this mop, but I can’t do a lot of color because everything gets muddy. I tried all that for a while. I liked the freedom of it all, using non-traditional processes and materials. A lot of people were just experimenting, trying different ways of applying paint and reinventing painting. Because painting at the time was really being challenged. It was said that painting is bourgeois. The most interesting work, people thought, was sculpture. You know, Dan Flavin, Donald Judd, and Robert Smithson. People thought Robert Morris was a genius. Painting wasn’t considered that important, though painting’s always important.

AG Were there any other instructors that you interacted with at Yale that stuck out to you?

SW Well, there was William Bailey. He had just gotten the job at Yale and moved there from Indiana University. He used to come to Kansas City a lot as a visiting artist when I was in school there. So, I knew Bill, and there was Lester Johnson. They had a lot of visiting artists too. We had one a week coming to the studio. And critics. People like Lucas Samaras, Larry Poons, Larry Rivers, Ken Noland, and Clement Greenberg. I always did very well. There was never a time that people didn’t say, “Hey, this guy’s really good.”

AG Were you looking a lot at Al Held’s work at that time?

SW Yeah. I was looking at Al Held’s work even before I went up to Yale. Emmerich Gallery was a big place that showed a lot of Color Field painting. The art scene was small until SoHo opened up. You could do all the galleries on 57th Street on a Saturday.

AG So you were taking trips from New Haven to New York every weekend, checking out shows?

SW No, once I got to New Haven, I didn’t because I wanted to just paint, paint, paint. When I was in New York I had a job during the day at the Strand bookstore and painted at night. It was a real luxury to be able to paint in the day. Even now, I only paint during the day. In New Haven, I also got caught up with the other students, and the faculty, and the visiting artists, so I just stayed there and painted for two years.

AG So what happened after Yale? Did you come back to the city?

SW When I was at Yale, I was highly visible, and I was offered a teaching job at the University of Rhode Island. I hadn’t looked to go to Yale, and I didn’t look for a teaching job either. I didn’t have to.

AG They were searching for you.

SW They needed us, you know? While I was still a student at Yale I was offered a job at the University of Rhode Island. I knew this black artist, Marvin Brown, who was living in New York, and they had offered him the job. But he was teaching at Hunter so he recommended me. I met with Richard Frankel, and he offered me this job at University of Rhode Island. At Yale, I was living in my studio illegally. I was totally broke, and I went from that to having a teaching job, a salary, and a car.

AG How was that first teaching experience?

SW It was good for me because Richard Frankel, who hired me, was a very nice man, and we got along really well. It was young faculty up there; the students were almost the same age as me. It was fine. But after I had been there for a year, I realized that living in Rhode Island wasn’t good for my work. I wanted to go back to New York. Living in Rhode Island—I’ll say, I sailed a lot, I drank a lot, and I partied a lot. But I thought to myself, You’ve got to do what’s best for the work. I never had any money growing up, so I wasn’t worried about money. I told Richard I was going to leave and go back to New York.

AG Was that the moment you decided that you wanted to become a career artist, or you wanted to make art your lifestyle?

SW No, I knew I was a career artist. I knew that early on, even in high school. Although, back then, I didn’t know what that meant. In Rhode Island I knew I could have a nice suburban life, but I really couldn’t paint there. The work wouldn’t survive there. When you’re young the work needs certain things. I needed a community and to see a lot of other art. Rhode Island wasn’t giving me that. All my serious artist friends had moved to New York. I already had a community there. It wasn’t like I was going there on my own, like I did in ’68.

AG You were coming back to a stronger artists’ community.

SW Yeah, everyone I had hung out with before was still in New York, like Al Taylor.  I also had met Margo Margolis at the summer program at Skidmore, and, back in New York, I ran into her at the Spring Street Bar, which was on the corner of Spring and West Broadway. It was a really nice bar and restaurant where everybody used to go. Really good food, and cheap. I hadn’t realized she had gone to graduate school in Indiana and come back, and they’d hired her at Tyler to teach. She had a loft on Crosby Street, but was teaching in Philadelphia. Tyler had offered me a job while I was at Yale, but I had already taken the job in Rhode Island, out of loyalty to Frankel, and I liked it there. Anyway, Margolis said, “They still want you. There’s a job search going on right now.” I said, “I’m not interested. I want to be in New York.” She said, “Well, I live in New York, and do this. You can say you live in Philadelphia.” So, I said, “Okay, I’ll apply.” And I was surprised when I got the job. I think even Al Loving applied for that job.

AG What year was this?

SW That was ’73, the same year I got the loft I still live and work in, actually. But I told them I would never live in Philadelphia.

AG (laughter) So, you were coached to say that you lived in Philadelphia, but you told them, “I am never going to live here.”

SW I realized that I wasn’t going to keep a fake place there, and I couldn’t afford to pay two rents anyway. I said, “If the job means living in Philadelphia, then I’m out.” And they said, “No, you can live wherever you want.” Looking back on it now, I think if I had said, “I want to live in Elkins Park,” where they lived, they would have had a hard time. There were no black people living in Elkins Park then.

AG (laughter)

SW So, I think that kind of opened the door for everyone to commute. I didn’t realize that at the time. I think if I had said, “I’ll buy a house next to you,” it would have been a problem. In those days, real estate was pretty much segregated. It isn’t anymore.

