106 15 4134 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/d041447d88a3e182edd2b103bfeb867a.pdf a4d3ba8b5ab62ae70254a5860072d8f9 PDF Text Text �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1993 May 30 Twentieth Anniversary Exhibition: Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1993 May 30 - June 25 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Type The nature or genre of the resource N/A Subject The topic of the resource N/A https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/5769ad16f8f920ec389422135baf6cb8.pdf be43b398809bad85bced81a966567cb4 PDF Text Text �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1994 May 1 Water Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource John Bromberg Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1994 May 1 - June 5 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Type The nature or genre of the resource N/A Subject The topic of the resource N/A https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/3eb7e7a3606db0201bbc2e33a3e83aa7.pdf 7ee05bc079731354e9343e523bf30e4f PDF Text Text ��������� https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/a189e09b55243de2e78f1c470f869540.pdf 78c38ca908ab0fb92c54cf29a7fbcd49 PDF Text Text <1 I i- ; ; 5, ■the City Observed SORD GA ND1159 C6 �The City Observed Barry Roal Carlsen Douglas Safranek Stuart Shils October 2-November 6,1994 E.S. ^.RLEY LiBRAR? WILKES UNIVERSITY WILKES-BARRE, PA Sordoni Art Gallery Wilkes University Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania © 1994 Sordoni Art Gallery �ARCHIVE at n A( Lenders to the Exhibition Barry Roal Carlsen, Madison, WI Gregory and Dorothy Conniff, Madison, WI David Grossfeld, Chicago R. Hiteshew and D. Panzer Collection, Philadelphia Diana Kingman, Berwyn, PA Julilly Kohler, Milwaukee WI Ben Mangel, Philadelphia Mangel Gallery, Philadelphia Lorrie Moore, Madison, WI Thomas and Janet Paul, Loudonville, NY Diana Sargent, Fishers Island, NY Schmidt-Bingham Gallery, New York Stuart Shils, Philadelphia Kenneth Waliszewski, Brookfield, WI Judith Woodburn, Milwaukee, WI Three Anonymous Private Collections n behalf of the Sordoni Ar I to loan works to this exh Julilly Kohler and Jordar Mangel Gallery, Philadelphia; and been especially helpful in arrangir ■ Dale Mainer supervised the packi west. Nancy Krueger of the Sordo ing the exhibition. Earl Lehman i Dr. William Sterling read drafts o Barry Roal Carlsen designed the ( As a the Fin us. Sta Dir ays I am grateful for the su * doni Art Gallery. I thank Barry Roal Carlst r I Grand >?r �1 I Acknowledgments 5 Exhibition on.WI ti, Philadelphia to loan works to this exhibiit"7Chris „eJsXnl'T"0-'-’ag'“in« LJ Julilly Kohler and Jordana Joseph of InternoXiLy Xaufee TO R M 3°*’ Mangel Gallery Philadelphia; and Diana Sargent of The Pandi’on Gallery, Fishe'rs been especially helpful m arranging loans. ’N *’ nave Dale Mainer supervised the packing and crating of the Carlsen paintings that came from the Mid­ west. Nancy Krueger of the Sordoni Art Gallery co-ordinated the many details involved with mount­ ing the exhibition. Earl Lehman installed the exhibition. My colleagues Dr. J. Michael Lennon and Dr. William Sterling read drafts of the essay; I appreciate their editorial comments. j, NY Barry Roal Carlsen designed the cover and provided the catalogue layout. As always I am grateful for the support provided the Gallery by Wilkes University and the Friends of the Sordoni Art Gallery. Finally, I thank Barry Roal Carlsen, Douglas Safranek and Stuart Shils for sharing their visions with 5 us. Stanley I Grand Director 3H" ■ ;8t �The City Observed A Ithough Barry Roal Carlsen Douglas A Safranek and Stuart Shils each creates XX small-format paintings depicting contem­ porary urban landscapes, their sensibilities, for mal concerns and content differ considerably. Carlsen’s pictures of a mid-sized, midwestem city express a poetic, oneiric sensibility. Safranek s punctiliously delineated meditations order the discordance and cacophony of New York City. Shils responds spontaneously to the stimuli of a city undergoing constant cycles of decay and re­ birth. With dramatic contrasts of light and dark, glowing enameled colors, and a multiplicity of detail, Barry Carlsen creates an enigmatic, per­ sonal and marginal world bathed in crepuscular light. Suspended between night and day, twilight marks the transition from work to home, public to private lives, waking to sleep. It is a bridge and, not surprisingly, the bridge recurs frequently as a motif in Carlsen’s paintings. Carlsen depicts a poetic borderland where dif­ ferent worlds intersect and loyalties diverge. Stations suggests the conflict that the artist feels between his studio and his family. In this pic­ ture the artist is a night-shift worker for whom the comforting presence of family, suggested by the light emanating from an upstairs bedroom window, is denied. The child’s sled, abandoned by the side of the house, underscores the mood of isolation. The tension between home and work is expressed differently in Night Shift where lower-middle class backyards butt up against industrial sites. People become marginal in Carlsen’s world. The brave-new-world skyscrapers of the modern service industries march proudly past the ver­ nacular structures of the old rustbelt distribu­ tion centers, which seem strangely quiet eerie and preternatural. The individuals, like those in Not Forgotten, who hang around these by­ passed enterprises engage in mysterious, and often ominous, encounters with each other. Me­ mentoes of projects begun, but left unfinished abound. The mood is haunting, melancholic and elegiac. Even the world of The Dreamer is troubled by disturbing outside forces—symbol­ ized by a strong wind that depresses and flat­ tens the ascending smoke. The painting’s highly finished, glossy surface becomes a mirror of dreams. Despite their small scale, Carlsen’s paintings share some of the grandeur of classic nineteenth­ century American landscapes. The dramatic, ex­ pansive skies recall those of Frederic Edwin Church, but the mood is closer to that of Thomas Cole’s allegorical Course of Empire, updated to show the waning of the American empire. Other influences include the Immaculate painters: Re­ union II in particular shows a knowledge of Charles Sheeler’s photographs of the Ford Mo­ tor Company plant at River Rouge, Michigan. The tension in Douglas Safranek’s paintings derives, in part, from the paradox of imposing a rigid sense of order on what has become, increas­ ingly, a subject synonymous with disorder. Un­ like, Stuart Shils, Safranek paints the city from an intellectual point of view: he brings to his paintings a Cartesian sense of order, reinforced, no doubt, by his undergraduate training as a French major. Typically, as in Still Open, Safranek employs a high, god-like perspective. He looks down on the city from the safety of a window in a tall building. He is a distanced viewer, a flaneur, who orders what he sees, care­ fully removing all chaotic and accidental elements from the composition. His choice of medium expresses well his re­ lationship to his subject. Working in egg tem­ pera, a difficult medium that involves mixing dry pigments in egg yolk, he applies his colors to a carefully prepared surface with small, deliberate brushstrokes. Since egg tempera colors—unlike oils do not blend easily, the artist must lay down many, semi-transparent layers of paint. The medium requires the artist to work slowly, to eliminate chance effects, and encoi most meditative attitude, as that of ing and illustrating manuscripts wl outside spins out of control. Egg t quality, in contrast to the juiciness forces this perception. Egg tempera is ideally suite whose work has a strong linear qual also draws in silverpoint, one exar is included in this exhibition, a virtu that is unexcelled for precise drau His linear sensibility aligns him wi cal, rational tradition that gives the intellectualism of line over the color. Safranek’s clear, deliberate f tours look back to the Classicism of than the Romanticism of Delacroi: A Classical air of quietude anc permeates Still Open. The glowi Mini Market draws residents of ai borhood together on a desultory s Two women lean against the side ( watching four men and a boy, care to form a flattened circle. The sin ing passerby is balanced by anothe Graffiti tags, a frequently cited sj decay, become mere visual inch lights, like jewels, draw the eye a: position, in which a solitary offic nates the horizon. To the left ma ers suggest the presence of Manh lighted catenaries of the suspensio planar recession of the buildi unanimated by glimpses of huma: through open night windows. He Edward Hopper or a John Sloan, drawn. Stuart Shils, on the other hai din, the noise and the dirt of the quickly with oils on paper in a pai style, his plein air cityscapes cap tory and impermanent nature of t Shils has said that his paini �mentoes of projects begun, but left unfinished abound. The mood is haunting, melancholic and elegiac. Even the world of The Dreamer is troubled by disturbing outside forces—symbol­ ized by a strong wind that depresses and flat­ tens the ascending smoke. The painting’s highlyfinished, glossy surface becomes a mirror of dreams. Despite their small scale, Carlsen’s paintings share some of the grandeur of classic nineteenth­ century American landscapes. The dramatic, ex­ pansive skies recall those of Frederic Edwin Church, but the mood is closer to that of Thomas Cole’s allegorical Course of Empire, updated to show the waning of the American empire. Other influences include the Immaculate painters: Re­ union II in particular shows a knowledge of Charles Sheeler’s photographs of the Ford Mo­ tor Company plant at River Rouge, Michigan. The tension in Douglas Safranek’s paintings derives, in part, from the paradox of imposing a rigid sense of order on what has become, increas­ ingly, a subject synonymous with disorder. Un­ like, Stuart Shils, Safranek paints the city from an intellectual point of view: he brings to his paintings a Cartesian sense of order, reinforced, no doubt, by his undergraduate training as a French major. Typically, as in Still Open, Safranek employs a high, god-like perspective. He looks down on the city from the safety of a window in a tall building. He is a distanced viewer, a flaneur, who orders what he sees, care­ fully removing all chaotic and accidental elements from the composition. His choice of medium expresses well his re­ lationship to his subject. Working in egg tem­ pera, a difficult medium that involves mixing dry pigments in egg yolk, he applies his colors to a carefully prepared surface with small, deliberate brushstrokes. Since egg tempera colors—unlike ails do not blend easily, the artist must lay down many, semi-transparent layers of paint. The medium requires the artist to work slowly, to eliminate chance effects, and encourages an al­ most meditative attitude, as that of a monk copy­ ing and illustrating manuscripts while the world outside spins out of control. Egg tempera’s dry quality, in contrast to the juiciness of oil, rein­ forces this perception. Egg tempera is ideally suited for artists whose work has a strong linear quality. (Safranek also draws in silverpoint, one example of which is included in this exhibition, a virtuoso technique that is unexcelled for precise draughtmanship.) His linear sensibility aligns him with the Classi­ cal, rational tradition that gives precedence to the intellectualism of line over the sensuality of color. Safranek’s clear, deliberate forms and con­ tours look back to the Classicism of Ingres rather than the Romanticism of Delacroix. A Classical air of quietude and timelessness permeates Still Open. The glowing facade of a Mini Market draws residents of an urban neigh­ borhood together on a desultory summer night. Two women lean against the side of a parked car watching four men and a boy, carefully arranged to form a flattened circle. The single, approach­ ing passerby is balanced by another who departs. Graffiti tags, a frequently cited symbol of urban decay, become mere visual incident. Yellow lights, like jewels, draw the eye around the com­ position, in which a solitary office tower domi­ nates the horizon. To the left massed skyscrap­ ers suggest the presence of Manhattan as do the lighted catenaries of the suspension bridges. The planar recession of the buildings is static, unanimated by glimpses of human activity spied through open night windows. Here, unlike in an Edward Hopper or a John Sloan, the shades are drawn. Stuart Shils, on the other hand, relishes the din, the noise and the dirt of the city. Working quickly with oils on paper in a painterly, gestural style, his plein air cityscapes capture the transitorY and impermanent nature of the urban scene. Shils has said that his paintings are about thetic 1 Place- His is an aes’ cewed n • a s?1cl01°Slcal> P°int of view. Con­ cerned primarily with visual phenomena he records what he sees but refrains from making overt programmatic or political statements. He invites the viewer to contemplate the scene but, by means of an empty, foreground intermediary zone, keeps the viewer at an aesthetic distance. Although his palette, which consists prima­ rily of earth colors, recalls that of the Ash Can Painters, he does not share their picturesque view of poverty. Shils lacks the optimism of a Robert Henri or George Luks who viewed pov­ erty as a transitory state populated by individu­ als whose lives were more raw, more full, more gutsy. Nor does he explore the themes of alien­ ation, loneliness and estrangement, like Edward Hopper, or those of human suffering and pathos, as did Ben Shahn. In Alley Near Schmidt’s Brewery Shils finds a certain tattered beauty, like that of an old face, reflecting experience and, perhaps, wisdom. De­ spite having fallen on hard times, his buildings maintain their dignity. Abstract pictorial con­ siderations, however, predominate: the architec­ tonic structure begins to dissolve, forms open up, edges become brushy and indistinct, broad flat areas of paint are rendered expressionistically. As in most of his paintings, the alley is deserted, but no sense of melancholy intrudes. Throughout the twentieth century, artists have found inspiration in the American city. De­ spite a wide variety of styles, from the naturalis­ tic interpretations of the Ash Can Painters or the American Scene Painters to the increasingly abstract paintings of the Immaculates, Stuart Davis or Piet Mondrian, the city has fascinated artists. The City Observed demonstrates the continuing vitality of this tradition. Stanley I Grand Director �I Barry Roal Carlsen he places I visit in my paintings are reconstructions of another time. They are amalgamations, the kind of blending or restructurM ing of place that our memories recall for us. While they are spawned from memories of my past and the people that were and are dear to me, I want very much not to make the narratives just a visual diary of personal F■ I events. I see the paintings as vehicles to convey emotions, rather than just formal landscapes. They may represent a reconciliation with the past, an homage to a certain person, the completion of an unfinished conversation, or just a wellspring of nostalgia bubbling up. Whatever the content of the given piece, I am cautious to avoid cementing the objects and setting completely in the realm of the personal. I want the viewer to bring his or her own experience to bear in viewing the work. One of the things I enjoy most is hearing others comment on my work. I have heard a single painting interpreted as expressing bright hope and optimism as well as the darkest sense of loss and depression. Either is equally valid to me, both may even exist in the work. I leave it in the viewer’s hands. When I hear interpretations of my paintings, it is like discovering a part of myself. I want to stand quietly in that place between events, spanning both sides of the question. It is important that the narrative is not altogether complete. There must be room for the viewer to complete the picture. The time and place are not meant to be too specific. I am most interested in the human scale in the environment and the relationships between given objects. I like to watch and record the transitional: the implied event, the light from an unseen source, the time just before nightfall or those first moments of the day. These are the things that intrigue me. Barry Roal Carlsen, Not Forgotten, �jSEN are reconstructions of another > kind of blending or restructur­ in’ us. While they are spawned hat were and are dear to me, I : just a visual diary of personal lotions, rather than just formal ation with the past, an homage finished conversation, or just a er the content of the given piece, s and setting completely in the bring his or her own experience rs comment on my work. I have ssing bright hope and optimism ssion. Either is equally valid to it in the viewer’s hands. When ke discovering a part of myself. i events, spanning both sides of tive is not altogether complete, lete the picture. The time and most interested in the human ps between given objects. I like iplied event, the light from an 1 or those first moments of the Barry Roal Carlsen, Not Forgotten., 1991, 9 x 18 inches, oil on masonite. �Douglas Safranek Tk Tew York City’s density was quite overwhelming when I first I arrived from the vast and tranquil West. Upon months of 1 observation, however, intimidation subsided to fascination. I began to appreciate the clashing contrasts of the big city, and the di­ versity of the people and structures within. The buildings are piled high and crammed together, and millions of people share this small space. Life is never on hold—the city is perpetually moving. Run­ down tenements share the streets with cold, steel giants. In my Brook­ lyn neighborhood, artists walk along-side Polish immigrants, Italians, Puerto Ricans, and Hasidic Jews from Hungary. I was inspired to por­ tray unparalleled diversity in my paintings. i I found that through the slow, meditative process of egg tempera, I was able to maintain a sense of intimate stillness in even the most active compositions. I wanted to note not only the clutter and eccentricities of daily life, but also to bring out that which seemed timeless and uni­ versal in a fast-paced environment. My present work continues to de­ velop these New York images. Being a delicate, precise medium, egg tempera encourages working on a smaller scale than I had been used to. I found, however, that I could achieve the same visual impact in miniature with tempera that I could only achieve on a grander scale in other media. The fragility yet ultimate permanency of tempera seems appropriate for what I hope will be timeless, meditative paintings of a dynamically changing world. i Douglas SafrarJ �1 I I I uite overwhelming when I first ■anquil West. Upon months of ation subsided to fascination. I rasts of the big city, and the di* vithin. The buildings are piled ions of people share this small y is perpetually moving. Run­ cold. steel giants. In my Brookide Polish immigrants. Italians. Hungary. I was inspired to por­ tings. s- I ex § £>X 3 ve process of egg tempera. I was tillness in even the most active ly the clutter and eccentricities which seemed timeless and uniy present work continues