AG Yeah, for sure. So what kind of work were you doing in New York? How was the work developing, coming from Yale, teaching at Rhode Island, and now back in the city with this art community behind you?

SW I was still painting on the floor, in acrylic, still making big messes, but not using a mop. I was back to using brushes, painting something, and looking at things, thinking: Who did that? What’s that look like? Or, where’d that come from? I was still doing all kinds of process painting combinations and just trying to figure out what the hell I was doing. I was still just wide open. There was no solid bundle of work that I was making. The work was more interesting in terms of paint. But I wasn’t getting what I wanted in terms of space, drawing, or structure. I wanted something as open as Pollock but as structured as Mondrian. That was a big distance I was trying to work in, that space between those two artists. Which covers a lot of ground, a lot of possibilities. You know what I mean? I was going to the Met, going to the Modern, going to the galleries, going to artists’ studios and just trying to steal ideas, as much as I could.

I would say really from ’68 to ’78, I was just doing all kinds of experiments with process, and just trying to come up with images I thought were interesting. I had no idea of what was finished, in terms of weight, or an object, or how tactile things were.


Stanley Whitney, Untitled, 1979. Acrylic on canvas board. 14 × 18 inches. Courtesy of the artist.

AG Were you still drawing a lot?

SW Well, I didn’t see anyone drawing in graduate school. And, actually, I didn’t see any abstract artists drawings. In undergraduate school I drew the figure really well, and I’d go to figure drawing class. By the time I got to New York, I wasn’t doing that because I wasn’t making figurative paintings, so why would I draw the figure? I wasn’t really a landscape painter either, so I wasn’t really drawing at all. I didn’t know what drawing meant in terms of contemporary painting. I didn’t see many drawings that I liked. I didn’t know anybody who was really drawing. I was just painting. I thought painting and drawing, at that point, were the same thing.

AG So back to the start of your time teaching at Tyler. Were there any influences there—through your teaching process, maybe conversing with the students, or other faculty members?

SW You know, people always said I was a teacher [at heart], and they would always ask me about their work, and I’d tell them what I thought. Al Taylor, when he was in Kansas City, he used to go, “Whitney, come downstairs and see what I’m doing.” People liked to use me as a sounding board. They wanted me to look at their work because they liked my comments, which I never thought much about. It was just what I did. When I got the teaching job at Rhode Island, they were mostly people who had to take an art class; they weren’t majors.

AG So undergraduates.

SW Yeah. When I got to Tyler it was really an art school. It was just like Kansas City. That was good because I had to really talk. I had freshman drawing and sophomore painting, and how are we going to run that? It really made me figure things out—what was important and what was not. You’re talking all the time. And for me, doing it my way, I could teach, talk, think, come home, and it never got in the way of my own artwork. I was able to talk to students with all kinds of different [approaches] and it was fun. If someone was a figurative painter, or a storyteller, I got involved with that. And it clarified a lot for me.

AG What things did it clarify for you?

SW Well, all of a sudden, you’re a teacher, so you teach drawing. And what’s important to drawing? Why do you draw? I had to figure that out. There’s sophomore painting. What’s important to know? How do you begin a painting? How do you put things together? How do you look at things? How do you set up a palette? How do you stretch a canvas? How do you set up a studio? I had to teach all of those things. And how do you deal with twenty-five kids in the room? So that was all really good, and I could do that very well. It forced me to have a voice.


Stanley Whitney, Untitled, 1982. Acrylic on canvas. 14 × 18 inches. Photo by Richard Goldstein.

I taught for thirty years, and I had a lot of good students. And it paid the bills—and for the paint and the canvas. With teaching, in those early years, there wasn’t a lot of corporate intervention. There wasn’t a lot of writing; there weren’t a lot of rules. In the ‘70s, you could smoke and paint in the classroom. I remember everyone would be smoking and painting and talking. (laughter) It was like the Wild West.

AG What about your contemporaries? What was happening in New York during the time you were teaching at Tyler?

SW I was both teaching at Tyler and working part-time delivering art with Al Taylor. That’s when Al met his future wife, Debbie Taylor, who was Robert Rauschenberg’s studio manager at Bob’s house on Lafayette Street. It must have been around ’74. That led to about eight or nine years of being involved with Rauschenberg and his entourage, which was a very exciting time. I got to meet everyone involved with the Castelli gallery and all of the artists who showed there. A lot of celebrities would stop by, and Brice Marden, who was formerly Bob’s assistant, was always there too. Joseph Beuys used to send Bob a drawing almost every week in the mail. It was a great time and full of great artist conversation. Rauschenberg really influenced my work. One thing he said to me was, “When a dealer comes to the studio never give them a choice.” And I was giving them lots of choices (laughter)

But it was great being at Rauschenberg’s house because you got to see all the work before the shows, and he had a great collection of other artists’ works and his early works. Bob was one of the brightest people I ever met. He was very generous. I got to attend his retrospective in Washington DC. He flew us all down and paid for our hotel room. We had a great weekend in DC. My girlfriend at the time also worked for Rauschenberg, running his program—Change. It was more of a Pop-artist community, which I didn’t think I would be interested in, but I got a lot out of it. Bob really taught me a lot.

When I got to Tyler they had brand-new buildings, and they had just hired Margo Margolis, Frank Bramblett, and myself. They called us the Mod Squad.

AG (laughter) The Mod Squad!

SW We were the brand-new faculty. Before my generation got involved with teaching most artists, if they were serious about their work, didn’t teach. You know what I mean? They kind of didn’t need to. Lofts were still pretty cheap. I had this loft for two-fifty. For teaching, they would offer fifteen-thousand dollars, and I was like, “Oh, I’ll take it!” (laughter) In those days that was a lot of money for a young person. So, suddenly, a lot of people came into art teaching. Yale always had that great program, and now other programs were being modeled after that.

AG Was it helping to push the development of your art in any way?

SW My art career? Yes and no. Being around all those people and seeing their careers and their work, which was a very different scene from the Color Field artists, really allowed my work to open up and go in different directions. But in terms of my career, I wasn’t showing the work at all. When I got out of grad school, I had a rude awakening. In school, you’re good. You can be black, Chinese, or Mexican, whatever. No one cares where you come from. No one cares about your color. School makes everything equal. But when you get out of school, you are back in the real world. People were having shows all around me, but no one would touch me. I couldn’t get a show. Not that the work was really great. It wasn’t, don’t get me wrong.

AG I remember seeing those pen and ink drawings. I believe they were on Mylar? When were those happening? Was that during your time at Tyler?

SW Yeah. Like I said, I was experimenting a lot with the painting. And the paintings were going nowhere. They were getting more and more like [Jules] Olitski’s work, and I didn’t want to go there. They looked like rock or something, and people would say, “Well, how’s this painted?” So I realized the paintings weren’t happening. I was spending a lot of money on acrylic paint and painting on the floor, but I wasn’t happy with the work. So, I decided to go back to drawing.


Stanley Whitney, Untitled, 1983. Black india ink on mylar. 36 × 48 inches. Courtesy of the artist.

I used to look at that small Van Gogh drawing in sepia ink in the Guggenheim; I always loved how rich and colorful it was, even though it was black and white, sepia. You know, it was a different mark-marking technique. My paintings then were so indirect that I wanted something that would be real direct. I didn’t like the conversation the paintings were creating: “How’d you make this?” Or, “How many layers of paint is this?” I think these were the worst paintings I’ve made, ever.

AG (laughter)

SW And so I decided to go back and draw, get rid of the color and just do something black and white.

AG What year was this?

SW This must have been ’77 or ’78. After Yale, I’d thought my career would take off, but it didn’t take off at all. I never thought it was because of race. It never occurred to me, though I don’t know why.

AG So, what did you discover through that process of just working in black and white, going back to drawing?

SW I worked on opening things up. Because before, when I was doing a drawing, I’d always end up covering it up. I’d paint on the floor, lay down a color of acrylic, then take either a squeegee or a brush and make something over it. If I didn’t like it, I’d cover it up with another layer of color, and the drawing would sort of come through. I’d keep doing that, and things kept shutting down. The idea with the new drawings was to open things up. I chose pen and ink, not charcoal, because I wanted to put a mark down and deal with it. I couldn’t erase it.

I bought a book on the complete works of Vincent Van Gogh with all of his drawings in it. I would lay it out here and make these drawings that were kind of like landscapes, much more open, like Morris Louis’s. I always liked, in Morris Louis, how open that middle was. So my drawings were based on some idea of Morris Louis and some idea of Vincent Van Gogh.

AG That’s very interesting. Because you first saw Morris Louis’s work back in Kansas City, and years later, here you are thinking of Morris Louis again. For me, Louis’s paintings have this emphasis on gravity. The line is always vertical. Your pen and ink drawings from that time have this fluidity and transparency. And the line is not only vertical but also horizontal. Almost like intersections.


Stanley Whitney, Untitled, 1978. Pen and ink on paper. 23 × 35 inches. Photo by Richard Goldstein.

SW Right.

AG Can you talk about that a little bit?

SW There are a couple things. It’s true that I liked how Morris Louis used gravity. Whether they’re the Veil Paintings, or whether they’re the ones where the color is coming in from the side and then falling down, very naturally, just falling in. The fact that they were very natural, very organic, was an important element for me. I liked how open they were. Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie Woogie at the Modern was very important too, and also his drawings, of course. They were really key.

AG The early drawings?

SW The early drawings. When Mondrian comes to New York and starts dancing, when he does Broadway Boogie Woogie, that’s when I’m interested in his paintings. But before that, it’s the drawings—the tree drawings, all those things. I saw a Mondrian show at the Guggenheim, and it was great. You could see every step. And I thought, That’s the way I want to move—step by step by step. My work changes very slowly. Taking every step—that’s something I stole from Mondrian. That, and the Vincent Van Gogh drawings—they’re so lively, they’re so musical, they’re so playful, they’re so open. They’re just out there.

So that really was my big goal. I wanted to open the work up—not relying on the color, but on structure. I thought that Color Field artists were weak with their structure. And the color in those days was weak too. They used flat color right out of the jar or the tube, like Stella. But I didn’t want to give up color and touch—colors like Veronese’s or Courbet’s, or de Kooning’s sensuousness with oil paint. I was interested in how color and touch go hand in hand. The color changes with the touch—it’s a different color if you change the weight, or the amount of paint, or its viscosity. It’s much more nuanced. I was looking for a way that I could have all these things in one painting. Do you know what I’m saying?