to dea delicate, precise medium, egg dler scale than I had been used ieve the same visual impact in ily achieve on a grander scale in ? permanency of tempera seems leless, meditative paintings of a Safranek, Still Open, 1994, 4 5/8 x 4 inches, egg tempera on �Stuart Shils 1 ’ T have an appetite for the material of the city; it’s a sensual re­ sponse really. I try to paint in the same way that you eat grapeI fruits in the morning, where you stop thinking about what you’re doing and just enter into the doing of it. It’s like a physical attraction to another person, very animal like. I don’t mean that I paint like an ani­ mal, but I try to connect on a purely visual level. —I don’t think there’s any story in my paintings: if there is, I don’t know about it. The paintings don’t have a psychological or sociological orien­ tation; I’m interested in visual meanings: how one wall relates to an­ other, what that relationship means abstractly, or in the tonal quality of light. —I’m painting the city as it exists today. My colors might seem “old fashioned,” but that’s the city. I don’t see bright reds and oranges. I paint my emotional response to the city, but I’m not transforming my colors in a fauvist way. I’m trying to understand the color that I’m seeing. —I’m not engaged in the whole life-on-the-street issue or involved in what’s going on there. I’m just watching the world go by in a very de­ tached, even voyeuristic, way. That feeling of separation and distance may come through in my work although I’m not thinking about it. Rather, I’m trying to remake what I’m looking at, to put it together in a sensual and tactile way. —The city in its decrepitude is magnificent. I’m not trying to glorify these horrible places, I don’t think there’s any virtue to living there, although I am trying to glorify their visual magnificence. Of course I’m interested in the life of the city and this interest pro­ vides me with a certain momentum, but not in formal terms. When I go out to paint its really more like eating an ice cream cone. Stuart Shils, Alley excerpts from a conversation �------------- ? F I g- terial of the city; it’s a sensual re­ in the same way that you eat grapeyou stop thinking about what you’re of it. It’s like a physical attraction to I don’t mean that I paint like an aniy visual level. gtn O B. Q ny paintings: if there is, I don’t know a psychological or sociological orienanings: how one wall relates to ans abstractly, or in the tonal quality7 of today My colors might seem “old ion’t see bright reds and oranges. I e city, but I’m not transforming my ig to understand the color that I’m e-on-the-street issue or involved in tching the world go by in a very7 det feeling of separation and distance igh I’m not thinking about it. Rather, ng at, to put it together in a sensual ignificent. I’m not trying to glorify t there’s any virtue to living there, r visual magnificence. life of the city and this interest prol but not in formal terms. When I go ling an ice cream cone. Stuart Shils, Alley Near Schmidt’s Brewery, 1994, 10 5/8 x 11 inches, oil on paper. t" I �OF THE EXHIBniON Barry Roal Carlsen Bachelor Party, 1990 0 x 6, oil on panel Courtesy of Gregory and Dorothy Connitt Barn Roal Carlsen C.;s.'-n.c Off II, 1989 0 x 12, oil on copper Courtesy of Dav id Grossfeld Barry Roal Carlsen 1992 5 I 2 x " 1 2. oil on masonite Courtesy of Barry Roal Carlsen Barry Roal Carlsen Factory, 1989 6 x 9. oil on panel Courtesy of Gregory and Dorothy Conniff Barry Roal Carlsen The Meeting Place, 1989 9x 12, oil on copper Courtesy of Lorrie Moore Douglas Safranek Before Dark, 1994 5 3/8 x 6, egg tempera on panel Courtesy of Schmidt-Bingham Gallery Douglas Safranek Common Ground, 1994 32 x 22, egg tempera on panel Courtesy of Schmidt-Bingham Gallery Douglas Safranek Domino Sugar, 1994 5 3/8 x 7, egg tempera on panel Courtesy of Schmidt-Bingham Gallery Barry Roal Carlsen Midnight Wind II, 1994 12 x 28. oil on masonite Courtesy of Barry Roal Carlsen Douglas Safranek Ordinary Life, 1993 16 1/2 x 12, egg tempera on panel Courtesy of Schmidt-Bingham Gallery Barry Roal Carlsen Night Shift, 1989 9x12, oil on copper Courtesy of Barry Roa! Carlsen Douglas Safranek Snow/Steam, 1992 8x7 1/2, silverpoint, gouache on toned board Courtesy of Schmidt-Bingham Gallery Barry Roal Carlsen No! Forgotten, 1991 9x18, oil on masonite Courtesy of Lome Moore Barry Roal Carlsen Reunion 11. 1992 5x9, oil on masonite Ct urtesy of Thomas and Janet Paul Barry Roal Carlsen Shared Gift, 1989 6 x 9, oil on panel Giurtevy of Gregory and Dorothy Conniff Barry Roal Carlsen Slant,ns, I'M 9*6 oil on masonite C ‘run.esy of Kenneth Waliszewski Barry RoaJ (arisen 1he Dreamer, 1992 6 x 9. otl on masonite Courtesy ofJulilly Kohler Barry Roal Carlsen lheIs iton, 198990 12 * 16, oil <m masonite Cosmevy of Judith Woodhum Douglas Safranek Still Open, 1994 4 5/8 x 4, egg tempera on panel Courtesy of Schmidt-Bingham Gallery Douglas Safranek Walking the Dog, 1993 28 1/4 x 17, egg tempera on panel Courtesy of Schmidt-Bingham Gallery Stuart Shils 33rd and Diamond Streets, 1994 7 3/8 x 12, oil on paper Courtesy of Diana Sargent Stuart Shils A Corner of East Fishtown, 1993 9 5/8 x 11 13/16, oil on paper Courtesy of Private Collection Stuart Shils A Dark Side Street, 1992 7 3/8 x 11 1/2, oil on paper Courtesy of Private Collection Stuart Shils >/K x 11, oil on Counesy of Stuart Shils Stuart Shils Construction Near Delaware Avi'enue, 1993 11 1/8 x 11, oil on paper Courtesy of Ben Mangel Stuart Shils Delaware Avenue with a Red Truck, 1992 8 7/8 x 11 3/8, oil on paper Courtesy of Stuart Shils Stuart Shils Demolition on Norih American Street, 1993 117/16 x 9 7/8, oil on paper Courtesy of Diana Kingman Stuart Shils Grey's Ferry and Federal Streets, 1991 7 1/4x10 5/8, oil on paper Courtesy of Private Collection Stuart Shils Mellon Bank Tower, 1992 9 1/4x8 3/4, oil on paper Courtesy of Stuart Shils Stuart Shils Nocturne, 1992 8 1/8x10 1/2, oil on paper Courtesy of Stuart Shils Stuart Shils Nocturne Over Manayunk, 1985 7 1/2x14, oil on paper Courtesy of R. Hiteshew and D. Panzer Collection Stuart Shils Old Warehouses with Stack, 1993 10 3/4x11 1/8, oil on paper Courtesy of Stuart Shils Stuart Shils The Relic Still Afloat, 1993 8 1/2 x 12 1/2, oil on paper Courtesy of Mangel Gallery Stuart Shils Urban Ruins, 1994 10 5/8 x 10 5/8, oil on paper Courtesy of Stuart Shils Height precedes width, all dimensions in inches �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1994 October 2 The City Observed Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Barry Roal Carlson Douglas Safranek Stuart Shils StanleyI.Grand Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1994 October 2 - November 6 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource Although Barry Roal Carlsen, Douglas Safranek, and Stuart Shils each creates small-format paintings depicting contemporary urban landscapes, their sensibilities, formal concerns, and content differ considerably. In this exhibition, exploration into these different aspects is explored. Type The nature or genre of the resource N/A Subject The topic of the resource N/A Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource SAG https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/ab13f50468d422cd9e61b8e28003d1ba.pdf 05cc1d8a08e654da18a043b1ed42d906 PDF Text Text �������������������������� https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/d159ed1fb1bb4dcae2607e1282db4599.pdf 183a72c8dc25bb86b3fcd10ff2bae74a PDF Text Text SORD GA NE2860 D795 1994 he Drum Lithographs: 1960-1963 �Tin: jm Lithographs; 1960-1963 1 ’.xliibitimi < aimhil by Sundry H.t.iiiJ Cntnlogur I’ -Mix by Cliniou \il;iin1 liy lltlr S||r| ill.tn •j(> i WiLKES UNIVERSITY WtLKES-BARRE. PA xd- oi Vi GaU’n « slkr. I %>!;•- ■ Il.r.-- f'-r ■ - > ©|>>H ©r* i' • > vi > �acknowledgments IOKW MU) Stanley I Grand Jules Sherman I first met Jules and Lorraine. Sherman while working on my dissertation. Ihey invited me out to their Long Island home and. during the course of our visit, introduced me to the Drum Lithographs. At the time, I thought that these little-known lithographs would make an excellent exhibition. In 1993, their son Michael and his wile Kim donated 121 of the prints to the Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes I niversity. This exhibition is drawn primarily from that generous gift. I am particularly grateful to Clinton Adams, whose knowledge of lithography and twentieth-century American lithographers is unrivaled, for writing the catalogue essay. He has been a delightful person with whom Io work. Ken Showell photographed the lithographs al Christopher and \ vettc Deelons New York studio. The Metro Agency7 designed the catalogue, which was printed by Penn ( Creative Litho. Finally, 1 wish to express my thanks to the Sordoni Art Gallery staff. Friends of the Sordoni Art Gallery7, and the Gallery's Advisory Commission. ARCHIVES I remember it as a dark, winter evi 1 ♦>()()—I can t sax exactlx7—w In n lb gio Reginald. reienih irttirnvd train Pan l> establishing an experimental lithographic pt \n \leliei' hi a coninieu ial litho pb I phoned mx wife canceled dmmi personal dream xxtis about to lie tulhlb'd. begun and Collci tors Graphics was born \\« Legau work almost immediatelv and aluminum plate., coalings and et< techniques and materials. Nothing workei paper plate- l)e-igned exchl-ivelx lor sho plates xv« iv unstable, fragik and tempers bt-xond our wildest expectation. ith tl print program b< gan in carn< -I. We agreed, at the x< r\ beginning- ll artists or their work that all costs would h not be inhibited by financial consider educational and joyous and that the ultum < io]lectors Graphics was to be a -elf Jacquis Lipchitz. Ma-ter. friend ol realized the freedom of Collectors Graphic an evenings production: everything was in the flu and deeply apologetic about his mi nonetheless reluctant to break the schcdiil permit me to lie hi- eye- I would describe to the waiting pressman. I le agreed! Later that evening. I delivered the was overwhelmed. He left his bed. hugg ‘"Jules, yon have given me new hope for a With undxing love for Reginald, wl With undxing luxe for Merrill, hi- i With undying love for Lou. their b �FORWARD Jules Sherman raine Sherman while working on my dissertation. They [and home and, during the course of our visit, introduced At the time, I thought that these little-known lithographs ition. In 1993, their son Michael and his -wife Kim donated i Art Gallery, Wilkes University. This exliibition is drawn ift. il to Clinton Adams, whose knowledge of lithography and lographers is unrivaled, for writing the catalogue essay, i with whom to work. led the lithographs at Cluistopher and Yvette Deeton's New ned the catalogue, which was printed by Penn Creative : my thanks to the Sordoni Art Gallery staff. Friends of the tilery's Advisory Commission. 1 remember it as a dark, winter evening in late December 1959 or early January 10pQ I cant say exactly—when Reginald Pollack entered my shop, and my life. Reginald, recently returned from Paris, had telephoned a few hours earlier to propose establishing an experimental lithographic print program. An Atelier! In a commercial litho plant! I phoned my wife, canceled dinner and awaited his arrival with no doubt that a personal dream was about to be fulfilled. Several hours later, a lifelong friendship had begun and Collectors Graphics was born. We began work almost immediately, devoting weekends to experimenting with zinc and aluminum plates, coatings and etches, and other contemporary lithographic techniques and materials. Nothing worked. Finally we custom ordered special press-size paper plates. Designed exclusively for short runs on small Multilith equipment, the paper plates were unstable, fragile, and temperamental; but they functioned magnificently — beyond our wildest expectations. With the basic production problem now resolved, the print program began in earnest. We agreed, at the very beginning, that no restrictions would ever be imposed on the artists or their work; that all costs would be absorbed by the shop so that the artists would not be inhibited by financial considerations; that our aim in printing was solely educational and joyous and that the ultimate product would reflect this philosophy. Collectors Graphics was to be a self-sustaining love affair! Jacques Lipchitz, Master, friend of Modigliani, Picasso and their contemporaries, realized the freedom of Collectors Graphics and brought forth its soul. We had scheduled an evening’s production; everything was in order when the phone rang. Sick at home with the flu and deeply apologetic about his inability to be present at the printing, Jacques was nonetheless reluctant to break the schedule. I was at press side and asked him if he would permit me to be his eyes: I would describe what I saw’ and he would respond, through me, to the waiting pressman. Fie agreed! Later that evening, I delivered the prints to his home. This gentle giant of a man was overwhelmed. Fie left his bed, hugged me and said in his endearing French accent, “Jules, you have given me new hope for a life in art! With undying love for Reginald, who taught me to See. With undying love for Merrill, his identical twin, who taught me to Share. With undying love for Lou, their brother, who taught me to Feel. ■ 1 - I �THE DRUM LITHOGRAPHS: 1960-1963 Clinton Adams As has often been the case in the history of artists’ lithography, a fortuitous meeting between an artist and a printer made possible the fine prints produced at Drum Lithographers between 1960 and 1963. The artist was Reginald Pollack, who had been making lithographs in New York and Paris since 1941; the printer was Jules Sherman, who offered to print Pollack’s hand-drawn offset lithographs for the sheer joy of it. 1 Pollack had first encountered lithography while an apprentice to Moses Soyer in 1941; soon thereafter, he and some friends had printed lithographs from stone, using presses and equipment at East Side House in Manhattan. In 1948, after military service during World War II, Pollack went to Paris for study, with support from the G.I. Bill. He soon met the French printer Gaston Dorfinant, who permitted the young artist (he was then twenty-four) to draw his stones at a work bench once used by Toulouse-Lautrec. While living in Paris, Pollack continued to exhibit in New York, most often at the Peridot Gallery, established by his brother Louis in 1949. To earn money on the side, he began buying prints in Paris—on the quais and at auctions—acting as agent for Louis Pollack, Charles Stem, and the print dealer, Peter Deitsch. In the late 1950s, he made several color lithographs in Paris, including one on commission from William S. Lieberman, then Curator of Prints at the Museum of Modem Art.2 Simultaneously, a new interest in lithography was developing in the United States. In New York, Margaret Lowengrund opened the Contemporaries Graphic Art Centre (predecessor to the Pratt Graphic Art Center) in 1955, and Tatyana Grosman began her collaboration with Larry Rivers and Frank O’Hara in 1957. In Los Angeles, June Wayne, with a grant from the Ford Foundation, established Tamarind Lithography Workshop in 1960.3 Each of these workshops had its own character and objectives. At Tamarind, a primary goal was the training of a new generation of master printers who, in concert with artists of diverse styles . . . [might] restore the prestige of lithography by actually creating a collection of extraordinary prints.”4 Reginald Pollack, however, had come to believe that collaborative lithographic workshops were caught up in a “quagmire of lithographic technology” that caused art to lose its spontaneity. It was the technology that was of interest, rather than the work of art.”5 This conclusion (which would be contradicted by history) caused Pollack to seek simpler ways to make prints. Soon after returning from Paris to New York, he began work with the printer Martin Levitt, who introduced him to the Multilith process, a form of oJ>ffset lithography that makes use of plastic-impregnated Pollack worked with Levitt to create a suite of lithographs, “Interiors and Exteriors." later boxed and Meanwhile, over lunches in New York. Pollack had coin ArtNeirs magazine: Walter Bareiss. a noted collector: an the possible ways to stimulate use of lithography by otl to fruition, the project they discussed—"Editions A collaboration between artists and poets (and was thus j 21 Etchings and Poems, a historic publishing project 1960)/ Precisely because of its lack of technical com process as an ideal means for such collaborations I technical barriers: what the artist draws or the poe written, without reversal of the image.’ "We were tillii “but nothing came of our conversations. 1 he interest the mechanism was not.' ” It was then that Pollack met Jules Sherman, a Drum Lithographers, was located on East 1’wentieth Si not been satisfied with the small size of the plates On i was delighted to discover that Sherman was able (by sj [Sherman] was interested in rm research Io create his presses. In the course of that year, using the la prints with the port John Hollander. They were d< on the plates, the poetry, anil 1 did drawings ami v Vision" and was never put on the market.’' For .hiles Shannon. the collaboration with Pol provided a welcome break from business; "My shop transformed into a joyous atelier on weekends, w transcended commercialism. '11 They began work morning. "At the end of each day s work." Pollack and fired w ith the sense of doing something importan the pressroom (“only those who were most curious a direct interaction between the artists and the print instructions about the plates and about the transp �): 1960-1963 case in the history of artists’ lithography, a fortuitous meeting rinter made possible the fine prints produced at Drum and 1963. Die artist was Reginald Pollack, who had been ork and Paris since 1941: the printer was Jules Sherman, who d-drawn offset lithographs "for the sheer joy of it.”1 >untered lithography while an apprentice to Moses Soyer in id some friends had printed lithographs from stone, using st Side House in Manhattan. In 1948, after military service went to Paris for study, with support from the G.I. Bill. He Gaston Dorfinant. who permitted the young artist (he was lis stones at a work bench once used by Toulouse-Lautrec. continued to exhibit in New York, most often at die Peridot other Louis in 19-19. To earn monev on the side, he began le quais and at auctions—acting as agent for Louis Pollack, lealer, Peter Deitsch. In the late 1950s, he made several color ing one on commission from William S. Lieberman, then am of Modem Art.2 interest in lithography was developing in the United States. . engrund opened the Contemporaries Graphic Art Centre phic .Art Center) in 1955, and Tatyana Grosman began her rs and Frank 0 Hara in 1957. In Los Angeles, June Wavne, ■oundation, established Tamarind Lithography Workshop in lops had its own character and objectives. At Tamarind, a ; of a new generation of master printers who. in concert with . [might] restore the prestige of lithographv by actually rdinary prints.”4 (.’ever, had come to believe that collaborative lithographic a quagmire of lithographic technology” that caused art to die technology that was of interest, rather than the work of i would be contradicted by history) caused Pollack to seek Soon after returning from Paris to New York, he began work tt, who introduced him to the Multilith process, a form of lithogiaphj that makes use of plastic-impregnated, paper-base plates. 