Stanley Whitney, Untitled, 1999. Watersoluble crayon. 22½ × 28½ inches. Courtesy of the artist.

AG Yeah, for sure.

SW I wanted all those things.

AG Color and structure. Mondrian is key for artists to look at when thinking about structure and composition. When did structure start coming into play for you?

SW After graduate school, that’s when I really got down to it. I wasn’t thinking so much about structure; I was really thinking about space and keeping things very organic. Space and gravity—not that I would have used the word gravity at that point. I had a lot of ideas, but what was I going to hang my hat on?

Now I’ve been painting since ’64—’65, if you count school. I have a fifty-year history of painting, many different kinds of painting. Drawing was a way to really work my way through things—to look, to open up, and to not avoid anything. Drawing is very important. When I looked at Rothko’s last paintings, before he killed himself, I thought, He had no back door. He had no way out. He had no way to reinvent himself. You see, Guston did draw, and drawing was the thing that helped him reinvent himself.

When I think of Brice Marden—and I always liked Brice’s work—even when he was doing those really dense panel paintings, he was drawing a lot. And I think that really saved him. For me, as I said, I always had color. I was born with the color. But to put the color in the right space and give it a real intellect, you need to do drawing. I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to go anywhere if I just kept painting the way I was painting. So I went back to drawing, and I was enjoying it.

AG Do you still draw now?

SW A lot. I draw all the time. I can show you some drawings. They’re all line. They don’t look like the paintings, but they feel like the paintings.


Stanley Whitney, Untitled, 2014. Black gouache on Fabriano. 11 × 15 inches. Courtesy TEAM Gallery, New York.

AG What does line mean to you? Looking at the paintings now, there’s this running line going across each painting. There’s four lines in the composition. The line kind of organizes the painting, but also has this looseness to it. It’s like a freestyle line. It’s not a rigid, linear line.

SW My painting was never rigid. Nothing is ever really straight, it turns out. The line opens things up. You have this gravity, you think there’s a kind of stack, and the colors have good weight to them. The line is this breath of fresh air—it just spreads things out. This structure happened out of need. I didn’t make the structure and then add the color. The color made the structure. And it’s a structure that gives me lots of freedom to do many different things.

AG We’re talking about line and structure, and I’m looking at these paintings here in your studio. Going back to Mondrian for a minute, the Broadway Boogie Woogie painting that stuck out in your head is laid out like a grid, referencing the city landscape. Do you feel like you’ve reinvented the grid for yourself?

SW No, I never think about the structure as a grid—though it is a grid, really. I’m a real New York City painter, if you know what I mean. My paintings are just the way New York is. I want that kind of simplicity, which is also the madness of New York, because of the color. So you have this contradiction, in a sense. There’s the grid, which should be very orderly, and then you put the color, and it throws the whole thing off. Maybe that’s what people find attractive. Maybe that’s what people don’t find attractive. In a sense, there’s nothing really to focus on. With my paintings, the eye kind of moves around, it can’t stay still.

So there is order, but also no order. It’s like New York. Everything’s laid out very orderly, and then it’s just total madness. You cross the street, but which way do you look? A bicycle could be coming this way, a cabbie coming that way. I have European friends who come here and go, “You ride a bike in New York? It’s madness!”

AG Definitely.

Looking at Sixteen Songs, the painting you had in the Reinventing Abstraction show at Cheim & Read last year, we can see how the balls that you were making in the ’80s, have turned into these squares or blocks. Can you talk about how that happened? I think that painting was also in acrylic?


Stanley Whitney, Sixteen Songs, 1984. Oil on canvas. 66 × 108 inches. Courtesy of the artist.

SW That’s in oil. It’s one of my first oils. I got invited to a print shop in Philadelphia in the late ‘70s. Brandywine Workshop. I did some screenprints there. I worked on Mylar with black ink, then they photographed them and made silkscreens out of them. I worked on this type of Mylar that was not totally transparent. I used pen and ink on that, with a brush. So that was a shift—going from pen and ink to a brush and ink. I made these kind of roving lines, and then, again, big blocks or balls.

That led to a whole series of pen and ink on Mylar drawings. I’d buy a roll of Mylar and cut it. I liked it because the Mylar was sort of transparent, and so it didn’t look like an image on a field; it was just these black images sitting up. Then on the paintings I made these areas of color in acrylic, and I would take a brush and make these small marks, so I had large marks with small marks. And the big areas of color could be different areas. It could be a red area, or a blue area, or a green area.

I made those on the floor here, then stretched them later. Those were a big breakthrough. And people were like, “Oh, that’s really good, Stanley!” You know, with my friends, we’d always exchange visits. So, that breakthrough led to a whole group of paintings. And then I started covering things again because I wanted to keep moving, moving, moving. I would draw and cover it, draw and paint over or cover it again. And then I realized that the acrylic paint got deader and deader.

But then I went to a print shop with Bob Blackburn, where my future wife and girlfriend at the time, Marina Adams, was working. She was also going to Columbia University for her MFA in painting. It was through her that I got invited to do these monoprints. And when I did those, my hand really showed up. There was more gesture and mark making, and the color layered differently. The monoprints felt more alive and had more immediacy than those acrylic paintings I was doing. I thought, You know what? I’m getting rid of the acrylic and going back to oil paint. That must have been in the early ‘80s.