1 ollack worked with Levitt to create a suite of small black-and-white and color lithographs, Interims and Exteriors,” later boxed and distributed by the Peridot Gallery. I Meanwhile, over lunches in New York, Pollack had conversations with Tom Hess, editor of i ArtNews magazine; Walter Bareiss, a noted collector; and journalist Kermit Lansner about the possible ways to stimulate use of lithography by other New York artists. Had it come to fruition, the project they discussed—“Editions New York”—would have involved collaboration between artists and poets (and was thus parallel in intention to the portfolio 21 Etchings and Poems, a historic publishing project begun in 1951 and completed in I960).6 Precisely because of its lack of technical complexity, Pollack saw the Multilith process as an ideal means for such collaborations. In Multilith printing there are few technical barriers: what the artist draws or the poet writes appears just as drawn or written, without reversal of the image.7 “We were tilling the ground,” Pollack remembers, “but nothing came of our conversations. The interest was there, the spirit was there, but the mechanism was not.”8 It was then that Pollack met Jules Sherman, a printer whose commercial business, Drum Lithographers, was located on East Twentieth Street in Manhattan.9 As Pollack had not been satisfied with the small size of the plates on wltich he and Levitt had worked, he was delighted to discover that Sherman was able (by special order) to secure larger ones: Oidhet [Sherman] was interested in my research to create prints, and offered his friendship and his presses. In tire course of that year, using the larger paper plates, I created a suite of prints with the poet John Hollander. They were done in my studio; John would write on the plates, the poetry, and I did drawings and washes. The suite was entitled “A Beach Vision” and was never put on the market.10 For Jules Sherman, the collaboration with Pollack—and soon with other artists— provided a welcome break from business: “My shop, commercial during the week, was transformed into a joyous atelier on weekends, where the magic of creating prints transcended commercialism.”11 They began work early, usually at six o’clock in the morning. “At the end of each day’s work,” Pollack remembers, “we were all hot, dirty, and fired with the sense of doing something important. Because few of the artists visited the pressroom (“only those who were most curious about the process ),1- there was little direct interaction between the artists and the printer.18 “We provided the artists with instructions about the plates and about the transparent inks used in lithography, but �nothing was proofed; the plate went on the press, and that was it.”1-* Whether in black and white or in colors, the plates were printed as drawn, without change or corrections. As a means to distribute the lithographs, Sherman and the Pollack brothers decided to form a new corporation, Collectors Graphics, Inc., and to invite a number ol artists— including some who were represented by Peridot Gallery to make lithographs, rhey liired artist Joel Goldblatt to serve as a liaison: “He would visit artists studios and go over the technical requirements with them, then, a week or two (or three) afterwards, [he] would collect the plates and deliver them to the press. After printing, Goldblatt would return the completed editions to the artist lor signature. We concentrated on artists who were being pushed aside in the ferment of the abstract expressionist heyday, and the bulk of the art we chose was figurative. . . . Lou persuaded Milton Avery’ to do a color print; Drum also did a three-color print for Jacques Lipchitz, which was donated to the State of Israel.15 I contacted and invited Larry Rivers, Marisol, Fairfield Porter, and others to contribute. More than 100 editions were soon completed, and on 17 April 1961 an initial exhibition was presented at the Peridot Gallery. The announcement stressed the “new technique of lithography” that had been employed in the making of the prints, a point widely echoed in reviews of the exhibition.15 Writing in Village Voice, Suzanne Kiplinger spoke of the “vigor and spontaneity” of the prints: [They] make one realize with relief that, after all, vigorous drawing hasn’t disappeared, it’s simply submerged for the moment. As one who enjoys rehearsals, sketches, run-throughs—anything in its nascent, budding state—I recommend this exhibit to others who have grown a little tired of full orchestrations.17 Clearly, it was this quality of improvisation that most attracted many of the artists who participated in the project: Highly personalized prints resulted. Fairfield Porter enjoyed the entire concept, an approach that allowed maximum spontaneity and a freedom comparable to drawing in his own sketchbooks.' He liked the loose fingerprinted, almost haphazard look of the finished lithograph. The direct quality of the medium, the paper plates, made it possible lor him to select the best drawings.15 In November 1l*(i2. a number of agent for Sears, which advertised them 1 Attractive Prices.” Price, an astute am meant for everyone. ami now can be I selected every item offered. . . '.1 lithographs produced at Drum Lithogn purchasers.20 A second exhibition of the prin Peridot in December 1963. It im hid announced, “were selected on the has subjects range from Reginald Pollac puppeteers, to Milton Avery's broadly b Tribune thought the prints "more spout stone. Large color prints by Freilicht quality of watercolors.' 22 \\ riting in 4r himself forget his stringent sense of dt turbulent. 23 The 1963 exhibition proved to moved to Los Angele.-, during 1963. collapsed. When Reggie said, Tin leav love-making project with no commerc Bv 1965, Lottis Pollacks health was consigned the remaining lithographs tc “Collectors Graphics Collection”;25 late In the past thirty years the litl known and little seen, eclipsed by the presses at Tamarind, I .L.A.E.. and oi as we look at them anew, we are st! economy” of Man Frank’s linear dra landscapes: the force of Robert Good of James Brooks’s brush drawing; th Kingdom™ ami by many other accott can be no question but that these vi long neglected) chapter in the history �the press, and that was it.”14 Whether in black and j In November 1962, a number of editions were purchased by Vincent Price as an d as drawn, without change or corrections. igraphs, Sherman and the Pollack brothers decided I| Attractive Prices. Prices.” Price, an astute and informed collector, wrote inl a foreword: “Art is graphics, Inc., and to invite a number of artists by Peridot Gallery—to make lithographs. They I I iaison: “He would visit artists studios and go over then, a week or two (or three) afterwards, [hel to the pres,.’ After printing, Cldblati wo„M tin >t for signature. ■re being pushed aside in the ferment of and the bulk of the art we chose ded Millon Avery to do a color print: Drum ques Lipcliitz, which was donated to the nvited Larry Rivers, Marisol. Fairfield ton completed, and on 17 April 1961 an initial t Gallery. The announcement stressed the “new n employed in the making of the prints, a point on.16 Writing in Village Voice, Suzanne Kiplinger he prints: : that, after all, vigorous drawing merged for the moment. As one who roughs—anything in its nascent, ixhibit to others who have grown a little tion that most attracted many of the artists who . Fairfield Porter enjoyed the entire maximum spontaneity and a his own sketchbooks.' He liked the ard look of the finished lithograph, he paper plates, made it possible aiigeut for Sears, which advertised them for sale as “(Collector’s Contemporary Graphics at meant for everyone, and now can 1be bought at Sears by everyone. I have personally selected every item offered. . . jJules Sherman estimates that roughly half of the lithographs produced at Drum Lithographers were sold either to Sears5 or other volume put chasers.-® r . . A.Ssecond “°,,cl 7* “*”.“ ‘of A* ’ prints Prints published by CoUeetor. exhibition the Collectors Crapin, Graphics was held at Peridot in December 1963. It included works by twenty-six artists who, the gallery announced, were selected on the basis of their drawing ability. . . . The styles and subjects range from Reginald Pollack’s humorous and metaphorical renderings of puppeteers, to Milton Avery’s broadly blocked landscape. ’21 The reviewer for the Herald Tribune thought the prints “more spontaneous and free than more difficult lithography on stone. Large color prints by Freilicher, Hillsmith, Frasconi and Cicero have the lively quality’ of watercolors.”22 Writing in ArtNews, Valerie Petersen praised Frasconi, who “lets himself forget his stringent sense of design and opens up unlabored forms, crowded and turbulent.”23 The 1963 exhibition proved to be the project’s swan song. Reginald Pollack had moved to Los Angeles during 1963, and in his absence, Sherman says, “the energy collapsed. When Reggie said, I’m leaving, I said, okay, that’s it. It had been great fun—a love-making project with no commercial implications—but it was over and done with.”24 By 1965, Louis Pollack’s health was deteriorating, and in December of that year, he consigned the remaining lithographs to the F.A.R. Gallery, where they would be sold as the “Collectors Graphics Collection”;23 later, he sold Peridot to Joan Washburn.23 In the past thirty years the lithographs included in this exhibition have been little known and little seen, eclipsed by the larger, more complex lithographs that came from the presses at Tamarind, U.L.A.E., and other workshops across the country’. Today, however, as we look at them anew, we are struck by their immediacy: by the “exemplary lyric economy” of Mary Frank’s linear drawings;22 the lively expressionism of Jane Freilicher’s landscapes; the force of Robert Goodnough’s tangled time-and-motion studies; the power of James Brooks’s brush drawing; the “extraordinary facility” of David Levine’s Animal Kingdom-™ and by many other accomplished and fresh statements. Taken together, there can be no question but that these vibrant lithographs constitute an important (and too long neglected) chapter in the history of American lithography. �press my gratitude to Jules Sherman and Reginald isable) assistance in the writing of this essay° field. As a director of the Print Council of Ante ' > J. H. Gusten, its executive secretary. Gustav. a’ onal Graphic Art Society (IGAS), which commissioned lerican and European artists, and a member of the rd. Also a member of that board, Lieberman sought rsion of funds from Tamarind to Pratt) for a pro°T York. •hers, 1900-1960: The Artists and Their Printers ■> Press, 1983), pp. 182-206. Jthograph in the United States,” a proposal and the Arts of the Ford Foundation. 1959. an Ludman, 8 August 1979. I thank Joan Ludman w. •re d’Artiste in America: Reflections on 21 Etchings -indPapers 13 (1990): 35-40. :e reversed: once upon transfer to an intermediarv e paper. It thus appears on the paper as the artist image reversal encountered in other forms of .dams. 23 July 1994. that the Drum lithographs were printed by “a erman] who invited artists to visit his home on Long jgraphic facilities he had there" (Thompson, in the owhee. N.C.: Department of Art. Western Carolina ths were printed at Drum Lithographers in i began early in 1960. Each lithograph was eginning with seven prints hy Carmen Cicero, four otherwise noted, all quotations are from this letter. dams. 23 July 1994. ey Dinnerstein. David Levine, Jacques Lipchitz, hose who came to the pressroom. Warns. 26 July 1994. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21 22 23 24 25 26. 27. 28. Lipchitz made a total of three lithographs at Drum. In tact, American artists had made original, hand-drawn, offset lithographs since the 1930s. Jean Chai lots Picture Book (1933) was printed by Will and Lynton Kistler in Los Angeles; die following year, while, teaching at the Florence Cane School in New York, Chariot acquired a Multilith press and, together with Albert Carman and Emilio Amcro made a number of Multilith prints (1934-35); the historic portfolio published by American Abstract Artists (193.) was printed on the Cane School press. Carman subsequently printed many color offset prints for “The Artists Color Proof Associates” (ca. 1936-41) and for Marc Chagall’s The Tales from the Arabian Nights (1945). In San Francisco, Richard Diebenkom (and others) made lithographs for the portfolio Drawings (1948), printed by Multilith. See Adams, American Lithographers (cited n. 3), and Janet Flint, Art for All: American Print Publishing Between the IFars (Washington: Smithsonian Institution, 1980). Tillage Boice, 27 April 1961. Joan Ludman, Fairfield Porter: A Catalogue Raisonne ofHis Prints, Including Illustrations, Bookjackets, and Exhibition Posters (Scarsdale, N.Y.: Highland House, 1981), p. 16. Price wrote: “We’re really tremendously thrilled at having these [lithographs] to add to the collection and I just wanted you to know how really wonderful you were about everything” (Price to Louis and Reginald Pollack, 9 November 1962). According to Sherman, the Rock-Hill-Uris Group, a hotel chain, purchased “several thousand prints” on 12 October 1961. Sears made payment of $53,531.50 for 3,540 impressions on 19 November 1962. Editions purchased by Sears included Carmen Cicero, Abstraction-, Robert Goodnough, The Chief, David Levine, Coney Island-, Reginald Pollack, Old Man at Table, Mario as Arab, Still Life with Garlic, and Actor, 3/4 Fiew; Paul Resika, Seated Girl-, and Larry7 Rivers, IFebster (sales catalogue published by Sears, 1964). Transcript of announcement on WNEW-TV, 30 December 1963. Unsigned review, New York Herald Tribune, 14 December 1963. “Collector’s [sic] Graphics, Inc.,” ArtNews 62 (December 1963): 55. Sherman sold Drum Lithographers in 1970. Letter of agreement between Collectors Graphics, Inc., and F.A.R. Gallery7, Inc., 28 December 1965. I thank Joan T. Washburn and Jay Grimm for making available this letter and other materials contained in the Peridot Gallery scrapbooks. Louis Pollack (b. 1921) diedin 1970. Hilton Kramer, quoted in Underexposed (cited n. 9), p. 5. Underexposed, p. 11. ��z4 ■ £(' '/ K f cr i > • '/ ROSEMARIE BECK, Violinist Sketches, lithograph. 12 3/4 x 10. �sitsBssmram JAMf S BROOKS / / > �ir. lithograph, 12 1/2 JAMES BROOKS, Black and White, lithograph, 10 x 14. �- CARMEN CICERO, Bird Lives (1960). lithograph, 9 x 13. MARY FRANK Hi �MARY FRANK, Woman Figure, lithograph, 10 x 12 3/4. �~W • ' < \""J 5 <* 6 JANE FRE1LICHEH ANTONIO FRASCONI. Field ofScrap (1963), color lithograph. 29 x 23. �JANE FREILICHER, Landscape, lithograph, 23 x 28 3/4. rap (1963), color lithograph, 29 x 23. �-I ..... M I V PAUL GEORGES. If'inter Landscape (1963), color lithograph. 22 l/2 x 28. JOEL GOLDBI. VI’ �4 raph, 22 1/2 JOEL GOLDBLATT, Still Life with Dark and Light, lithograph, 13 5/8 �ROBERT GOODNOUGH, Horseman. [Black & Sepia], color lithograph. 23 x 29. Bl RI HAM ’S /< ________ �'Black & Sepia], color lithograph, 23 BURT HASEN, Face Constellation (1963), lithograph, 28 x 21 �WOLF K\ll\ \u<!‘ Jh Joi IN lll'l IKEK 5 ?•' ��DAVID LEVINE,/Ih/zh<//Mi ALEX KATZ, Double Portrait [Ada], lithograph, 10 x 12 1/8. �r/ Double Portrait [Ada], lithograph, 10 x 12 1/8. �MAHIMH h* �le Lnknown, lithograph, 27 x 20 3/4. MAR1S0L, Foot and Faces (1961), lithograph, 13 1/8 x 10. �I RICHARD MAYHEW, Trees, lithograph, 10 x 12 3/4. MICHAEL NAZI R 1. til Hied �■lithograph, 10 x 12 3/4. �UL « 1 4 -V r r WALTER MARK MCAFEE, You 0ill Never Catch .Me, color lithograph, 28 x 23. �t WALTER TANDY MURCH, Bricks, lithograph, 23 x 19. ithograph, 28 �si i PHILIP PEARIKI f CONSTANTINE NIVOLA. To"o People in Bed (1963). color lithograph, 1 ’ �■Vr PHILIP PEARLSTEIN, Landscape, lithograph, 23 1/8 x 29. Bed (1963), color lithograph, 29 x 23. ��CK. LantJscnp. u'th Cloudi. lid?.,graph. 9 7/8 x 12 3/-». FAIRFIELD PORTER, Child Writing [Lizzie Drawing]lithograph, 10 x 14. �LARRY RIVERS. Hebstpr I ALL RES1KA, Child Playing with Top (1963), lithograph, H x 10. �»W truh L,,,. i-r; ; i . , , ■. �HOSS. „n imo n>|or li(||o2r;i{(|) 2;$ * �olor lithograph. 23 x 28 7/8. TOBIAS SCHNEEBAVM. Jurigh- ;W<. kJ, lithograph. 2" x �HI HIOVSIIAl l(M\\ /. full •«>!<>< Iithogf-ipli 20 .'.'4 t 2" Kt.l Bl \ 1 v �/ REl BEX I AM. �IL color lithograph. 20 3/4 x 27 3/8. REUBEN TAM, Monhegan Shoreline, lithograph, 22 1/2 x 28 5/8. �ciie( ki isi <>i uh i \innirio\ pinlm.lw «r«- «tw« •« <>♦’ •••■- Millon S»»r» ’ J.M Frrtbrhn K t*j l*rJ t <*«mI h. 1^23 < awAtaun L<h><t«pi*. 10 « 14 ,SM ’ /,.•<■!>■ H!‘ | ■ ■ »,K>.r<l !•'»■■■ *"-1 < .„.<<■ •• ■ ' •" »< ■ "'"■■ Ho.i-niarir lb • k ' . I 0 '• ' ■ 1 ■* ♦ ' 1• lull-., i »ph i’' igli» Mgni il I'** » - and cujinU i> 4 ’’’ v I '.< *phi- ■ *WI -^•r. 4 . •« , ,v)k i (...Ik- Janb • HUI* hlliTtur Inlii.c/mph l‘Hi< l’.,U«4 • ■ J»«t ( lilli • ti.r. ( » iph* ***12 -1 ■ •» I 1 *• • I i' • 4 npp* ’ r • l'.«l l«m< I> IT>1 0 . • 10 I » I (grffecwra Cr^Mrv tfi ! lOtMi l*l*r’2i ///«/< / II h>h |ilh«iyiapt 10 i H • ij, H» 4 !■• a •• » 11<J Ll I -J I (Jiri |«ifA I .1 ij-hrf I Carmen < i<. i» I. I‘>.n. |«e| I nMMaft k l*J Il.i.ll'i.. I'n.n “■■*»*/1 •/* u«aA fhtfi ««Ai lilltiigr.iiJ. '» » 1 ’. M, <r»pla. 13 V8 i U «l iippt r right i%.>jf i. - .• • J /2. /.’. lof • I I < .<|I|< Mgrtfd k*trr f»|b m4 ‘ i-liry vi“ bftptar-* •! Mar) I rank 'l» l*»43. I ogUfvb i.whW^ Hand '•igi»» 4 h-MrT jigh» ..»«•! nberrd 44/74 « »IM b ‘ "4U i f<,r. Graph I Hurtr ir»>1 ^Hirr IO t 12 V< lilh<-graph b«fyy«p*i. 10 a 14 Mpixd |r«**T n«h* Gil>rM- •» •«' Man I r ink b. |»#.'» { f ngtand; H "num I t, -j rf lifhopr.ph h» i 12 *'4 *£’’Nt-«l b « . r .i„nt «J ;•' % Antiiiiio F ra»roni b rttf> j»;h| • r »gr>Zti V•* rt " «M *o4 W10. I ruguav; R*4**n t .4^-4***< V»*94r IWirf) kih*<rsph )b t Z4 «yrd kmer t'^of I’M, •_ • ' l'.f hn.- gr,i.h ' Mf><r«pi<. 23 i ,, .j : [/■ <x4b«»«.? G> s-.- . /»» /.-/ <if 20 » 2 : <hud tow r.ght *i<4 . • ,J ; ;■ /, f ‘ i>. ".1 . . f p,‘, Jane Cr-Un her b. 1*24 I•! if! 1‘”' ' ; <• I ftfrhrrt Bwilb'^ I •' .• + -I !.,•< r rizht ^.,.4 , ( ,rap»j«-. • :' ) r,.-i r l^« r- baUtgrtpfe. 28 <21 l» y-*^ wr« »-r **•*! i xArcbm* ’ -r apb*"* • �CHECKLIST OF THE EXHIBITION Dimensions are given in inches, height precedes width. Milton Aven- (1893-1965) Landscape color lithograph, 22 x 27 3/4 signed lower left and numbered 4/118 Courtesy of an anonymous private collection Jane Freilicher (b. 1924) Landscape color lithograph, 28 5/8 x 23 signed lower left and numbered 22/104 Collectors Graphics #168 Rosemarie Beck (b. 1923) Hohnist Sketches lithograph. 12 3/4 x 10 signed lower right and numbered 30/85 Collectors Graphics #81 Paul Georges (b. 1923) Landscape lithograph, lOx 13 signed lower right and numbered 57/76 Collectors Graphics #181 Janice Biala (b. 1903, Poland) Interior lithograph, 12 1/2 x 10 signed upper right and numbered 37/95 Collectors Graphics #175 Paul Georges (b. 1923) Standing Child color lithograph, 29 x 22 1/2 signed lower right and numbered 18/112 Collectors Graphics #149 James Brooks (1906-1992) Black and White lithograph, 10 x 14 signed lower right and numbered 73/75 Collectors Graphics #85 Carmen Cicero (b. 1926) Bird Lives, 1960 lithograph, 9 x 13 signed upper right and numbered 68/85 Collectors Graphics #2 Mary Frank (b. 1933, England) Hand lithograph, 10 x 12 3/4 signed lower right and numbered 44/74 Collectors Graphics #187b Man Frank (b. 1933, England) Woman Figure lithograph. 10 x 12 3/4 signed lower right and numbered 61/67 Collector® Graphics #184 color lithograph. 26 x 22. Paul Georges (b. 1923) Binter Landscape, 1963 color lithograph, 22 1/2 x 28 signed lower right and numbered 17/117 Collectors Graphics #139 Joel Goldblatt (b. 1923) Still Life with Dark and Light lithograph, 13 5/8 x 10 signed lower right and numbered 25/85 Collectors Graphics #15 Robert Goodnough (b. 1917) Horse and Rider, 1960 lithograph, 10 x 14 signed lower right and numbered 69/85 Collectors Grapliics #18 Robert Goodnough (b. 1917) Horseman [Black & Sepia] color lithograph, 23 x 29 signed lower right and numbered 35/75 Collectors Graphics #22 Antonio Frasconi (b. 1919, Uruguay) Fifdd ofScrap, 1963 frAor lithograph, 29 x 23 signed and dated lower right and numbered cd /109 Collectors Graphics #169 Robert Goodnough (b. 1917) Nomads. 1960 lithograph, 10 x 14 signed lower right and numbered 68/85 Collectors Graphics #17 Jane FrHlieher (b. 1924) I^mdsr.uf/e lithograph. 23 x 28 3/4 rigned lower right and numhered 20/97 Graphics #151 Burt Hasen (b. 1921) Face Constellation, 1963 lithograph, 28x21 1/4 . signed lower right and numbered 25/1IH Collectors Graphics #138 John He liter (b.1909) Landscape lithograph, 10 x 12 3/4 signed lower right and numbered 84/90 Collectors Graphics #178 John Ilcliker (b. 1909) Self-Portrait lithograph, 12 5/8 x 9 5/8 signed lower right and numbered in blue pencil 70/85 Collectors Graphics #26 Wolf Kahn (b. 1927. Germany) Nude, Head Thrown Back lithograph, 10 x 14 signed lower left and numbered 69/85 Collectors Graphics #84 Alex Katz (b. 1927) Double Portrait [Ada] lithograph, 10 x 12 1/8 signed lower right and numbered 69/85 Collectors Graphics #32 David Levine (b. 1926) Animal Kingdom, 1963 color lithograph, 17 1/4 x 29 signed upper right and numbered 19/105 Collectors Graphics #157 David Levine (b. 1926) Fat Girl, 1963 lithograph, 17 5/8 x 13 1/8 signed and dated upper right and numbered 110/122 Collectors Graphics #133 Jacques Lipchitz (1891-1973, Lithuania) Title Unknown lithograph, 27 x 20 3/4 signed lower right and annotated artist s proof Courtesy of an anonymous private collection Jacques Lipchitz (1891-1973. Lithuania) Title Unknown lithograph, 24 x 19 signed lower right and annotated artist pn<of Courtesy of an anonymous private collaction �Marlsol [Escobar] (b. 1930, France) Foot and Faces. 1961 lithograph. 13 1/8 x 10 signed lower right and numbered 68/85 Collectors Graphics #72 Richard Mayhew (b. 1924) Trees lithograph, 10 x 12 3/4 signed lower left and numbered 19/89 Collectors Graphics #207 Michael Mazur (b. 1935) Figure Group lithograph, 23 x 28 3/4 signed lower right and numbered 48/88 Collectors Graphics #154 Michael Mazur (b. 1935) Untitled [Adult Holding a Child with Book] lithograph, 23 x 29 unsigned and unnumbered, edition of 85 Collectors Graphics #145 Reginald Pollack (b. 1924) Larry Rivers (1). 1923) Connecticut Landscape lithograph, 10x12 3/4 signed lower right and lithograph. 21 x 28 numbered 44/55 Collectors Graphics #187 Reginald Pollack (b. 1924) Landscape with Clouds lithograph, 9 7/8 x 12 3/4 signed lower right and numbered 20/65 Collectors Graphics #176 Reginald Pollack (b. 1924) Southampton Beach lithograph, 10 x 12 7/8 signed lower right and numbered 56/80 Collectors Graphics #185 Fairfield Porter (1907-1975) Child Writing [Lizzie Drawing] lithograph, 10x14 signed lower right and numbered 76/85 Collectors Graphics #94, Ludman #12 Mark McAfee You Will Never Catch Me color lithograph, 28 x 23 signed lower right and numbered 35/112 Collectors Graphics #141 Fairfield Porter (1907-1975) Snow Landscape lithograph, 8 1/2 x 13 signed lower left and numbered 30/85 Collectors Graphics #87, Ludm an #14 Walter Tandy Murch (1907-1967, Canada) Bricks lithograph, 23 x 19 signed lower right and annotated artist’s proof Collectors Graphics #68 Courtesy of an anonymous private collection Paul Resika (b. 1928) Child, 1963 lithograph. 12 3/4 x 10 signed lower right, dated and numbered 36/82 Collectors Graphics #192 Webster. 1961 Alvin Ross (1920-1975) Constantine Nivola (1911-1988, Sardinia) Two Beds, 1963 color lithograph, 28 7/8 x 22 signed in plate, dated and numbered 16/125 Collectors Graphics #144 I Fishing on the Amo color lithograph, 23 x 28 7/8 signed lower right and numbered 35/86 Collectors Graphics #163 Tobias Schneebaum (b. 1921) Jungle [Black] lithograph. 29 x 23 signed lower right and numbered 16/98 Collectors Graphics #153 Burton Silverman (b. 1928) Retired lithograph, 14 x 10 signed lower right and numbered 42/60 ) I I Collectors Graphics #77 Burton Silverman (1). 1928) Toledo at Nightfall 1 color lithograph . 20 3/4 x 27 3/8 signed lower right and numbered 29/120 Collectors Graphics #158 Reuben Tam (b. 1916, Hawaii) I Monhegan Shoreline lithograph. 22 1/2 x 23 5/8 signed lower right, titled and Paul Resika (b. 1928) Child Playing with Top, 1963 lithograph, 14x10 signed lower right, dated and numbered 105/111 Collectors Graphics #206 I signed and dated in the stone, low! •er right Courtesy of James (midman numbered 55/71 Collectors Graphics #114 Reuben Tam (b. 1916, Hawaii) I I I I Surf lithograph, 22 1/2 x. 28 5/8 Constantine Nivola (1911-1988, Sardinia) Two People in Bed, 1963 color lithograph, 29 x 23 signed center and numbered 16/127 Collectors Graphics #131 Philip Pearlstein (b. 1924) Ilandscape lithograph, 23 1/8 x 29 Mgni d lower right and numbered 69/75 Odlenm. Graplrn •. #69, Lundwrhr #1 Paul Resika (b. 1928) Seated Child, 1963 lithograph. 12 3/4x10 signed lower right, dated and numbered 74/80 Collectors Graphics #191 signed lower right, titled and numbered 39/53 Collectors Graphics #115 Jane Wilson (b. 1924) I I I Landscape Paul Resika (b. 1928) Standing Boy lithograph, 14x10 unsigned and unnumbered Collectors Graphics #205 color lithograph. 26 x 22. signed low er right and annotated arlLt s pn>*f Collectors Graphics #124 Courtesy of an anonymous private i �100015S511 WILKES UNIVERSITY LIBRARY �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1994 November 13 The Drum Lithographs 1960-1963 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Milton Avery Rosemarie Beck Janice Biala James Brooks Carmen Cicero Mary Frank Antonio Frasconi Jane Freilicher Paul Georges Joel Goldblatt Robert Goodnough Burt Hasen John Heliker Wolf Kahn Alex Katz David Levine Jacques Lipchitz Marisol Escobar Richard Mayhew Michael Mazur Mark McAfee Walter Tandy Murch Constantine Nivola Philip Pearlstein Reginald Pollack Fairfield Porter Paul Resika Larry Rivers Alvin Ross Tobias Schneebaum Burton Silverman Reuben Tam Jane Wilson ClintonAdams Stanley I. Grand Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1994 November 13 - December 20 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource The Drum Lithographs were made when artist Reginald Pollack and printer Jules Sherman were introduced. Type The nature or genre of the resource N/A Subject The topic of the resource N/A Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource SAG, Clinton Adams https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/152ab81eb935e2bd8eafe65fdec8996b.pdf eb9cc444487b23248e3758507d4bc029 PDF Text Text ������ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1995 March 19 Selections from the Alice Henry Weston Collection Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Josef Albers Carl Andre John Cage Christo William de Kooning Jim Dine Jean Dubuffet Rafael Ferrer Richard Hamilton Hans Hofmann Robert Indiana Jasper Johns Wassily Kandinsky Franz Kline SolLeWitt Man Ray FrancisPicabia Robert Rauschberg Dorothea Rockburne Betye Saor Kurt Schwitters George Segal Robert Smithson Saul Steinberg Richard Tuttle Andy Warhal TomWeesselman AliceWeston Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1995 March 19 - April 23 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Type The nature or genre of the resource N/A Subject The topic of the resource N/A https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/927713df343d3accbd36d6e7974ec35a.pdf 35a9fccf86fc48b32aba10b5fee36b15 PDF Text Text ������������������������������ https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/ba65b90f2585b202055e57e4faae77a9.pdf d1c65acf3095f56b7077c6de8927baf7 PDF Text Text j < ijy 11 si ?■ • sord ii cos Gflie Twenties ad EH©m® anmofl AtWoaial] N40.1 DS15G7 1995 i I ��I I I The Twenties at _.o. HAKlEY LIBRAI WILKES UNIVERSI1 WILKES-BARRE, P �■■■ CUV IENE PC ECIS TTUn® TTwesrties aU H©m® ajunafl AQDir®ai(iI] Exhibition Curated by Stanley I Grand Essays by Betsy Fahlman Stanley I Grand Sordoni Art Gallery Wilkes University Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania May 21-August 13, 1995 ...x FAHlEY LIBRARY WILKES UNIVERSITY WILKES-BARRE, PA Westmoreland M useum of Art Greensburg, Pennsylvania September 3—October 29, 1995 ©1995 Sordoni Art Gallery Wilkes University, Wilkes-Bai Pennsylvania �f Imae The 1 Betsy Falilman Arizona State University GQjy DIENE [DUJ E<D0§ AND THE TWENTSES One of the most trenchant imagers of was the American painter Guy Pene cl (1884-1958); whose distinctive work some of the decade’s most sign ificant J symbols. 1 he artist pictured subjects e of the era: the sophisticated urbanite, and the American abroad in fashionab tings—cafes, theatres, and art galleries sentations are enriched by an internat perspective. American-horn, he was de URCHIVLS GA in his French family background. Yet thoroughly grounded in his native coi Throughout the nearly six years he res France as an expatriate, he steadfastly his faith in the American art world, w paintings were sold by his New York c Aanerican patrons. His dual frame of permitted him an unusual vantage on Americans at home and abroad. Spurred by postwar prosperity ar freedom afforded by the automobile, I tween the end of World War I in 19 H beginning of the Depression in 1929 as Frederick Lewis Allen n oted in 191 lution in manners and morals. 1 The were characterized hy intriguing socia 25. Woman on Sofa (Gretchen), 1927 oil on panel, 20 l/e x 25 in. The Brooklyn Museum Gift of the Chester Dale Estate Photograph courtesy The Brooklyn Museum cal changes that resulted in fascinatir Women received the right to vote in . same year that Prohibition became nJ While politicians promoted isolation! �Imagine the Twenties The Work of Guy Pene du Bois Betsy Faklman Arizona State University CDV PENE DD ECIS AND TEE TWENTIES tionalism predominated in intellectual circles, and Americans flocked to France. In the visual arts, Americans explored a range of stylistic options as One of the most trenchant imagers of the 1920s wide as the political and social ones. Many mem­ was the American painter Guy Pene du Bois bers of the earlier generation of The Eight con­ (1884-1958),'whose distinctive work exemplifies tinued to be active, as were those participants in some of the decade’s most significant cultural the first wave of the avant-garde, several of whom symbols. The artist pictured subjects emblematic evolved into Precisionists. A widespread renewal of the era: the sophisticated urbanite, tbe flapper, in more representational modes found its fullest and the American abroad in fashionable set­ expression in Regionalism. Although Guy Pene tings—cafes, theatres, and art galleries. His repre­ du Bois was intellectually supportive of new art sentations are enriched by an international movements, as a critic and a painter, his personal perspective. American-born, he was deeply rooted sympathies steadfastly remained aligned with the in his French family background. Yet he remained “art for life’s sake”2 realism of his early teacher thoroughly grounded in his native country. Robert Henri. Pene du Bois' most eloquent and Throughout the nearly six years he resided in insightfid criticism was written in support of France as an expatriate, he steadfastly maintained those artists whose work grew out of the romantic his faith in the American art world, where his urban realism of the turn of the century, rather paintings were sold by his New York dealer to than the avant-garde. If no single American style American patrons. His dual frame of reference existed, certain icons, such as the American girl permitted him an unusual vantage on his fellow abroad, were widely recognized. Despite their di­ Americans at home and abroad. vergent styles and images, many of these artists Spurred by postwar prosperity and the new shared a deep belief in the viability of American freedom afforded by the automobile, the era be­ art, and a sense that a personal identity derived tween the end of World War I in 1918 and the from being grounded within a national one. Even beginning of the Depression in 1929 produced, when abroad, whether as temporary visitors or as Frederick Lewis Allen noted in 1931, a “revo­ long-term expatriates, the sensibility that they lution in manners and morals."1 The twenties were American artists remained strong. were characterized by intriguing social and politi­ The painting of Guy Pene du Bois came to cal changes that resulted in fascinating contrasts. maturity during the twenties. As an independent, Women received the right to vote in 1920, the he never associated himself with a specific school same year that Prohibition became national law. or movement; but scholars today, broadly speak­ While politicians promoted isolationism, interna- ing, consider him a social realist. His characteris- 95-191983 �1 tic themes were inspired by the human figure set in situations the artist had seen in life and recre­ ated from memory. He was fascinated by socia interactions and class roles, but issues of social protest or attempts to effect political change did not interest him. Drawing on the tradition of caricature and commentary found in the work of his French predecessors Honore Daumier (18081879) and Jean Louis Forain (1852-1931), his social commentary took a sharp view of contem­ porary society. His titles, such as The Social Regis­ ter, 1919 (private collection), tend to be ironically humorous rather than bitingly sarcastic. With New York as its center, twenties America emerged an urban nation. During these years, 7 Ac Smart Set and Vanity Fair, among other journals, catered to a sophisti­ cated Manhattan readership. But the contents Jise, was published in 1920—were another ana­ logue to the art of Guy Pene du Bois. For a short time, he was the painter's neighbor in Westport, Connecticut, as was Van Wych Brooks, who char­ acterized the author as “the typical writer of the twenties. ”6 Throughout the next decade, Fitzgerald and Pene du Bois analyzed the behav­ ior and attitudes of Americans at home and in France. Their precise satire both amuses and dis­ comfits, as they carefully delineated American society to create a sharply accurate picture of the era. Since Pene du Bois never had the money of Fitzgerald and his friends, his images are more those of an observer than those of a full partici­ pant. But his many years as a music reviewer and an art critic gave him ample opportunity to study his subjects in their characteristic habitats. One of his paintings, Gretchen or Wbman on Sofa, of The New Yorker, which first appeared on 21 1927 (Cat. No. 25), though painted in France, February 1925, most closely parallel the may have been inspired by a Fitzgerald short painted themes of Guy Pene du Bois. Its so­ story, in which one of the main characters, phisticated and witty columns— The Talk of Gretchen Halsey, was described as “a bright-col­ the Town” or “Tables for Two —reflected the ored, Titian-haired girl, vivid as a French rag major interests of its affluent readers by con­ doll."7 Much of the tale’s significant action takes centrating on night life, restaurants, sports, place on a sofa, and Pene du Bois' image evokes theatre, and opera. A “Letter from Paris,” an the author’s prose. important feature made famous by Janet Flanner, signaled the international, Franco­ phile perspective of its readership. During the 1920s, however, all cafe society 1 Tire two decades prior to the twenties were full ones for the artist, conducted at a pace that meant erratic time in his studio. He had begun art classes in 1899, studying first un der William interactions were colored by the widely available, but legally proscribed, liquor.3 The Eighteenth Merritt Chase, th en with Robert Henri. After Amendment, which ereated Prohibition, hecame law with tbe passage of the Volstead Act in 1920 where economic necessity led him to embark on a and remained in effect until its repeal in 1933. father s professional footsteps, he published his Enforcement, however, concentrated on produc­ first pieces of art criticism in 1908. His marriage tion and distribution rather than on consump­ tion. Consequently, in larger cities like New York, further training in Paris, he returned to America, career as a reporter in 1906. Following in his had in 1911 to Florence She rman Duncan, who three children from a previous marriage, added the law was openly flouted as nightclubs, speak­ new financial responsibilities, which increased easies, and bootleggers flourished. Catering to the with the births of their daughter Yvonne in 1913 well-off uptown crowd, many of these establish­ ments were luxurious and provided the atmo­ sphere of an exclusive club for their clandestine drinkers, whose defiantly heavy drinking became known as “the respectable crime.”4 Recalling the twenties, Janet Flanner characterized the time as “that extraordinary alcoholic era.”5 Like The New Yorker, the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald—whose first first novel, This Side of Para- and son William in 1916. Not until 1918, at the age of thirty-four, did he have a one-man exhibi­ tion—at the Whitney Studio Club (his first group showing had occurred in 1905 at the Paris Sa­ lon). For Pene du Bois, the twenties are chrono­ logically divided into two sections—the four years he spent in Westport, with frequent commutes to New York City, and the nearly six years he spent in France. < �~ ? r' =- 5 e £- r 5-.X- 42 - ifiiff! =.?-siF""r L § ? 