Stanley Whitney’s Cooper Square studio with small paintings, 1979. Photo by the artist.

AG So how did the floating balls turn into squares?

SW Oh, very, very slowly. When I was working in acrylic, I was working with paper buckets on the floor. I had a lot of them.

AG Paper buckets?

SW Buckets made of paper. I bought them to mix paint in, but when I switched to oil paint I got a glass palette. I hadn’t used one since I was an undergraduate. So, I was mixing on the palette, and I’d mix my paint in a circular motion and form. And I thought, I want to do the same thing on the painting, put the paint on very naturally, and have the painting be as organic as possible. I’d make these areas of color on the canvas, copying the drawings and would also incorporate line.

Sixteen Songs is from 1984. I think I made two or three big oil paintings like that. The field would be a light color, grey or blue, and I’d put large areas of color down, then the line. I couldn’t let the line be anything but white. I don’t know why. And the color was very pastel. I couldn’t quite get to the color because I was too focusing on the drawing. Not until I figured out the space could I get to the color.

At that time, the colors I used were mostly pink, brown, or blue. And black, of course. Other colors only slowly came in and step-by-step. As I got to know the paintings, got to know the space, and got to know who I am, I arrived at the color.

It’s funny, because as much as I’m involved with being a New York painter in terms of the grid, I really thought about painting being more organic. I wanted a way of putting any color down, whenever I felt like it, and not having to wait or have to layer it. I wanted a system where, if I wanted to put a blue down, I could put a blue down, and if I wanted to put a green down, I could put a green down, without having to wait for something. I really wanted the color to dominate.


Stanley Whitney in his Cooper Square studio, New York City, 2015. Photo by Richard Goldstein.

I taught out at Berkeley in ’86, and at Stanford for the summer in ’87 or ’88. I traveled across country a lot then. I kept thinking about space in terms of landscape. That Sixteen Songs painting, I really think about it in terms of landscape. We drove across the country then. When I came back from California I showed at Fiction/Non-Fiction, Jose Freire’s gallery. First on the lower east side, and then he moved to Mercer Street. I did shows at both galleries. Not much came out of that at that time, around the late ‘80s.

Then, I had the opportunity through Tyler to go teach in Rome in ‘92. So, Marina and I decided to move to Italy. We had been married for a few years and decided to get out of New York for a bit. It was in Italy that I started thinking about space in terms of architecture. That’s when things changed.


Stanley Whitney in Rome, 1993. Photos by Marina Adams. Courtesy of the artist.

AG Did you meet a lot of other artists during your time in Rome? What was the community like there?

SW We didn’t meet many Italian artists, only a few, but Marina and I became very good friends at that time with David Hammons. I knew David in NY, but we became very close in Italy. He had been there before at the American Academy in Rome and had been invited back to do a show with Jannis Kounellis. We really started hanging out all the time there. He had an Italian girlfriend then, so he was always in Rome. David and I did a couple of shows together. One was in Naples soon after my son was born. Marina, David, my son William, and I went to Naples when he was about five months old and had a great time. We did a very fun show together. That painting over there on the wall with the wire and cigar coming off of it was a collaborative piece from 1994 and was exhibited in the Naples show.


Stanley Whitney and David Hammons, Untitled, 1993–94. Wire, cigar, and oil on canvas. 8 × 14 inches. Courtesy of the artist. Photo by Sarah Kurz.

Once we came back to the States, David and I worked on another project together—a show called Quiet As It’s Kept, at Christine König Galerie in Vienna. It was three generations of black abstract painters. We made a beautiful catalogue with a very well written essay by Geoffrey Jacques. David and I are still very good friends to this day. We always have great conversations, whether it’s about art, politics, or life. You know, it can be very hard to get a good friend later in life. When my best friend Al died, that’s when I really got close with David. We used to travel a lot together and had a great time.


Stanley Whitney and David Hammons, Vienna, 2001. Courtesy Christine König Galerie, Wien. Photo by Christine König.

AG How did your time in Italy change your paintings?

SW Looking at Sixteen Songs again last year, I realized that the paintings from these years, the mid-eighties, are very influenced by landscape and me traveling across the country. But when I went to Italy, architecture became the big thing. I think about Rome as a great combination of architecture and landscape—the beautiful architecture, and all the ancient buildings, the Pantheon, the Colosseum, and then these umbrella trees. Living in Rome, walking past the Pantheon all the time, passing the façade of the Vatican, the light on the buildings, the color—that was a big influence on me. So, I started getting more involved with architecture, more so than with landscape.

AG Was it the way one’s body interacts with space, with architecture?

SW No, it was more of a visual thing than a physical thing. It really was just these beautiful buildings. Rome is a beautiful city. And the incredible light, it is just like Caravaggio—it’s black and dark, and then light. The temperature changes like that, from dark to light.

The first year I was there we did a lot of visiting with art historians who take you to all these sites and talk about them. Tyler School of Art Rome had these classes, and since I was part of the faculty, I could go on lecture trips. Faculty would take us all around Pompeii. Once I went to Volterra, and we went to, I think, the Etruscan Museum, and they had all their little urns stacked up in rooms. I thought, That’s interesting, everything’s just stacked up. At that point my painting was still very loose and gestural, very baroque. And I thought to myself, You know what, Stanley? I’m just going to stack the color.


Stanley Whitney in his studio, Rome, 1994. Photo by Athina Wannoy. Courtesy of the artist.

I stacked the color and painted like that for a long time. And then I took a trip to Egypt. Living in Rome, we traveled all around the Mediterranean. The Egypt trip was in December of ’93. I remember the date well because my son was born in Rome the following May. I felt a strong desire, even pull, to go to Egypt—to the pyramids and the temples and see the scale. I knew I had to go. And I was right, when I went to Egypt it just came to me. I looked at the pyramids and found the last missing piece of my puzzle—it was density. I mean, at the Pantheon, you have pillars that are twelve tons. In Egypt, you have even greater ones. And I thought, You know what, Stanley? I bet I can just stick these colors right next to each other instead of having them on a field. I didn’t know at that point that the space was in the color. I kept thinking the space was around, and the color was all in the space. But when I put the colors directly next to each other, I realized that I don’t lose the air.


Stanley Whitney and Marina Adams, Egypt, 1993. Courtesy of the artist.

AG What’s interesting to see in your paintings is that each square has its own idea of space, but they’re also working with each other within the whole composition of the canvas. It seems like you’re playing around with space, opacity, and density from square to square.

SW Yeah, I can have lots of paintings within one painting. And as I said, I always had the color. The color was never an issue. The issue was, how was I going to make the color subject matter. And I didn’t really know that this was my big question all those years, but that’s what I was asking. I was always working on how to put the color in the right space. So, Egypt was the last piece of the puzzle. Density. I realized that I could just pack the color together. I always thought, if I did that, I would suck the air out of the painting.

AG So, with that said, would you say you’re making painting about painting? Or paintings about paint?

SW You know, I don’t see figure, and I don’t see landscape. I see paint, on canvas.  Painting is a really strange thing, I think. Painting in itself, in the Western world—or better, poetry and painting in the Western world—are really strange things. I think people have a hard time dealing with both, but they’re very important because they bring a lot of humanity to people. The Western world is so into engineering, and feats like that. I’ve just been reading a great book about Osip Mandelstam, one of Russia’s great poets. Stalin killed poets and artists because he thought they were a real threat. Painting and poetry, I think, bring so much understanding, trying to figure out what it is, really, to be human. That’s what I’m trying to do in the paintings. Color is such an unknown thing. Color brings so much emotion and depth to people, and people get a lot of joy out of it. It opens up a lot of hope and possibilities.


Stanley Whitney, Untitled, 2014. Gouache on paper. 19¾ × 27½ inches. Courtesy TEAM Gallery, New York.

AG Do you ever feel like you run out of colors?

SW No, never. The color is just endless, and it’s something that changes. Depending on if it’s thin or thick, opaque or transparent, it feels totally different. It’s really about how it feels. The world is so tactile, and I want the paintings to be that tactile. So sometimes, the painting is real hard, then it’s soft or really delicate. There are all these different feelings you can get through color. Even with this painting here, which is at an early stage, there are some things I like already and that I’m sorry I have to give up because it hasn’t arrived in the space or at the clarity I want. I want the painting to be like a beautiful, clear, clean day. But I’m not sure yet what that means in terms of gesture, or mark, or touch. Some of what’s there might stay, some of it might change. I don’t really know yet.

AG What about the interaction between scale and color?

SW Oh, I want the scale to be big. You know, we’re Americans. (laughter) But it’s not just big in terms of size. I want it to be a lot of color. Overwhelming. This size, to me—seventy-two by seventy-two—is small. I love painting ninety-six by ninety-six. But if I put these out there together, people will be overwhelmed by color. It becomes like an insulation. You know what I mean?


View of Stanley Whitney’s Other Colors I Forget, April 11–May 12, 2013, TEAM Gallery, New York. From Left: This Side of Blue, 2011, oil on linen, 96 × 96 inches; Stanley Whitney, Left to Right, 2011, oil on linen, 96 × 96 inches. Courtesy TEAM Gallery, New York.

AG That’s something I noticed about your show at TEAM Gallery. There were all these new, really big paintings. I mean, one gets overwhelmed with the color and the feeling you’re getting from them. But then, we’re here in your studio, and I’m seeing these twelve by twelve inch paintings. Are these studies for the bigger paintings?

SW No, they’re their own thing. While I paint the large paintings, I paint with little sort of salad bowls as palettes. Each color has its own bowl. I make the small paintings because I have paint left over in the bowls. I’ve done tons of these little paintings. I’m trying not to do as many as I used to, because I already have stacks of them. They keep me in shape too, because when I’m working on the big paintings I have a lot of drying time. At the moment, I’m drawing instead. I do a lot of reading too.

AG When you’re working on a piece do you listen to music? Or is it silent?

SW Music’s a big part of my life. I don’t know about you, but in the black community I came from music was always there—the radio was on, dance parties, music, music, music. I think that’s how people got through slavery—with music. It’s sort of a lifeline.