12. The Beach, 1924 oil oni panel, triptych, each panel 20 x 15 in. SheldtIon Memorial Art Gallery, University of Nebraska-Lincoln F. M. Hall Collection Photograph courtesy Sheldon Memorial Art Gallery �11). Indeed, Guy Pene du Bois painted very little in Connecticut. A notable exception, and one of i his major works, is the triptych titled The Beach, Between 1920 and 1924, Guy Pane du Bois resided in Westport, a pretty village about bitty miles from New York in southwestern Connecti­ cut. Connected by commuter train, the town had become, according to Van Wyck Brooks who a so moved there in 1920, "an outpost of New York, the setting for "exurbanites,”9 those displaced city dwellers "who lived heyond the suburbs but who "who cared more for the state of their minds than the state of their fortunes.’’11 The small intellec­ tual community that gathered there had a distinc­ ing and comfortable "grace, friendliness, gaiety and tolerance.’’12 Residents and regular visitors ralither than a bathing costume. In 1924, he decided to leave the United States with his family; in December they sold their house in Westport and “escaped to France.”18 With anticipated fees from occasional articles, Guy Pene du Bois hoped he could afford a year abroad. With uninterrupted time in his studio, his aim was clear: “I could become a paintei EEAWCE; EOEE AS AN EX ED AT 020 AIT IE Since the late nineteenth century, many Ameri­ during this period included writers F. Scott Fitz­ gerald (newly married to Zelda Sayre), Van Wyck can artists had felt that a sojourn in Paris was Brooks, Paul Rosenfeld, Sherwood Anderson, and essential for their artistic development. During Hendrik Willem Van Loon, and artists Everett the twenties, however, a particularly ambitious Shinn and Charles and Maurice Prendergast. and vital colony of expatriate writers and painters The cost of living may have been economi­ I community, the artist is shown clothed in a suit, nor an "arty Provincetown, ’ Westport had an appeal­ 'll ing his position as an economic outsider within this the money realized from the sale of their home and remained urbanites at heart/’10 The town at­ tracted a group of New York writers and artists tive character: neither a serious Barbizon, 1924 (Cat. No. 12) which records a gathering of his friends on Compo Beach, Westport. Perhaps signify­ resided there. Although Americans had long lived cal, but the town did not turn out to be the quiet abroad, "expatriate," as Van Wyck Brooks observed, haven for work the artist had anticipated: assumed new mea ning in the 1920s: "No Furopean could understand this constant American talk of In this prohibition period the summers at Westport, Connecticut, exceeded the riotousness of New York. There gin and orange juice ruled the days and n ights. Talk was an extravaganza. Work was an effort made between parties.13 roots, or why it was that expatriates discussed expa­ triation—a word that scarcely existed in any other country. 19 Despite the pleasures of foreign life, long residence abroad often intensified a personal sensi­ bility of national roots. Although many Americans So identified was the town with flouting Anita Loos 1925 novel Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Marion Levy, who ran the local Compo Inn, was that exhibited in New York, it was nicknamed “The devine, Bootlegger’s Wife.”14 Pene du Bois found life in Westport bacchanalian, 18 and he characterized its intellectually and professionally eminent resi­ dents as unbridled children”16 when they as­ sembled for parties. Although his house had 1 a good studio, the many convivial temptations p> —c--------- - proved irresistible to the gregarious artist. He found it necessary to retreat to the relative solitude of his New York studio in the Colonnade Building, where he ex­ ecuted Studio on Lafayette Street, 1923 (Cat. No. . III might agree with Lorelei Lee, the protagonist in prohibition, that when his 1924 portrait of Paris is devine. . . . Because the French are regular encounters with fellow country­ men were actually more common: *T always think that the most delightful thing about traveling is to always he running into Americans and to al­ ways feel at home.”21 Remembering the distractions of Westport and finding Paris too expensive, the Pene du Bois family settled in Games, a village in the Chei jvreuse Valley near Dampierre, about thirty miles fr<rom the capital. Reasonable rent (eighty dolla:irs a year), steady sales through Kraushaar, and care! ?ful economizing, enabled them to remain �ay Pena du Bois painted very little ■1. A notable exception, and one of s, is the triptych titled The Beach, >. 12) which records a gathering of his rpo Beach, Westport. Perhaps signify.. t as an economic outsider within this e artist is shown clothed in a suit, athing costume. he decided to leave the United family; in December they sold their >ort and ‘escaped to France.”18 With ized from the sale of their home and :s from occasional articles, Guy hoped he could afford a year minterrupted time in his studio, his “I could become a painter.”16 I J s LBfE I KPATKIATE nineteenth century, many Ameri1 felt that a sojourn in Paris was reir artistic development. During rowever, a particularly ambitious ay of expatriate writers and painters Although Americans had long lived riate," as Van Wyck Brooks observed, neaning in the 1920s: “No European ind this constant American talk of t was that expatriates discussed expa>rd that scarcely existed in any other ispite the pleasures of foreign life, long ad often intensified a personal sensiral roots. Although many Americans ith Lorelei Lee, tke protagonist in 925 novel Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, levine. . . . Because the French are jular encounters with fellow countryually more common: “I always think t delightful thing about traveling is running into Americans and to al- Lome. ”21 bering the distractions of Westport Paris too expensive, the Pene du Bois 1 in Games, a village in the alley near Dampierre, about thirty he capital. Reasonable rent (eighty r), steady sales through Kraushaar, economizing, enabled them to remain 11. Studio on Lafayette Street, 1923 oil on panel, 19Vi x 24Va in. Bayly Art M useum of tke Univers ity of Virginia Photograph by Edwin S. Roseberry �I >r nearly six years-This period proved in be France fol productive of his career, he later the most ieJ: It was in Games that I learned to to recalled: "It ■ ”22 Working steadily, he create pain mgs paint. piled from memory and experience. Only o«a sionally did he paint a landscape, a st JI life, or A girl came in the cafe and sat by herself at . near the window. She was very pretty with a f • as a newly minted coin if they minted coin ■ , th flesh with rain-freshened shin, and her it •• . as a crow's wing and cut sharply and dia,.. . ?.:roes her cheek.-3 The artist was particularly fascinate.' ’ the subject of his countrymen and women abroad, frOmAltkih he favored pictures of international especially the many young American . twenties types, identihably French themes become saw all over Paris. Easily identified, he printed increasingly frequent during his expatriate years. Scenes inspired by the area near their kouse ap­ pear in kis work, including Pont du four, 1926 (Cat. No. 19), which skows a man and a woman standing near a local viaduct. Tke urban mil.eu of Paris, however, interested him primarily, and he made frequent visits to the French capital where n he several canvasses picturing them in pub!: ■ .rial contexts, including, Girls, Montparnasse. I (Cat. No. 24) and Girl at Montparnasse, i ■ > >7 (Cat. No. 23).® Once again, the artist echoes literary works. Describing similar young women in Tender Is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald noted their "immaculacy and their money' as they he occasionally went to gatherings attended by "pourfed] through the station onto the platforms French artists; Bal des Quatres Arts, 1929 (Cat. with frank new faces, intelligent, considerate, No. 34) records a famous annual Parisian art thoughtless, thought-for.”30 Americans in Paris, event. Like the majority of other Americans abroad, however, he had contact mostly with other canvasses, serves as an icon of the period. Four Americans. Parisian cafes, including La Coupole, Le Select, La Rotonde, Les Deux Magots, and the 1927 (Cat. No. 22), one of his most emblematic nearly identical young women “swoop down on their prey/’5’ striding briskly on their way to shop or sight see: Closerie des Lilas, were the social and intellectual centers of expatriate life.24 Although some of them had been founded earlier, their popularity, as H evidenced in Paris Cafe, 1926 (Cat. No. 18), led several to expand during the twenties. One, the Cafe du Dome on the Boulevard du Mont­ parnasse at the comer of the B oulevard Raspail, was widely recognized as "the Anglo-American While living at Games, the artist m<lade periodic visits to America, traveled throughout France,and on occasion, visited other European out the 1920s with the many artists and writers countries. In June 1926, he participated in the who lived and worked in this part of the city.26 unveiling of Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney’s Dome, described the cafe in A Moveable Feast, the autobiographical memoir of his years in Paris I ' tightest of head gear aiincl their skin tight (rocky of the shortest, showing an expanse of handsome leg* cafe.”25 Opened in 1898, it was popular through­ Ernest Hemingway, a frequent patron at the E They are crossing a bridge, their handbags clasped as only Americans clasp their wealth, since only Ameri­ 1 cans thus carry it about, their heads encasitedI-in the between 1921 and 1926: monument at Saint-Nazaire. J hat summer, the family vacationed at the coast, where he was in­ spired to paint nearby beach and racetrack scenes, including Beach, Deauville, 1926 (collection un­ known) and Racetrack, Deauville, 1927 (M useum It was a pleasant cafe, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a cafe au lait. The walter brought it and I took out a notebook from the pocket of the coat and a pencil and started to write.27 of Art, Carnegie Institute). Occasional commis­ sions permitted travel outside France. A trip to Italy resulted in a major painting, Studio Window, Anticoli, 1928 (Cat. No. 32). In April 1929, he traveled to Huelva, on the Spanish coast, for tke dedication of Whitney s monument to Christopher Columbus. Tke young woman he describes could be a subject in a P6ne du Bois canvas: easily The Pene du Bois family remained in Games until m id-October 1929, when they III I I I I JK ■ fl �sal by herself at a table cry pretty with a face fresh rey minted coins in smooth ;in, and her hair was black arply and diagonally across cularly fascinated hy the n and women abroad, ig American women he identified, he painted ig th em in public social s, Montparnasse, 1927 t Montparnasse, 1927 gain, the artist echoes ! g similar young women . Scott Fitzgerald noted heir money as they ation onto the platforms :elligent, considerate, ! •J’20 Americans in Paris, e of his most emblematic i Ii ion of the period. Four omen “swoop down on shly on their way to shop , their handbags clasped as wealth, since only Amerireir heads encased in the heir skin tight frocks of the i ise of handsome leg.3' •nes, the artist made peri­ raveled throughout , visited other European >, he participated in the anderbilt Whitney's zaire. That summer, the coast, where he was ineach and racetrack scenes, ills, 1926 (collection un- Deauville, 1927 (Museum ite). Occasional commis- utside France. A trip to r painting, Studio Window, ). 32). In April 1929, he the Spanish coast, for the s monument to Christo- 34. Bal des Quatres Arts, 1929 oil on canvas, 28% x 36!6 in. The David and Allred Smart Museum ol Art, The University of Chicago Gift of William Benton Photograph courtesy The David and Alfred Smart Museum of Art family remained in 'ber 1929, when they �moved to Nice in the south of France,Several red-walled gallery, where the gallery owner waits to works, including a watercolor Avenue dela _ , Victoire, Nice, W29 (Cat. No. 33), res,suited from which reflected the general health of the art mar­ intercept him. Such luxurious environments, ket in the postwar economy, were designed ex­ i his stay here.33 sought to he as successful as collectors as they MAJOR themes ! ?• pressly for “the captivation of tycoons,”39 who Throughout the twenties, both in America and in were in business. Despite his generally cynical view of dealers France, several characteristic themes absorbed and galleries—Little Redon/The Art Dealer, 1925 Guy Pene du Bois—the art world, cafes and res­ (collection unknown), for example, presents the taurants, theatres and other amusements, flap­ avaricious pretentiousness he ascribed to many in pers, and relationships between men and women. the business—Guy Pene du Bois owed his per- This last theme had long preoccupied Pene du sonal economic success during this period to John Bois; he recalled that he had "started the series of Francis Kraushaar. The dealer had given the artist little pictures of men and women in full dress li is first one-man exhibition in 1922, and he which first drew attention to my paintings’’34 dur­ continued to show his worts regularly throughout ing his days as a music and opera critic. Fasci­ the next twenty-five years. The artist’s warm rela­ nated by the nature of social discourse as conveyed through body language, lie found such tionship with this well-respected dealer is docu­ mented in Portrait ofJohn Kraushaar, 1927 (Cat. environments ideal. In public places he could No. 29).39 The painter’s feelings are apparent in unobtrusively study his subjects playing their so­ an a ffectionately inscribed work, The Opera cial roles on privileged stage sets. The roles and Singer, 1927 (Cat. No. 26), which he gave to interchanges he observed were as contrived and Kraushaar’s daughter Antoinette. carefully constructed as in any scripted produc­ tion. THE ART WORLD: GALLERIES, DEALERS, AND RATRONS As a critic and artist, Guy Pene du Bois had RESTAURANTS AND GTHER AMUSEMENTS lhe rituals and conventions of dining out had long fascinated the artist. Many of his earliest works, including Caseade Restaurant, Bois du Boulogne, 190o (collection unknown) and Waiter!, ample opportunities to study galleries, dealers, 1910 (collection unknown), picture restaurant and patrons. Set in the interior of a gallery. The patrons. Unlike John Sloan, who depicted the Art Lovers, 1922 (private collection) records two separatist masculine atmosphere found in men conversing. One of these hard-boiled gentle­ McSorley s Bar, 1912 (Detroit Institute of Arts), men, the balding "old rounder”35 in a “bulging dress shirt,”36 was the artist's most characteristic male type. Pene du Bois took an equally sharp view of the painting s owner, the efficiency expert Charles E. Bedaux, Bed; by observing that he is generally as accurate and as ruthless as the figures in which he deals. He shares with all mathematicians the Pene du Bohis was interested in couples. In particular, he was intrigued by the lack of interpersonal di:iscourse between the couples he saw, many of whom comprised an older man and a younger woman. Restaurant scenes, of course, had been favor­ ite themes of Edgar Degas, Edouard Manet, and love of clarity, the proof which, rid of all human Pierre Auguste Renoir, all of whom Pene du Bois foibles is positive. Life can he very simple when admired. Members of The Eight had also enjoyed sheared to the bone by people of this unrelenting order Tki they are ot the family of dictators.37 painting such scenes; one recalls the relaxed el­ With a top hat concealing his bald head, another rounder, appropriately •cleer, 1922 (Cat. No. 6), strides into a similar egance of William Glackens’ Chez Mouquin, 190o (Art Institute of Chicago) or John Sloan’s lively Renganeschi's Saturday Night, 1912 (Art Insti­ tute of Chicago).40 Closer to Pene du Bois in mood is the lonely tension evident in his friend �all ivi romnents,. :ed the genera! health of the art marstar economy, were designed exhe captivation of tycoons, 39 who as successful as collectors as they less. his cynical view of dealers his generally gen —Little Redon/The Art Dealer, 1925 iknown), for example, presents the stentiousness he ascribed to many in —Guy Pene du Bois owed his perlic success during this period to John =haar. The dealer had given the artist nan exhibition in 1922, and he show his works regularly throughout ty-five years. The artist's warm relathis well-respected dealer is docutrait ofJohn Kraushaar, 1927 (Cat. le painter’s feelings are apparent in ely inscribed work, The Opera (Cat. No. 26), which he gave to aughter Antoinette. RANTS AND k/HLSEMENTS d conventions of dining out had 1 the artist. Many of his earliest ng Cascade Restaurant, Bois du 5 (collection unknown) and Waiter!, on unknown), picture restaurant se John Sloan, who depicted the culine atmosphere found in r, 1912 (Detroit Institute of Arts), was interested in couples. In parintrigued by the lack of interper2 between the couples he saw, many irised an older man and a younger it scenes, of course, had been favortdgar Degas, Edouard Manet, and '■ Renoir; all of whom Pene du Bois bers of The Eight had also enjoyed scenes; one recalls the relaxed elam Glackens CAez Mouquin, 1905 af Chicago) or John Sloan’s lively ^aturday Night, 1912 (Art Instio)-40 Closer to Pene du Bois in nely tension evident in his friend 29. Portrait ofJohn Kraushaar, 1927 watercolor and ink on paper, 14 x 11% in. Private Collection Photograph hy Geoffrey Clements, courtesy Kraushaar Galleries �I t ill Edward Hopper’s Automat, 1927 (Des Moines Art Center), in which a woman, wearing cheaply bought clothes imitative of more expensive fash­ ions, dines alone. Absent is the male waiter who appears in many of Pene du Bois’ «staurant scenes including Mr. and Mrs. Chester Dale Din­ ing Out, 1924 (Metropolitan Museum of Art) at the Hotel Brevoort in New York. Two years later in Cafe Madrid, 1926 (Cat. No. 15), Pene du Bois again depicted Chester Dale and his first wife Maud, two of his major patrons, seated at a restaurant table.41 The pres­ ence of two bottles of champagne implies that other guests are expected to join them. Dale s wife was a painter, and together they formed a sub­ stantial collection of nineteenth- and twentieth­ century French and American art, much of which was bequeathed to the National Gallery of Art. Dale, who began buying the artist’s work in the late teens, eventually owned twenty-five of his works.42 Reflecting their mutual great enthusiasm for French art, the artist accompanied the collec­ tor on one buying trip. Describing the frenzied pace of this trip, however, the artist concluded that Dale was “the slave of his nerves.”43 At heart a painter of people, especially recog­ nizable types, Pene du Bois frequently depicted the leisure time activities of his privileged sub­ jects. In Billboard, 1920 (Cat. No. 1), a woman with her feet inelegantly and firmly set on the ground peruses an opera performance schedule. The race track was a constant source of inspira­ tion for Pene du Bois as well. In Sports Women, France, 1926 (private collection), he depicted two women, wearing coats and cloche hats to protect them from the cool fall air at the track, possibly Longchamps. Sport for them is a spectator enter­ prise; they are observers of horses, rather than riders. THE FLAEPEK: TEE TWENTIES WOMAN AS SOCIETY VAMPIKE With the publication of Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise, the flapper entered the popular par­ lance.