So, in my studio I always have music on. When you’re painting you kind of go into a trance, and you come out of a trance. I hear the music when I’m beginning to paint, and then again when I’m done. Maybe if I’m having a hard time painting, I hear the music more. For me, painting’s about color, but it’s also about getting the right rhythm, getting the right combination. Painting, for me, is like music. It really is like call and response. A color calls another color. The idea is that all the color is equal and that one color doesn’t get in the way of another color, and that you have good transitions, so you can move through the painting pretty easily.

I grew up listening to Bud Powell and Thelonious Monk, and I actually found this great Bud Powell CD where he’s playing this piano that’s out of tune. I love to hear Bud Powell playing the same song over and over, and every time it’s different. It’s hard to talk about jazz in this country because it’s treated so lightly. People don’t think much of the music, or people don’t really understand how much Louis Armstrong changed the world. They kind of know it, but they go, “Eh, that’s not a big deal.” What African Americans did, people are like, “It’s not a big deal.” It’s like, “Oh, that’s just natural.” They don’t realize how hard Billie Holiday worked to get that kind of rhythm, or that kind of beat, or to lay way back and still have it be on time. People don’t realize the intellect that’s there.

AG Yeah, for sure.

SW And so the color sort of comes out of that. Somebody asked me the other day if I have a color theory. No. I don’t have any color theory. The color is magic, and I want the work to be magic. I lay a color down and that color calls another color, and then it’s a balancing act. You don’t want to have something dominate something else, and you want to have good transitions.


View of Stanley Whitney’s Cooper Square studio, 2015, New York. Photo by Richard Goldstein.

AG What’s your favorite color to use? Do you have a go-to color?

SW I don’t have a favorite color. I use a lot of red, but I would never say that red was my favorite color. Although you come into the studio and say, “There’s a lot of red here!”

AG Yeah. What about the brand of paint or pigment you’re using?

SW Well, I use Williamsburg paint. I can buy big tubes of paint. I like big tubes of paint. Williamsburg paint seems to work okay for me. Bill Jensen says it’s terrible paint, but it’s okay for me.

So, I’m not making my own paint. I’m not a chemist. I want to get to things pretty quickly. You know what’s hard for me to get? If I see a beautiful dark-skinned black person who’s wearing pink or red, I think, Gee, I can’t quite get that dark to have that richness it has with that pink. I haven’t been able to paint a real brown or black that’s that kind of skin color. Like you get people from Sudan who are black as night, and you put color on those people, like whoom! The color just jumps.

New York is great because it’s a real people-watching place. Everyone’s trying to be an individual. Everyone has to work hard to stick out. People really dress here. It’s great. Fashion’s big, and you see all kinds of combinations. When I was in West Africa, in Dakar, I loved how the women just mixed up all these fabrics, with all kinds of color combinations. It’s just like, wow! So color is endless to me.

AG When you paint, do you think of these textiles and color combinations that you saw on your travels?

SW I think there’s color everywhere. Most of the color in the world comes out of the southern hemisphere, though. You know, Africa, India, South America. Women are definitely much more involved with color than men. Most of the time, it’s the women who like my paintings more. The men sometimes have a hard time with them. Because they want to be in control so much, and you can’t control the color. That’s what I think, anyway.

But textiles, rugs, quilts, fashion, lipstick, you name it—I kind of want all that stuff in my paintings. I don’t see an end to it, if I really follow all these things. I haven’t been to Mumbai yet and seen a thousand shades of orange. I don’t know where the structure will go or whether I will keep painting these, like you say, squares of color. But I don’t worry about that. I’ve been following my paintings my whole life. I’m just trying to be courageous. If the painting goes under the door, I go under the door. If the painting goes around the corner, I go around the corner. If the painting goes out the window, I go out the window. Wherever the paintings go, I go. The paintings really lead me. I don’t lead the paintings.


View of Stanley Whitney’s Cooper Square studio, 2015, New York. Photo by Sarah Kurz.

AG I read an interview that you did about your lineage where you said, “Newman, Judd, then me.” I was wondering if you—

SW Oh, I did say that? How interesting.

AG (laughter) Could you talk about those two, and then you?

SW What I meant was that when I came to town and saw Barnett Newman, I couldn’t do anything like him, as a painter. But I think Donald Judd, as a sculptor, could. I think Judd kind of took Newman and reinvented him in terms of sculpture. For me, as a painter, there was nothing I could do with Newman. But I could then look, as a painter, at Judd’s three-dimensional work and reinvent painting from his sculpture.

AG I really like that. How do you title your work? Newman was great at titling his paintings.

SW Who’s Afraid of Red, Yellow, and Blue?

AG Yeah, right, or other titles were themed and referenced the Bible. How do approach titling a painting?

SW Well, I’ve read a lot, and I still read all the time. If I’m not painting, I read. So, I always write things down. If someone wanted to read my life, my titles are a clue to where I am, what’s going on, and what I’m thinking. I had a title, My Tina Turner, and, actually, John Yau thought it referred to Susan Howe’s book My Emily Dickinson—because I read a lot of poetry. But it wasn’t that. I have another title, I think it’s James Brown: Sacrifice to Apollo, or something like that. I did that because I thought, people will say, “He means James Brown at the Apollo.” But I wanted to talk about James Brown being a god. So, the titles are another way for people to get involved with the work, another way in. Sometimes I use musical titles. I used a great Fela title once, Suffering and Smiling. I wish I could use it again. Suffering and smiling,is really what I think black folks do.