-4 A distinctively twenties woman, her physique, age, and attitude towards life remain that era s most effervescent symbol.”45 The flapper clad her slender boyish figure in thin, straight short-skirted dresses with long waists. Her pale face was carefully decorated with newly popular cosmetics, and her legs were covered in silk stock­ ings. For evening, her dress was sleeveless, held on her shoulders by thin straps and accented by a few pieces of elegantly simple jewelry. During the day, she wore a small soft-brimmed cloche hat as in Subway Steps, 1926 (Cat. No. 20), to cover her short bobbed hair. “Flappery” represented a bold social rebellion by women—there was no equivalent male type— with nerve, who were identified as “shameless, selfish and honest.’’46 Many of her characteristics implied, if not outright indecency, at least impro­ priety, as she defied social strictures placed on young women but not on young men. She smoked in public, as well as drank; one historian observed: “Cigarette in mouth and cocktail in hand, she appeared to be both shocking and unshockable.”47 Her forum of social equality was somewhat ephemeral for it was not matched by comparable economic and political independence. Interested in neither the intellectual pursuits of the educated woman nor in a career or job, this fashi onably nonchalant creature appeared self-centered, plea­ sure-seeking, high spirited, and charmingly amus­ ing, with a spontaneous exuberance that could also be interpreted as "fast.” In his popular car­ toons, John Held, Jr., helped to popularize this familiar image of the carefree and coltish flap­ per.48 Emphasizing the less giddy side of this twen­ ties woman, the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald and the paintings of Guy Pene du Bois provide a more ominous image of the flapper.44 As Zelda Sayre FitzgeraId ob served in a 1922 article on flapperdom, the flapper put on “a great deal of audacity and rouge and went into battle."50 Make­ up was the war paint for serious conflict between the sexes. Another commentator of the time omi­ nously described the "pallor mortis, poisonously scarlet lips, richly ringed eyes.""51 51 Flappers were, as Zelda s husband warned, "dangerous girls”;52 in­ deed one of his characters declared “I want to be a society vampire. ”:>3 Underneath her pert exterior, the flapper was a threatening and predatory creature. i5- ctiJ ■ ' He, __ K �ll-in, aists weur|.ly "rMe ‘-i in sifeveL ’?’ held °n Jy*U "■ 'le d*y, as in =ovei !r her j social rehelliOn e”t male s shatneltype^ ( less, * charact< ;eristiCs at lee;* !ast impro. :es Placed -''>1 on ^n- She one historian dcocbtailill sclring and t I I was somewhat by comparable nee. Interested > of the educated > fashionably -centered, plealarmingly amus:e that could s popular car>pularize this co tish flap- i i ide of this twen>tt Fitzgerald Bois provide a r.49 As Zelda 22 article on a great deal of battle.”50 Make- ,nflict between ,f the time oim; poisonously :laPPVS”Te'-3S us girls ' ‘J* “I want to ath her pert ming 15. Cafe Madrid (Portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Chester Dale), 1926 oil on panel, 21% x 18 in. Museum of Fine Arts, St. Petersburg, Florida Bequest of John Hinkle Photograph courtesy Museum of Fine Arts �delations between mew ANO WOMEN? SOC0AE AN1D eoonesses Few American artists have pictured the difficulties of negotiating relationships between men and women more sharply than Guy Pene du Bois. His frequent depictions of couples enabled him to explore the mental separation and emotional es­ trangement that served as an invisible barrier to discourse despite their physical proximity. In On the Bridge, 1926 (Cal. No. 17) a couple, warmly dressed in hat and coats, stands overlooking the river. Yet they remain self-absorbed and con­ sciously distanced from each other: the cold win­ ter weather, further emphasized by the leafless tree, is a metaphor of their personal chill. Although lie shared a common sensibility with Edward Hopper, who emphasized loneliness I and isolation. Guy Pene du Bois was more inter­ ested in the sharp nature of social discourse than with emotional barrenness. In George Moore with Seated Woman, 1920 (Cat. No. 2), the wellknown Irish author sits uncomfortably on one end of a couch while a woman relaxes. The Life Soldier, 1922 (Cat. No. 9) makes a visual pun at the woodenness of the military male. Although attired in an elegant evening dress, his compan­ ion’s stiffness suggests the mechanical quality ol their social interactions. Another painting of a military couple, Pets, 1927 (Cat. No. 28) makes a similar pun by means of the placement of the soldier's sword. Finally, the bizarrely humorous Country Wedding, 1929 (Cat. No. 35) satirizes the institution of marriage, while In the Wings, 1921 (Cat. No. o) recreates a backstage scene in which two young dancers in tutus are approached by a cane-carrying older man whose intentions are unclear. His protagonists, whose elegant evening clothes serve as social armor and as defining “signs or symbols of sophistication,”54 display th. same tensions already seen in his cafe women and flappers. Their clothes, which both provide cam­ ouflage and serve as social signifies, are key to their roles, as he observed, "clothes define social r -_ ?O£‘1™: even the age of the wearer’s wealth. » In formal evening dress, such figures were interchangeable: “his clothes are patterned like sheep in flocks or like fish in schools ”56 One of his canvasses, Shovel Hats, 1923 (Cat. No. 10), takes its title simply from an article clothing worn by several of the women who arc pictured. If the flapper had changed sexual mores the conventions of class structure remained more rigidly prescribed, and relations between men and women were mediated under extremely difficult conditions. By way of emphasizing their rigid social roles, Guy Pene du Bois occasionally de­ picted his figures as mannequins, deliberately emphasizing the inflexibility of the possible courses of action open to them, lypical is his drawing Ihe Social Lion, 1921—1923 (\Y liilney Museum of American Art), described in the cap­ tion as one who changed from one suit of clothes to another,”57 For all their political and economic dominance, his males are as powerless to escape the strictures imposed by society as hit) fvrnalc counterparts. In leather and Son, 1929 (Cat. No. 36), the artist makes it ciear that the young man will become like his father. I be* ‘ invat is a pen­ dant to Mother and Daughter, 1928 (Cat. No. 31), which posits a comparable situation/' t ETUI N TO AHELM .A In October 1929, Guy Pene Ju Bois was in Nice when lie learned of the disastrous stock market crash, which signaled the beginning of an interna­ tional depression. As he recailed, th e art market fueled by “the fantastic gush of money in sense­ less circulation had ceased.”59 For many expatri­ ates, the drastic economic change automatically meant repatriation. While Pine du Bois recog­ nized that his time abroad would soon end, he was able to remain in France another six months. In April 1930, he arrived back in New York: “I had returned to my native city almost forgotten except among those who set me down as an expatriate and with a deep regret which had somehow com­ bined with a temperamental inability to slide back into its rhythms.”60 New York bore little resem­ blance to the city he had left: "It took me a long time to get under the skin of my own people. They had become strangers to me.”61 Drooping American Flag, 1930 (collection unknown), sums up his mood of economic dispiritedness and per­ sonal dislocation. �tn 1923 1 01 aQ r.. (Cat are nal ^°res- th,ie ined ^ore Ween and iely djlf?11 ? n<t He,r rigid p?nallyde. eltberatel Possilde is his ’3 (Whitney ln cap. SU1.tof clothes and economic pS to escape his female ’29 (Cat. No. e young man ■^s is a pen- (Cat. No. ition.°8 is was in Nice ock marlset of an intema» art market ■ ~i ey in sensetany expatriitomatically Bois recogm end, he was ; months. In York: “I had rgotten except expatriate nehow comr to glide back ittle resem>k me a n people- 1 Droops 2nown),^S ieSs pe 36. Father and Son, 1929 oil on canvas, 21 Vi x 18 in. Whitney Museum of American Art Purchase Photograph by Geoffrey Clements, courtesy Whitney M useum of American Art �1. See Chapter 5, in Allen, Only Yesterday, pp- 88-122. 2. Guy Pdne du Bois (GPDB), Artists Say the Silliest Things (ASTST), p. 84. 3. One painting, titled appropriately Prohibition (collection unknown), was shown al the Whitney Studio Club in 1927. 4. Sinclair, Prohibition: The Era of Excess, p. 220. 5. Flanner, Paris Was Yesterday, 192O—1939, P- xix. 6. Van Wyck Brooks, Days of the Phoenix, p. 108. 7. Fitzgerald, “Gretchen’s Forty Winks,” in Six Talcs of the Jazz Age, p. 176. 8. Ibid., p. 7. 9. Ibid., p. 110. 10. Ibid. 11. Ibid., p. 1. 12. ASTST, p. 215. 13. ASTST, pp. 213-214. 14. ASTST, P. 214. 15. ASTST. P. 214. 16. ASTST, P. 215. 17. ASTST, P. 216 18. ASTST, p. 216. 19. Van Wyck Brooks, Days of the Phoenix, pp. 2—3. 20. Loos, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, p. 93. Th roughout the book Lorelei Lee misspells words by way of demon­ strating her high intellectual accomplishments. 21. Ibid., p. 63. 22. ASTST, P. 249. 23. ASTST, P. 251. 24. Such subjects had inspired the work of other American artists, including paintings like Soir Bleu, 1914 (Whitney Museum of American Art) by Edward Hopper and Cafe, Paris, 1929 (private collection) by Archibald J. Motley, Jr. (1891-1981). Motley, who portrayed black urban Ameri­ cans, admired Pene du Bois’ Americans in Paris. See Jontyle Theresa Robinson and Wendy Greenhouse, Tire Art of Mot'^Jr- (CLi«g°= Chicago Historical Society, J n T9 Parisian establishments frequented .requenrea by oy Guy uuy Pene rene du Bois inspired sevc ’ * ' feral1 important paintings, including Cafe Monnof, c. 1928-1920 (Whitney Mu-, um ,,{ American Ari), The Cafe, 1925 (New York, Ruu ian Tea Roca), and Pierrot TircJ, c. 1927 (Corcoran Gallery of Art), which pictures a common scene in his wort a silent couple shar­ ing a table and a drink. 25. ASTST p. 113. 26 One of Pens du Bais' ui- ■ I -trilring t n, ., ( ji, Ju Dome, 1925- 1926 (National Gallery of Art), depict, th,, establishment. Another painting, Morning Pune Cafe. 1926 (Whitney Museum of American Art), w ; inspired by a young woman he had .-.een one evening at the Ddme 27. Hemingway, "A Good Cab- - ■■ the Pl Michel,” in A Moicabk Feast, p, 5. 28. Ibid. 29. Other exam pic. include AmcHraH Girls at Rail­ road Station, Paris. 19.26 (collection unknown), lie Girls, Montmartre,1927 (Phillip^ Collection), and (Ar/;. CAump* Elysecs, c. 1925 (private collection). 30. Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night, p. 83. 31. “American Painters* Work,” New York Tures, 11 December 1927. 32. Helen Henderson, “Viewing \V<»rkbyGPT)B Philadelphia Inquirer, 6 November 1927. 33. Other works executed in A. ice include Grande Bleue, Nice, 1930 (collect! on unknown) and Place Ma. A>«, 1930 (collection unknown). 34. 35. 36. 37. ASTST, ASTST, ASTST, ASTST, P. P. P. p. 128. 191 191. 253. In 1927, Pent fir,-.. painwl a portrait of Bedatu.’s vile ii: liaiy. ike'r ■ social status is attested by the fact that Iluire st l.r.-b . r married in the Bcdaux's French chateau. 38. GPDB, quoted in Van Wyck BnxAfJ**" A Painter's Life (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1955? 12. 39. Krausbaar’s distinctive r. ’.r.d Erm also a 1926 print by John Sioan. „ were .... favorite 40. Many of the New York eateries tr*em. 1 u»wx.-— -haunts of the artists who uepicxcu depicted them. Patron. ot tr* jjJ,. 1Q17 anJ Roman^ Marc ylane'’ss.. 1922, the subjects .ubf«* «* print, by Sloan, enjoyed the inexpensive kn,t«ou»n«* « f �e, ~n Mio r h,s a, 4 n-^g3 ' Cn i iok’o2 ’ 4fH **°n'.ic fi».fD‘n 1940 '=• ‘ s’7 ; ' d a drink. ®T hb ’/^P^eduBoi. ^ . ■ most Another painting * eujnotAxnerica^AZ jiX-'" lean Art w* 1 ^een one evening at a. 4 — Ddme' T_i=_ **'*=,• the imingway. “A Gajd Cafe Mooeable Feast, p. 5 the ft "-■ce d. ker examples include Awr;w Gk; s: ^aris, 1926 (collection -I’.rr ~<t. ki . — ?27 (Pkillips Collection', and >-—f C««<e-25 (private collection! zgerald. Tender Is the S-aht r merican Printers' 'X-'rit 5« u Header, ^,^6Nove m^ 9^.^^ 6 Novend* r 1^* her works executed in. 930 (collection unknown Election unknown) itst, P-128 :TST, p- 191- ■TST. pT 1927. ;TST, p- 253-1’> edaux's »n e l" attested by D’ . chaU3v • B1UaU*SJdin Van «> ‘e^jo55’ >DB, E. P. r*tU^ ■ ,r. 35. Country Wedding, 1929 oil oh canvas, 36 x 29 in. 1 hit MaiUKigian Collection Photograph courtesy I he Maitoogian Collection �J ,I,.....C(tnl,li,l,I hose venturing I.. 1 larlenl'. i.mreasmglv popular jazz club, could discover scene, similar to recorded by Charles Domulh in At Manhalls, 191 / (Barnes liuundalion). 11. Alll><>ugl> it was published in the New York Her­ ald Tribune, ?A November 1926, as ICafe Madrid, Spain, I clly part of dlc I'1'0am not convinced that Spain is correct ned Cafe Madrid which There was a New York restaurant namv- opened in 1911-1912. In Gentlemen Prefer Blonde, Anita Loos also alludes to one in Paris: "so when we went to a place called the Madrid to tea and it really was devine" (p. 99). Pihie du Bois was more likely to have had contact with the Dales in New York and Paris. While the settings of several of kis restaurant scenes are specifically identified, more characteristically Ciuy Pene du Bois preferred to create generic types, as he did with people. Typical is Restaurant No. 1 and Restaurant No. 2, 1924 (Art Institute of Chicago), a diptych painted before he left for France. The first depicts a single man in evening dress, while the second shows two slinky women at a table, one with her face turned away from the viewer. This is the sort of scene treated with impassive humor in a 1925 car­ toon by Peter Arno published in The New Yorker, "Nightlife,” (The New Yorker 1 [24 October 1925]: 17) in which a series of tables of repetitively similar dour couples is pictured. Clad in elegant evening dress, they rigidly do not converse with each other and are attended by equally indif­ ferent waiters. 42. The Chester Dale collection included The Confi­ dence Man, 1919 (Brooklyn Museum), Pouter Pigeon, 1922 (collection unknown). Hallway Italian Restaurant, 1922 (National Uallery of Art), Restaurant 1 and Restaurant 2, 1924 (Art Institute of Chicago), Cafe du Dome, 1925-1926 (National Gallery of Art), and La Rue de la Santa, 1928 (National Gallery of Art). 43. ASTST, P. 251. 46. Although the word flapper received its fullest definition in Fitzgerald s novels of the 1920s, she had been identified by H. L. Menck en as existing by 1910. See H. L. Mencken, “American Slang,” in The American Language (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1931): 373; and The Ameri­ can Language, Supplement I (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1945): 514—515. See also May, The End ofAmerican Inno­ cence, pp. 339—340. In a Fitzgerald story, ' The Offshore Pirate, a male protagonist has another character swear “oxi your honor as a flapper," in Flappers and Philosophers f p. 23. 45. Stevenson, Babbitts and Bohemians, p. 139. 46. "Flapping Not Repented Of,” New York Times, 16 July 1922, reprinted in Mowry, The Twenties, p. 174. 47. William Henry Lkafe, The American U’brrtun, p. 49. See also "Women Smokers," A'cw York Times, 19 Feb- rujry 1920, reprinted in Mowry. 7Xc Tu-eni . ,. PP- 178-179. 48. Thi.- image is echoed by the sprightly the prints of Martin Lewis, as for example, Dan« 1930. The brisk urban chic of hi? f cure? - ., erful ,lr J the move. Another view is given in Kenneth Him Miller's Shopper, 1928 (Whitney Museum of America:. \rij. Xlthough she wears the skinny low-wasted a-, younger contemporaries, her matron!,, fi.-are re.._5;. is too old for their kinds of activities. 49. The women depicted by Pane du B.’ia may veer the skinny form-fitting dress of the peri U, a, Oprm 1926 (Whitney Museum of American Art), hut his ammoesque female scarcely suggest, flappery. Hi? u"-mcn urA Cigarette, 1929 (Whitney Museum of American Art) aUc pictures two strong, looming female figure-. Their miie companions are not visible, and the bulging forekuid ut the woman firmly holding her cigarette makes the ensemUe highly disturbing. Ironically, while women wearing the latest fashions (albeit in larger sizes than the ideal) appear regu­ larly in his paintings, only one of kis canvases specifically names the type who was the model in a title—5 tapper, 1922 (Greensboro, University of North Carolina Xeatkerspoon Gallery). His single figure is decidedly inelegant, more a school girl on her way to the library than someone about to go to a cafe. 50. Zelda t?ayre Fitzgerald, “Eulogy on the Flapper." published in Metropolitan Magazine, June 1922, quoted in Nancy Milford, Zelda. A Biography (New Tore: Harper C* Row, 1970): 91. 51. Bruce Bliven, "Flapper Jane. in L;.* A.-i. Rejr-rlic (9 September 1925), quoted in Stevenson. Bohemians, p. 141. J n;5/2' Bobs Her Hair," in fbpprr tnd ai Philosophers, p. Ho. 53. Ibid., p. 120. 54. ASTST. p. 132. 55. GPDB. “Reflections ci Men and .Art." Arts ana Decoration 13 (25 June 1020'.: $2. 56. Ibid. . 5?. i he figures are similar to hi.. "Mari.’ c.’;? i-. Metropolitan Opera." published in li,,-'::. H - in December 58. These works echo earlier composih.-ns .Vc«:' Monster, IQ 14 (Metropolitan Museum of Ari! an J and Brunette. 1915 (W'hitoes Museum ot a later work. Mr. \>s .M-.;.)'IJ35 unknown), he continues Lis interest in tvpe<. 5Q. .1S7SZ’ P. 254. 00. ASTST P. 255. 01 ASTS," p. 25o. Vo. L <5 �I"8-"-,. lrr°CannianArt)^° n' .] 't eari°fl the lalert “P^rregu ‘ epecifiejjy ^—--F’appcr, >■egant, ^^ pocr mcre a onieone about to e on the Flapper" 1922, quoted in fork: Harper & n Flic New Repubon, Babbitts and Hair, in Flappers d Art,” Arts and larionettes at the -j-r in Decibar sitions, irt] and B’^ , American b&- 10 J5 (collection 2, George Moore with Seated Woman (Former title: George Moore and Sarah Bernhardt), 1920 oil on canvaJ, 19 X 25*/i in. Smith College M useum of Art, Nortllampton, Massachusetts Photograph by Peter A. Juicy & Son �£ Note: Boll, my Comoran catalogue and my dissertation contain extensive bibliographies; and, except for a few basic sources, publications listed hero are intended to expand these listings, as well as to include some useful historical sources on the period treated in my essay The artist’s papers arc in the Flanner, Janet. Pans Was Yesterday, 1Q25—1Q3Q. New York: Viking, 1972. Goldstein, Ben. “Daumier's Spirit in American Art," Print Review 11 (1980): 127-144. Hansen, Arlen J. Expatriate Paris: A Cultural and Literary Guide to Paris oftkc 1920s. New York: Arcade PubliskArchives ofAmerican Art. Allen, Frederick Lewis. Only Yesterday: An Informal History ing, 1990. Hemingway, Ernest. A Moveable Feast. New York: Ckarl of the lQ20s. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1931. American Heritage History of the 20’s and 30’s. New York: Hills, Patricia, and Roberta K. Tarbell. The Figurative Tradi­ American Heritage Publishing Company, 1970. Beard, Rick, and Leslie Cohen Berlowitz, eds. Greenwich Village: Culture and Counterculture. New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press (for the Museum of the City of New York), 1993. Berman, Avis. Rebels on Eighth Street: Juliana Force and the Whitney Museum of American Ari. New York: Atheneum, 1990. Brooks, Van Wyck. Days of tkc Phoenix: The Nineteen- Twcntics I Remember. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1957. Cashman, Sean Dennis. Prohibition: Tkc Lie of the Land. New York: The Free Press, 1981. Chafe, William Henry. The American Woman: Her Changing Social, Economic, and Political Roles, 1920—1930. London: Oxford University Press, 1975. Clair, Jean, ed. The 1920s: Age of the Metropolis. Montreal: trangement: Women and Men, 1912—1924,” M.A. thesis, Madison: University of Wisconsin, 1984. Douglas, Ann. Terrible Honesty: Mongrel Manhattan in the 1920s. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1995. Erenberg, Lewis A. Steppin' Out: New York Nightlife and tkc Transformation of American Culture, 1890—1930. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1981. Fahlman, Betsy. Guy Pene du Bois: Artist About Town. exhibition catalogue. Washington, D.C.: Corcoran Gallery of Art, 1980. York: Whitney M useum of American Art, 1980. Lieberman, William S., ed. Art of the Twenties. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 19/9. Loos, Anita. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. New York: Boni and Liveright, 1925. May, Henry F. The End of American Innocence: A Study of the First Years of Our Own time, 1012—1017. London: Jonathan Cape, I960. Morris, Lloyd. Incredible New York; High Life and Low Life of the Last Hundred Yars. New York: Random House, 1951. See especially “Some Liked Ii Hot," pp. 317-337. Morton, Brian. Americans in Paris: An Anecdotal Street Guide. Ann Arbor, Michigan: The Olivia and Hill Press, 1984. Mowry, George E., ed. The Twenties: Fords, Flappers and Nash, Roderick. The Nervous Generation: American Thought, 1917-1Q30. Chicago: Rand McNally, 1970. Pene du Bois, Guy. Artists Say the Silliest Things. New- York: American Artists Group, 1940. Perrett, Geoffrey. America in the Twenties: A History. Neu- York: Simon and Schuster, 1982. Sinclair, Andrew. Prohibition: Ike Era of Exccess. Boston: Little Brown, 1962. Smith, Page. Redeeming the Time: A People's History of the 1 Q20s and the New Deal. N ew York: Penguin Books, 1987, volume 8. ------------ . “Guy Pene du Bois (1884-1958)," Ph.D. disserta­ tion, University of Delaware, 1981. Stevenson, Elizabeth. Babbitts and Bohemians: The Ameri- can 1920s. New York: MacMillan, 19o7. ------------. “Guy Pdne du Bois; Painter and Critic." Art and Antiques 3 (November-December 1980): 106-113. Fitzgerald, F. Scott. Flappers and Philosophers. New York: New Charies Scribner’s Sons, 1948 [1920], ------------ .Six Tales of the Jazz Age and Other Stories. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, I960 [1922-1924] -------- —. Tender Is the Night. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, I960 [1934], York: Ckarles Scribner’s Sons, I960 [1920]. Flam, Jack. “Guy Pdne du Bois, ’’ American Heritage Sullivan, Mark. Our Times: The United States, 1900-1Q23. VI. The Twenties. New Tork: Char!es Scribner’s Sous, 1935. Todd, Ellen Wiley. Tkc “New tyoman'' Reused. Painting and Gender Politics on Fourteenth Street. Berkeley: 1 niver- sity of California press, 1993. Turner, Elizabeth Hutton. Amerfcan Artiste in Faris 1010- 1020. Ann Arbor, Michigan: UM I Research Press IJ88 Xlatson, Steven. Strange BedfcFows: The First American Avant-Garde. New \ork: Abbeville, 1991. (Fehru- cry 1989): 72-82. tion and tkc Whitney Museum of American Art. Neu* Fanatics. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1963. Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, 1991. Doherty, Charles E. “Guy Pdne du Bois* Paintings of Es­ 7' ni^3afParaJiS,:’ Scribner's Sons, 1964. \oung, Mahouri >harp. “American Realists of the 1930>. ApJb 113 (March 1981): 146-189. �j93q U. in ■“ L;rci- c Pcat. N, lartelj Urn °/A, of the 979. Mondes. "'can Innocence- . 1912-ig^. • London; Lied It Hot,-pp. 317_337 nS ’ An Anecdotal Street in: The Olivia and Hill itics: Fords, Flappers and , NJ.: Prentice-Hall, 1963. zncration: American Thought, d McNally, 1970. the Silliest Tilings. New =>up, 1940. Twenties: A History. New 1982. excess. Boston: ic Era of El e: A P^plc 7 History of the ;w York: Penguin Book, nd Bohemians: The Ameri- .Charles Scribner.^- jed: Pa’ni,n9 nan"■ Rovis. anJ Jb=W->"u"ot i Str^- - >3. m—i UMI R^earcJ Jiu..*930- ;an Reali^ ° [46-1®9’ 1988- 30. After the Circus, 1928 watercolor and ink on paper, 13’A x 1744 in. Helena Gunnarsson Collection Photograph hy Dean Beasoni �dp 1. Billboa rd, 1920 oil on panel, 25 x 20 in. NorFolk Southern Corporation, Norfolk, Virginia Photograph courtesy of Norfolk Southern Corporation J1 �Jr 3. An American Oriental, 1921 oil on canvas, 2O‘/16x25‘/8m. Art,,---------Los Angeles Los Angeles County Museum cof ------a Mr. anti Mrs. William Preston Harrison Collects ion of Art Photograph © 1995, Museum Associates, Los Angeles County Museum �/ i 5 i 27. Peasants Returning, 1927 ™ ™ eanva,, 25'/. x 36 in Ali Mo^huder, M.D., Colleelion �28. Pets, 1927 oil on canvas, 217/a x 185/p in. Museum of Ari, Fort Lauderdale, Florida Ira Glack cijb Bequest Plioto^raph courtvsy Muyuuni of Art ��5. In the Wings, 1921 oil on panel, 191/’ x 14% in. Allen Memorial Art M useum, Oberlin College, Ohio ( lift of Mru. Malcolm L. McBride, 1948 Photog raph <'■> Allen Memorial Art Museum ��b. Chanticleer, 1922 oil on canvas, 241/’ x 32 in. San Diego Museum of Art I-’urchasrJ with funds from Helen M. Towle Bequest Photograph courtesy San Diego Museum of Art �7. The Coachman, 1922 charcoal, ink, watercolor on paper, 15% x 13% in. I iclena Gunnanason Collection Photograph hy I lcl^a Photo Studio, courtesy Hirchl 6* Adler U allenes, Inc. I �8. Disarmament Conference/Peace Conference, 1922 oil on canvas, 20 x 2L> in. .Marjorie and Charles Benton ( ’olio linn Photograph by Mi>di;i(.l Irapcd, courtesy C arolyn Klein Ad Consultants �9. The Life Soldier (Former itie Wooden Soldier), 1922 oil on panel, 25 x 20 in. BowJoin College Museum of Ari Gift of Walter K. 1 autxnan, ’24 Photograph by Arthur Evans, courtesy Bmvdoin College Museum �10. • .h<ai ‘I !ini.1923 -.J •> j < i-iv.is, 20 / 1414 in. ' .rh' ..'j! Mwmii i.(American Art, Smitlwonian hwlitution Gift f/( .■•mi R'.ly I oimtLilimi I'I ">h ./r-ipL court, .y Naliomil Mu.ijt iuii «»l American Ari �1 3. Isabel Riskop, 1924 oil mi can van, 48 x 36 in. Arthur J. mill Ihlilh S. Levin PruintNiil Gill In the Nation.il Muuseuin of Aiuerivau Art. ■ initli loni.in hr hlulion �a ?r• J 4, RailnniJ Compurimant, 1925 .. I nn pan- I, k IM in. J hula I h lil> iJh-jP I 'apl.hi H ■>ph ' "lull »y I .hula I-i* lih ul" •».! kupl.in �I G (>nl Iiuhj I Lir Sk | ...I 'I 16 13 . All '• • ' ' . .1 A... .<• Ill \>! I'hilltp \ L -■*' i J. /.J. ‘ i • ' .> v i.Jl. i I \u. ., o, ; ���'-Wl^- .vcnp— 21 . J r . r <’>n>r. -■; A -jm-xr _-. er -.3 ■ 52 PF-„x»»r- »” '__ •-• '- ’- •*»■ <" �J L * ' V'j • 'll ( II . . Hit I 11 u I ' I X .X H ‘ 11 ‘ II. Mu . I..II ..I•• m \l .1.: I II- H U« m III rl. . .. <( I. »’ •!» • \ b* i ' i' ■ K X ' V > X �23, Girl at Montparnasse, 1927 watercolor and ink on paper, 15 x LVZi in. Richard and Carol Levin Photograph by Helga Photo Studio, courtesy I lirschl & Adler Galleries, Inc. ��26. The Opera Singer, 1927 oil on canvas, 13!Z? x 10 in. Kraushaar Galleries Photograph courtesy Kraushaar Galleries �I 1 *'3 31. MatJier and Datignter, 1M28 oil on canvas, 2P» x 18 in. \vkitney Museum of American Art purchase Ptiotograpk courtesy kitney M-jl �I 33. Avenue Je la Victoire, Nice, 1929 watercolor and graphite on paper, 13^ x 1014 in. Austin P Kelley Collecti on Photograph hy Professional Photographic Services �------- ] I faille ’ T*,' tW k-rm f, ■ " ■''' ir ' "' 1 kite* k» ...... .............. ‘ “■’ ■ ■ r;:„;......... ..... yu’lr,w ».vl r. .-■>»■ «•« j.Und. 1 '>.ipk, .1- Xmcrxan irbrt*. « vh ’irt <k»Pit! iu.pr.4ifi-. .jlput I '•'..anti »rt k»>.t>rMn». »n,h tke rk • Beu, l*Mnun h«vr n-iumi. H t cntwJwntmg. -• .^1-, ;r,|^bn-.r „ ’ ,n < •• Jn,,'!*’ »-k >J’"'1 h,. J . * i 37. The Art Opening, n.d. 13 in. r- • " »*w, L± T*1 - 5 *«l47 k'** 4»i *° ”'4. charcoal and watercolor on paper, 15 Helena Guiinare^on Collection Photograph by Dean Bea-om - i . **K �s The Artist as Critic Stanley I Grand When Henry Pene du Bois died on skipboard enroute home from France in May 1906, kis twenty-two-year-old son Guy, with whom ke kad been traveling, suddenly found himself in need of a job. After his arrival in New York, the young artist obtained a position—largely through family connections—as a reporter with the daily New York American, where his fatker had worked as a critic. Over the next half-century, in addition to painting and teacking. Guy Pene du Bois wrote hundreds of articles and reviews, several mono­ graphs on American artists, and a charming autobiography entitled .Artists Say the Silliest Things} Yet despite his prolific output, most subsequent critics and art historians, with the notable excep­ tion of Betsy Fahlman, have minimized or igno red Pe ne du Bois’ critical writings. This oversight is unfortunate and unde­ served, especially since his essays are delightfully readable. He brought to his subjects both a mor­ dant nit and a sophisticated, at times jaded, sensi­ bility. Frequently—assuming the guise of the amoral flaneur watching the passing parade from a point somewhat above street level—ke com­ mented dryly on the foibles of his contemporaries. His panoramic view of the aesthetic landscape included observations on clothing, billboards, critics. [They give] none of the many doubtful students a ground to stand on. They stand on none themselves. They say they are broadminded quite as though this all inclusive breadth of view were of value to the world.”3 This essay considers a number of themes that inform Guy Pene du Bois criticism written between 1912 and 1924.4 Not only do these essays most closely relate to the paintings in­ cluded in “Guy Pene du Bois: The Twenties at Home and .Abroad and thereby provide a further hey to understanding„ th<le exhibition, but they also were written during the time when he enjoyed his greatest success, influence, and importance as a critic. As the recently appointed editor of Arts and Decoration, ke kad kelped prepare tke public to understand the famous Armory Show, which opened at the 69th Nation al G uard Regiment Armory on Lexington Avenue in February 1913, ky dedicating tke Marek issue to tke exkibition. His own contribution in tkat issue, entitled "The Spirit and the Chronology of the Modem Move­ ment," explained that the seemingly radical Cezanne, “the great man of the great modem movement ... is essentially a classicist; that is, like Ingres, he demands last of all, order, measure, the harmonious scheme that is essential. 5 In “The Spirit and the Chronology of the Modern Movement," Pene du Bois articulated cosmetics, and health, in addition to the fine arts.* Nonetheless, despite his ironic perch, he maintained a great fondness for people as they are. Indeed, he was an articulate advocate for the individual in an era that was becoming increas­ ingly depersonalized and dehumanized. As a critic two philosophical tenets that would characterize his writings for the next dozen years. The first, that art must be based on life, reflects the influ­ ence of Robert Henri, with whom he had studied he expressed a clear set of values; he distrusted and dismissed equivocation: “Chameleons are not at the New York School of Art. Prior to Henn s appointment in 1902, tke students kad been �f d h n4 S‘SaU” pki!°S°Pky as inter„ Ph SCh°° S pnn?Pal “^Ctor William Merritt Chase. Henri on the other hand, taught 1 art for Me s sake. Almost forty years later, Pene du Bois described Henri’s revolutionary impact on the students: He “completely overturned the apple cart: displaced art by life, discarded technic, broke the prevailing gods as easily as brittle porce­ lain. The talk was uncompromising, the approach unsubtle, the result pandemonium.”6 On his first day as the instructor in the life class, Henri ap­ figure for he s honesty of tin , ......... along with his good ">■* Tru °?t kis w*h life: "The terrible tkirfg M X the tepid thing that is the medio^tL Jn life, is -king. ”15 Jn sum art must ke alive, regulated by the and honest. y ne intellect, Pene contravened the laws of nature with spatial dislo­ cations, acid colors, distorted anatomical propor­ tions, and an ironic, frequently erotic, sensibility. Mannerism, in sum, was an art based on art The extreme aestheticism of Mannerism eventually provoked a backlash. In the late sixteenth century, Academies dedicated to restoring the ideal art of Raphael were established. Simultaneously, around 1600, in a parallel reaction to the excesses of Ute Mannerism, Caravaggio created a new realistic style that substituted truth to nature for deco­ rum: since peasants had dirty feet and fingernails, let them appear thus in paintings. During the following centuries the cycles of art oscillated. In the nineteenth century, for example, the Realism of Courbet was followed by the aestheticism of I Bois distinguished te art- s "71“4r i-“;- proached one hapless student and, after consider­ ing his work, asked in a voice audible to all: "Was ien [he] a man or not, and by inference were we, that we could draw' or paint this woman in all her glo­ rious nudity as though she were a plaster cast, a thing less alive than a cabbage? Life certainly did that day stride into a life class.”7 In 1913 Pene du Bois clarified the distinc­ tion between art and life when he wrote: “Art conservative Irke Ingres, the first potent modern despot, or radical like "Manet or Renoir, the realists, followed the laws of nature in preference to those of art.”17 Ingres’ accomplishment, for example, consisted of his ability “to regulate his as worthless as a body when there is no life in it. subject absolutely without denuding it of all artis­ tic or rather aesthetic virtue. He made the classic formula his own, made it do his bidding, turned Painting when there is nothing hut life in it, when and twisted and moulded it.”18 Cezanne, on the it is without regulation, is not art."8 In his view "Art is not exactly life—it is greater than life. Life other hand, "who was a genius, evolved a new theory of painting by keeping away from the com- is barbaric, impulsive, unrestrained. . . . Art is the pany of painters."19 The insistence that art follow the laws of when there is no life in it is just as dead and just restraint constructing order out of chaos. 9 For Pene du Bois, art transcended style or the means of expression. Consequently he could praise the Classicist Ingres, the Romantic Delacroix, and the Realist Courbet because all three were “incontrovertahly H connected with life. Their art epitomized life's particular phrases [sic]. Each started with nature; each was a gardener: Life is the root, the plant; art the gardener.”11 Their ky-ferences were merely in how they chose to train ■heir plants: Ingres chose order, Delacroix exulted in the sensuous. Metaphorically speaking, Courbet combined Ingres' formal garden with Delacroix's English garden to produce a synthesis M -W Since Pene du Bois believed that art "regulation,” he had no use for unbodied . 1^: "Art requires the services of the mind 6i much as it requires the services of the . /. r - \,,r did he have any sympathy lor dis .-jVrei. hot one bind of bad ..rt .nd ... ,„,.rt."»’lo ibis point he had.„- TL.. I Whistler. The second philosophical tenet, then, was a cyclic view of art, which Pene du Bois shared with Heinrich Wolfflin (1864-1945), the German art historian and theoretician, who had described the progression of artistic stages from archaic to clas­ sic to baroque;21 In a similar vein, Pene du Bois nature” reflects an ongoing discourse in Western art. The art of the Medieval era was conceptual, an art of signs, signifies and formulas. As a human­ istic world view supplanted the theocentnc, a per­ ceptual art based on the study of nature gradually came to replace the earlier art. In Italy, beginning with Giotto, artists slowly abandoned the Byza tine conventions in preference for a more natural­ istic mode. During the quattrocento, Italian artists, influenced by their g-wing ^trng of—nd fa.cin.lion “XL the ideal in nature, tha w IC Northern accidents of .p=si& ™»,(““J ,„dsd te- Eu.ope.n artists, » ward unado rned verism- By t e ear Y century, d» ‘I-*- iJ'J'T .l which High Renaissance art o« P t imp„v. on not merely to af »*J a„ jde. ••• One consequence of e P |f.„(e,enliJ. >» that art became i.-»^ „1. the courtly, arisloerat.0, m a.d ; r, mc Mvers: "He is Diogenes with '. I known as Mannerism, I i wrote: "The cycl es of art are like the cycles of life. They are Lorn, reach maturity and then . . . begin the downward slide to death ... at the base of whick there is inevitably a new life begun, a re­ naissance.”21 In "Despotism and Anarchy in Art” (1915) he described the succession of art move­ ments as a cyclic process in which "Anarchy suc­ ceeds despotism and despotism succeeds anarchy.”22 According to Pene du Bois, both the "Anarchistic and despotic parties of art realize equally that it is art’s traditions that is hw b twyi-r ; 5 , . J. ture and destroy ' the —- worn-out formula* whxk tix> complacently we have made _.r . The year before, and n. t hv : ... Pene du Bois had identified aestheticism as one of the most pernicious formal ,s. Cei.mmr c < officially recognized American” painiit . : . a number of Gennan graphic art; J.-. iK i ... J , academic work of lit? countrymen rtbv i r its "timidity, craven fear, [and] abs Jute unwittingness to ‘take a chance.' an art, in urn. d-. ,nnnated by a total fear of error.' l ive . ■,■.<>>_ f "the spirit predominating them all [the Ameri­ cans] may he traced back to the time when Will­ iam M. t..liase, perhaps inspired by epigrams mad* in a light left-handed' way by Whistler, began the promulgation of the theory of 'Art for Art's Sake. ■ In another article, also written in 1914. Pene du Bois observed that "1 he art that sur­ rounded him [Jerome Myers] when lie began to produce pictures some twenty years ago owed its thesis to an idealism that, with no basic founda­ tion in fact or in nature, had become superficial and puerile. . . . Beauty then was a matter to be secured and stamped on canvas not by the study of nature but by strict adherence to the rule book of proportions and of values.”'4’ Eleven years later, his position remained unchanged: "the art atti­ tude . . . became a pair of artificially colored glasses between himself [Whistler] and the thing seen, a device defeating fresh vision or any empiric<:al deduction." impossible to obviate a tendency that man holds Pene du Bois' disdain of formulas and his cyclic view of art colored his subsequent attitudes in common with sheep. 23 Consequently both parties offer formulas; the former (classicism) lays own rules, while the latter (expressionism/subjectivism) offers individual freedom: "Artists of the despotic state claim that art is beauty and beauty toward modernism. Shortly after the Armory Shhow closed, he and eight other artists resigned from the Society of American Painters and Sculptors, Inc., which had organized the exhibi­ a act, tangible and positive. The anarchists see in art the search for self, for the particular vision of turned the society into a Cubist, a Futurist, a Post-Impressionist organization as radical and the individual and deny positivism,”24 Not unexpectedly, as a consequence of his narrow in its aims as the National Academy of ,n erydfS themes, Pene du Bois had a great istrust for “formulas" whether old or new. Writtb 1 “TL. 6 mc”v Show he expressed the hope . fbis international exhibition should . . international exhibition ■naulate our creative power, power, show show the way to d0m' t0 in^Pendence, throw off the veil of throw o] tion, because "confirmed extremists . . . nave Desig n is radical and narrow in its aims. 311 As one who saw art movements swinging Like a pen­ dulum between birth and death, rise and fail, youth and age; he consistently advised artists to avoid extremes, to shun the poles of the cycle. Like Horace, he sought the Golden Mean, the middle way, that is the mid-point of the arc. �i.uiia’lv. as we have seen, Pene du Bois ap:• ‘?u.'..