I want to have titles that connect to what’s happening at the time, in the world, or my connection to music, or my connection to reading, or my connection to communities. Different things.

AG Has the reading influenced the work any?

SW The reading kind of keeps me in shape, mentally. I want to stay sharp, so when I come into the studio I’m right there. And I’m right on top of it; I never fuss around. Painting is a real love act, and you’re putting a lot of love into the world. The world needs a lot of love, I think, and so that reading keeps me in touch with ideas.

AG Let’s talk about your family life. You mentioned that you’re married to Marina Adams, also an artist. Has she influenced the development of your work? Are there breakfast conversations?

SW Great conversations, I have to say. I’m married to Marina Adams, who’s a fantastic painter. And because of that, we love looking at art together and love traveling together. I mean, we’ve been together, God, thirty years, and it’s been great. Marina has a beautiful studio in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, and I paint in our loft.

We’ve really grown together in so many ways, personally and professionally. Privately, when you’re married to a painter, it’s really good. Publicly, it can be really hard because people think there’s only room for one painter, but it’s not true. Marina has greatly influenced the development of my work. We’ve had and have great conversations. With our work, we have color in common, but our idea of drawing and structure is very different. In our conversations we don’t necessarily agree on everything. In fact, in terms of color, what I think of as Yellow, Marina insists is Orange. (laughter)

She’s the one and only person I really trust in the studio. She has a great eye, and I’ve always valued her feedback over anyone else’s. She knows me and my work better than anyone, and I totally rely on her.

We have a son, William, who will be twenty in May. He’s at Colby College. He’s not really involved with the arts. He is studying political science. But he’s very much into rap. He’s a rapper. And he writes a lot.

AG So he’s into music.

SW Always, in the black community music is key. Every generation reinvents it. They take the same music, the same idea, and they reinvent it. And what they do with it is astonishing. In my building here is a place called Scratch.

AG Which is a DJ school.

SW Yeah. They’ve invented this whole industry from nothing. They didn’t have money to go learn to play piano, or to go learn to play anything. But yet, they’ve reinvented this music. Because we need music to survive. So, my son’s really involved with this music. And that’s his generation. I have maybe three hundred records of all this jazz stuff. He’s not interested in it. He’s so involved with his music, just like I had my music, while my father listened to Cab Calloway and Duke Ellington and all that, and I was like, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fine. Whatever.” My son might get interested in jazz one day.

AG You talked about travelling a lot, and currently you have a studio here in New York as well as in Parma, Italy. Could you talk a little bit about the difference between working here and in Italy?

SW It’s not much different for me, actually. It’s really wonderful to have these two spaces. The reason we have the place in Italy is because of Marina. She really wanted a summer studio, so we got this house up near Parma. It was Marina’s idea to do this, and it was a great idea. We took this old fienile, a stone barn, and turned it into a studio and living space. We both paint there in the summer time. I don’t send paintings from Europe back to the States, though I do send paintings from the States to Europe. Two years ago, I did a show in Berlin, at the Nordenhake Gallery, and it was the first time I showed works from New York and from Italy together. I wondered if one could tell the difference between them. Is the color different? It’s the same paint, but I use a different type of canvas. The ones from Parma didn’t look any different than the ones from New York.


Stanley Whitney in his Parma studio, 2011, Italy. Photo by Eleanna Anagnos. Courtesy of the artist.

AG Between here, in New York or the US, and over in Europe, do you feel like there’s different responses in the audience?

SW Yeah, definitely. Well, in Europe, they have a whole history of art and a clear idea of where the artist fits into the culture. Here, it’s the Wild West. It’s still cowboys and Indians, with a few slaves thrown in.

AG (laughter)

SW Like even in the little town, Solignano, outside of Parma, where Marina and I moved, the people there think we’re magical. They think, Wow! Two artists from America came to live in our town. How lucky we are! And they treat us like we are very special. Whereas, upstate New York, or on Long Island, people think, Oh, these artists. They don’t think artists are special.

AG (laughter)

SW So it’s a different relationship. There they have a great respect for art. And, of course, Europeans just love music, and they like jazz. So, if my work comes with the music, they love that idea too. It’s definitely different in terms of how people see you. But at the same time, in America there’s a lot more freedom to do or be whatever you want to be. You don’t have that kind of freedom in Europe.

AG Definitely. And where do you feel like you fit into the art world now, being a New York artist? Do you feel like you’re carrying on your part of the New York abstract school?

SW Yeah, I definitely do. The New York abstract school, I embrace that. I wanted that. I worked for that, and I think it’s a really great school. A lot of things happened in New York. You have these moments in history, whether it’s Paris or New York, when things can happen. It’s not for me to decide what young people will do, or what the art world’s going to be. It’s like what music is, what music was. What painting is, what painting will be.

I’m sixty-seven now, and I don’t feel like I’m making my mature paintings. I keep waiting to make crazier paintings as I get older. The color allows me endless possibilities. The paintings might look the same, but they feel totally different. I don’t really know what the color does. It’s like the world. I don’t know about the world. I don’t know what’s going on. We don’t really know much. We say it’s two o’clock, but we just made it up.

AG (laughter) It’s true, yeah.

SW I’m not scared of working with something I don’t know. But I know that when a color allows another color to be there too, they all can get along. They can be very democratic. And that’s what I want.

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