‘J the new art. He appreciated the courage its practitioners who threw off the constraints ct iired formulas. I rd ike in America, "In the rest or the world, in Germany, France, Scandinavia, neo-and post-impressionists, expressionists, cub­ ists futurists, a host of extremists, are running the whole gamut of freedom and, as is the case in art. not seldom to their own destruction. They fail often, but from excess of trying.”31 The prob­ lem was, as he lamented in 1918, that "the strong men make the formulas which the weak men fol­ low after them. There is no good to come of con­ scious art, this constant repetition of the rules of arrangement which, growing older, become more and mere abstract and more and more unfittable to the chances of life.”32 In Pene du Bois’ view, modernism had become simply another formulary. Critics have tended to see Pene du Bois' turn against modernism as reactionary', as representing a return to his realist roots, rather than as the mature criticism of an anti-authoritarian who saw modernism as a manifestation of the growing consolidation of power in the West and its dimi­ nution of the individual. Observing how Goya had suhverted the authority of absolute monarchs by means of satire and, in formal terms, by dis­ placing the king as the central figure, Pene du Bois argued that: “It was after Goya that Courbet began the humanist propaganda; that realism came to do away with reverence, and that reverence, in the old sense, was to become obsolete. 33 Courbet "retained, nevertheless, the idea of the importance of the individual. If he felt that all figures were worthy of an equal respect, he still could not consider them en masse—he was a hu­ manist. It remained for a later political age to consider man by the million, man in the aggre­ gate.”24 Although he frequently praised the Mas­ ter of Aix-en-Provence, he believed that he epito­ mized the modem, anti-humanist trend: "Cezanne . . . has always seemed to me to be a voice giving expression to the modilern desire (or organization, Indeed. I have never been able to separate his w ork from socialism, communism, trade unions and trusts.”" Modernism's emphasis on systems v.er people became its prime error: "cubists, post- imoressionists and so forth . . . have made anat .mica: c -ruction [ric] (that landmark of the Academies) in their canvases subservient to th organization of the whole, broken hones in o J, to perfect systems got rid entirely of the potency ot the individual, ot Goya s satire, of Courbet’s h maoism. A step further than Matisse is Pica«l whom we found, for a time, using abstract symbol carrying no suggestion of humanity, in order to portray the actions and reactions of forms, the' pull and push, give and take of forces, in which individual will is as of little consequence as a cork bobbing unconsciously on the surface of any lit­ eral sea."36 By adopting recipes and focusing on systems instead oh lite, the modernist fails as “he rants against institutions, against old gods and ghosts. He is not an artist exactly—he is an iconoclast. The freedom he vaunts about? That is his prison."37 The prison.' distinction between the artist and the iconoclast is one that Pene du Bois reframed and returned to throughout this period, gradually coming to the conclusion that “the man of action is rarely a man of vision. Artist really means a man of vi­ sion. It must be unquestionable that he will cloud his vision in the dust of combat.”33 In another article, also written in the 1920s, he counseled: “The artist must not forget that he is an observer, a man watching the parade from a safe though convenient distance and armed, in any case, with enough strength of character to be kept physically out of it.”39 In sum: “The artist as a seer should be beyond such stupid adherence to dogma. He must be beyond or beside the contemporary phi­ losophy. He must be a spectator. 411 Since art is derived from, and based upon, life, it follows that the artist must change to re­ flect his life experience. Pene du Bois ridiculed the painter who clings to his youthful, virgina vision: He “does not move in his tracks, no blots mar his original purity, no new huskiness is a e the rosy pink to his original soprano, no scars on ire and life is there. of the first flesh. Art is heic ---------He was especially harsh on the members o mei Eight:42 “With two or three exceptions [they] were republicans, singing the song of the plain man and his family...We were a real republic: every man as good as his neighbor. 43 Or at e3st. s° i went the myth. In reality, Pene du Bois believed that “Courbet may already have emptied the bottle when our republicans began their admira- tion society' 44 and he questioned whether “the iism which reflected that time was republican realii not already . . . a kind of reminiscence of something which was good whde we had it but which ”43 He reserved his harshest now, ___ alas,_ was gone. criticism, however, for his former instructor Rob­ ert Henri, “the high priest of these republican Americans,”40 who "having lost the revolutionary radicalism of his youth, the early discontent . . . has settled comfortably upon the optimism of bhintmiddL.-.L,,, Pollyanna. 47 Pene du Bois' ultimate rejection of The Eight had nothing to do with their "Ash Can” subject matter or political views. In 1920, for example, he minimized the importance of subject matter altogether: "Art is, after all, a matter of expression. The subject matter in art is inciden­ tal."48 Two years later he would add, in a state­ ment that anticipates the formalism of Clement Greenberg, " The literary or the descriptive end of a picture is padding in so far as the art or the aesthetic quality is concerned.'4J Given his belief that art was more than aesthetics, Pene du Bois could never become a pure formalist. Consequently, he rejected the arguments of those who proscribed politics from art: But th ere is no logic at all in the theory or dogma that artists must not ‘prosti­ tute’ their art al the feet of political interest."3'1 Con­ tinuing he noted “Art has always occupied itself with life in one way or another. It has always, as Taine has thoroughly well shown, summed up the prevailing tide, given the synthesis of the thought of a par­ ticular generation of mankind, even expressed the ' J,. aktr ' words, the artist starts with nature. lk, faJt j unconscious thought of a generation."5; The problem with The Eight was that their paintings no longer, if they ever did, represent their times. This conclusion represents his ultimate re- leC?i°n Robert Henri s philosophy: "One of my o professors once said, and is probably still saymg to male disciples, that the way to being an artist is through manhood, or in order to become an artist you must first he a man. ... But it is only by inference that one arrives at his definition o man. • • . In America he became something of a sjyas uckler, a loud talking hearty- sort of faker ordinarily designated, and with an efL,v t praise, effort of as a rough diamond.”52 But America had now come of age: Perhaps America, like New York, is beginning to tire of the simple statements of the , mtellectua long way lr. i:. th. J ........... th? •JctarL piwith th . . .. ' I' ' h lork Realist; tb,< |L , later on, dsa writer.’2 In ar . FF i ,;'u ■ • 1bmldmg V as pkd.isophy 1?'” 7 ^ tkerinout of th. cm ’■ > J ’h bv those who approach the problem from the oppo­ se dmvliom ’ Ike critic in doubt or wanting the laculty probably imaginative, required in any fecund researvli, can always go to his subject armed‘with a theory, like a tailor with his tape measure. Freud's system probably will do for this poor chap as well as any other. 1 lowever, the man who can arrive al tree deductions from encountered facts will go lurthcr. Anya priori theory is misleading. We find that which we seek."5*' Pene du Bois s "free deductions" assumed an increasingly aristocratic cast as time progressed. Contrasting his dual personas, he observed “The writer is an aristocrat . . , the painter is a plain man. " I le came to detest the herds, the follow­ ers, the sheep. No friend of democracy, he ob­ served that “A republican state ruled by the will of the majority is ruled by the mediocrity." ■' N or was he sympathetic toward the precious, effete or contrived: Exotics are febrile sensitives who, with the taut nerves of invalids and eyes jaded by the commonplace, seek relief and amusement outside the familiar world. Perhaps they are men suffering spiritual and physical nostalgic. Intense, they are of no physical health, of no physical stature, fidgety people, bored, sophisticated and extravagant."'' Neither decadent nor virginal, republican nor intellectual, Guy Pene du Bois was a constant voice for honesty in art: "bad pictures are reflec­ tions of men every kit as muck as are the good pictures. Hypocritical or sanctimonious pictures are records of the men who created them. ' Be­ cause he accepted the heroic quality of modem life, he faulted those who turned away from life, His description of Toulouse-Lautrec could also be a portrait of Guy Pene du Bois, the artist as critic: “He would be impossible in the America ot �;.1J h’-ls* darlings who are as innocent or more innocent than 7 hackeray's Amelia, or Ficldiug’s for that matter. The artist and the man in this instance, as with Daumier and Forain, keep pace and are inseparable. The artist is not busy denying himself and life. His esthetics far from willfiJ are unavoidable. His morals? He has none. He is neither preacher nor modifier. Fie does not draw for children. He may he a critic. But behind his cruelty and malice there lurks a great fondness for life as it is, never a blinding sun to him, never a thing which one fa< faces from behind glasses darkened hy religion or nn morals orals in m order that its vitality will he dulled, along with its profundity and beauty."61 Looking back from an era when much writ­ ing about art appears arcane, convoluted and programmatic, Guy Pene du Bois' criticism seems clear, well written and honest. He still has much to teach us and deserves a reevaluation. 38. Guy Pene du Bois, “Art By the V r. ” < ' 48 G« tional Studio (July 1922): 340. 39. Guy Pene du Bois, “Guy Pe ne Ju E -••• ‘ rn‘.--»- j. tional Studio (June 1922): 245. 40. Pene du Bois, “Art by the Wav “ I - t ■, Studio July 1922): 340. 50 Pan 41. Guy Pene Ju Bois, “Art by the Xtuy ” In'.-? - a 51 lb. 1. I|.ppvb’U V i 'T--f 14.” a 1 tench h’ -’? in ji ■ j hl 42. The Eight, consisting of Robert Henri, L hrh-a.i William Glackens, Everett Shinn. Gc.-rge LuL-r Arthur B. 5?.. Ptfne Ju Him*, Davies, Ernest Lawsen, .mJ Maurice Brazil PniiJcr,: iteJ together in 1908 at the Macbeth Gallcric*. K’tud’o (Man.lt 1923); 549 1. For a comprehensive bibliography of Guy Pene uis’s see Betsy Lee Fahlman, “Guy Pene du Ju Bois’s writings Painter, Critic, Teacher,” Ph.D. dissertation, University Bois: of Delaware, 1981, pp. 228-251. This essay owes a great debt Art: The Symbolism Dedicated to the Future and the Real­ ism of the Present," Arts and Decoration (January 1915): U.S 2. See, for exampie, Guy Pine du Bois, “Refl ec­ tions of Men and Art," Arts and Decoration (June 25, 1920): 81-82, 118, and “The Barbaric Rouge Pot and Civilization," Arts and Decoration (August 1920): 149. 3. Guy Pine du Bois, “Art in America: A Rambling 18. ibid. Kunst [Classic Art j (1899), and Kunstgcschichthchc Grun 1 21. Pene du Bois, “ Fhe Spirit and the ClimnoL / 152. 22. Pene du Bois, "Dcspoti:is in an J Anarchy, p 97 American, between 1906 and 1912; (2) bis contributions to Hals, Goya, Manet . . . Renoir and George B. Luks r. Arts and Decoration from 1912 to 1921; (3) his monthly sent anarchy in art. In the other party are Durer, Rap! Le Brun, Ingres . . . Matisse, Arthur B. Davies, and 1924; and (4) his beelance writings from 1930 hiatus between 1924 and 1930 coincides with his stay in Key non Cox." 25. Pdne du Bois, “1 he Spirit and the Ch ronol France, which was terminated abruptly by ike stock market P- man Graphic Art: The Striking Difference between the 27. Ibid., p. 123. 28. Pene du Bois, “Jerome Myers," p. 90. 29. Guy Pfcne du Bois, “Art By the Wiy," Intema- The Spirit and the Chronology," 9. Ibid. 10. ibid., p. 153. 31. Pene du Bois, “Bold Freedom, 12. Pene du Bois, “Art in America, p. 107. 32. Guy Pene du Bois, “Official American Paint­ and Decoration (February 1916): 168. 14. Guy Pene du Bois, “Jerome Myers,” Art and Progress (January 1914): 92. 15. Pene du Bois, “Art in America,” p. 108. 16. Guy Pene du Bois, “Art By the Way: The Pass­ ing of Republican Painting," International Studio (Septem­ ber 1922): 534. 17. Guy P&ne du Bois, “Despotisi >m and Anarchy in p. 125. p- 81- In* Interna­ id Art,” pp36. Pene du Bois, “Reflections of Men ant Man: The Best Eyes in American Art,” Arts and Decoration Deli. •••. l\I" L'" - p 246. .ng J h. Pa 536. ' r,i l-unl- .• ,• ■ < r 1'' -iTtr! r, " Internal< ty . < 5 *)-53/ :>*;;]■ Intc'rr ih.-n ;■ t'’. r• , j u|p- (July 1914)- 154-355 "An Exj-r< ph n of JnJ. .• •bj ih’ty. The Gallatin ollrtlirin of (>r »pL* ■ Ari Aris and D-coral’m (IcL- inker Irtcmj* n i’ .ytudio -Hiker I ureij’n and Ancru an Pnnliiit • 11," li?'-, i;. tional ? b ,w at tb»: ( iric /rf/.-T.j* . r.j' oia ;. j (March r in.: pi‘r J urg), “ Aria and Decoration (May 25, I9/'O. 9. Y1, 44. 19231:547 549 . "Guy Pcti' du Bn; . Intemotior.s!ritudio (Juiia “Art hy thiAXay /riL-rrdf..-?’.z!^d>a (Miy 1923): 179 181. 1922): 242 24/) -----------“Jerome My< Internal:.'.na' Studia (July 1923): 349-352 ----- rah.-r. ruary 1916) 168 17 i Art ky the \X jy —------- “Art by the A n (Jmiwry 1915; 95 'i-; j |.J L<l»jl.«ti(iii« at the < .Jh rit t',r ’ ' -J‘i llnji , Aris ,md Ik \ . ». h?r, 181 ------- -— ‘Art by (hr ‘Aa- I t< > »l. • I uhm- -hi 1 lb»- h‘£Ji ,,, ArUandH i>r,ihL>n la -. "Art in America: A Pdink'iug i..J Informal '/iew. * -------- —. A^irsts Say tnc Sd!ie&t Things. New York: Ameri­ can Artists Group, 1940. ------------ . “The Barbaric Rouge Pot and Civilizab on. A.ris ------------ - “The Bold Freedo m of German Graphic A.rt: The striking Difference between the Present Tenden-.es of German and American Art." Arts and D&:oratian ‘r'erruaiy 1913): 123-126, 138. Guy Pene du Bois, “William Glackens, Normal (September 1914): 404. *1 -. -1 • f>0. Fvtu- Ju Boi . Art A h: Vir’i 3. 3. ’ p p 108 1U.H hl. Pane Ju Bi : -. "Art by the Wr; Internal Kindi SudwCOcb.ler !’)’.») 89 ]•> it- n ■ . and Decoration (August 1920):149- tiona! Studio (December 1922): 240. 81-82.3d. V-.y, Arts and Decoration (January 1918): 106-108. 34. Ibid. 35. Guy Pene du Bois, “Art by the Vlay, p;i 1921). 192. 19221:240 244. exhibition’s proceeds, jealousy, and personality clashes also ing," Aris and Decoration (March 1918): 203. 33. Pene du Bois, “Reflections of Men and Art, ..Hl I ’.rilin',p. .. \rt i \ the ' . i, " Interna- 5;i Guy P* lie >u HI! ■ r» "X iii’hr'p t hinhr ’I he Man .1 Normal 1 » eik." V' nJ M n (].<•:♦ vy 19221. 87 91. ---- Art by the Painters and Sculptors Squabble," Arts and Docoration (July played a part in his decision to resign from the Society. I /nfemah rj- . "Art by the tional Studio (July 1923): 350. 30. Guy Pene du Bois, “Exhibitions at the Galleries: 11. Ibid., p. 151. 13. Guy P&ne du Bois, “An Expression of Individu ality: The A. E. Gallatin Collection of Graphic Art,” Arts inK’ ------ 1914): 355. Financial irregularities in the handling of the p. 151. - . “Ari by the A i 19221.177 1913): 154. 7. Ibid. j i Ju Ih“Art Lv the Wi. 58. I'< Rrpubl -a, s.a.ul {ri,,h • i>n 5i. I’ll) Ju Hr,-. tV J,., (|, ||H. (July 1922): 345 34- Decoration (February 1913): 124. ogy of the Modem Movement, Arts and Decoration (March (New York: American Artists Group, 1940): 86. ’. ■’ B rb r' .< hugely cstif Mongrel Manhath Ian in In j • ■ _ Y rl- Farrar Slrauft /in J < «iri>u , 2. F G. ‘ ■_ h , I li: ■ Unit •. calling I Lun a I’ •'''b. imn . .1-. ntiFcd (-.• st t r> « ntali’.r < >f pt'pul *r. !• rabri ft.*, » ulturt 178. 26. Guy Pene du Bois, “The Bold Freedom of C er- Present Tendencies of German and American Art,” Arf- ird 6. Guy P£ne du Bois, Artists Say the Silliest Things ' Guv 1’0:". < I I '",! S'f;. m? (M.iy V-• Al* 1,9 rqurl, ».i a Br ’. j* >. i: : Pctn-du B. •?•, “Art I . . supplement his income while in France with periodic ar­ The Spirit and the Chronol­ ■ 7, ticles, be did very little writing for publication while abroad. 5. Guy P&ne du Bois, J>. [• LE< IED IIIIMCI 111 y columns for International Studio, written between crash in October 1929. Although he had intended to the her nsr of I .If a 23. ibid., p. 98. 24. ibid., p. 97. Pene du Bois continued: “Reinbn ■ (1) his tenure as a music and art critic for the New York 1922 and on. The ituurakk- optimistic __ in 1910 llif movie version, 'tarring Mary 17.'-' ■- . • • i “ >, a ir ,titd f-»r v«irn»ng iu 19.3). I \ u. J) I rrj H-n- hegriffe [Principles of Art History] (1915). Pen I'Ci.e ' i 1‘ 1 P 'Jyaima. an 1 >■ “AH In -A, p 81 .[til ri'ivr I . .1 19 I -J TJ‘, jnna. a novel and it* Baroch [Renaissance and Baroque] (1888), Die hlassiache and Informal View, "Arts and Decoration (January 1918):108. 4. Guy Pene du Bois’ essays fall into four periods: ll>:J , p. 515 i !• vrii year «JJ, fiK ce.« 20. Wolfflin’s major work* are Renaissance and P- 46 47. Ibid , p 517 19. ibid., p. 95. to Betsy Faklnian'fi pioneering work on Guy Pene du Bois. 8. P^ne du Bois, 54 44. Ibid Ibid , p 536. 1S.X j£u3j ><t, 53-Guv Pin; Ju Bt'ji Republican Painting," p. 535 45 : 8/kJv (Ju’v 1019 <15 43. Penc du B.-n , “zXrt by the Vtay: The Pi.-iug t; NOTES du I'. I, p 81. tionalStudio (October^ 1922): 88. —-------- . “Despotism and Anarchy in Art: I he *ymboiisni - Ari and Progress |J&r,ugry 1914). 89-94. ----- . "Officiul Aiu'.n- an {minting " Arts and Dscjrahon (March 1918). 2(H 203. ------- “Lefts *:o r._ of .Me:; and Art." Arts and Decoration (June 25. I92C :81-82, 118 ----------- . ^l inthrup Chin! r Lhe Man a Nurmal Evnric. * A.ris ar.d Decoration (January 1921j 192. _______ “The Spirit and the l.-hr -r'iLgy t f the M Aern Mcvemer-t," /Iris and iJecaralian t.M irch 1913): 151- 154, 178 _ ______ . "4,.': in: G.ackena, Normal Man: j he Beat Eyes in America." Arts and Decoration (September lc,14i 464-466. �Checklist cf the Exhibition 12. The Beach, 1924 1. Billhoard, 1920 ... 24. O-V.7-, oil on panel, 2d x 20 in. od on panel, triptych, each panel 20 x 15 in. Norfolk S outhem Corporation, Norfolk, Virginia sheldon Memorial Art Gallery, Montparnasse; 1 927 oil on canvas, 21 ’4 v U ■." 2.George Moore with Seated Woman F. M. Hall Collection (Former title: George Moore and Sarah 13. Isabel Bishop, 1924 25. Bernhardt), 1920 od on canvas, 48 x 36 in. od on panel. 20 .. x 25 oil on canvas, 19 x 2514 in. Arthur J. The Broolku Muscur* Smith College Museum of Art, and Edith S. Levin Promised Gift to the National M uicuin of Northampton, Massachusetts American Art, Smithsonian Institution 3. An American Oriental, 1921 14. Railroad Compartment, 1925 Los Angeles County Museum of Art panel, 21 x 18 in landa Lichtenberg Kaplan Mr and Mre. William Preston I larrison 15 oil oil on canvas, 20*/i»» x 25*/a in. Collection 4. At the Station, 1921 Helena Gunnancon Collection St iVtrrnburg, Florids od <»n panel, 21 u/r> x 18Vr in Oberlin College, Ohio Addison (lallery of Axneru an Art, 17. (9n the Bridge, 1926 oil on panel,22 a 18 in. Purchased with funds from New Hnhiti .Muaeum of Amrru an Art Helen M. Itnvle Bequest Harriet Ru*»eli Stanley Fund Heir ni Guzmanw^n Collection Helena Gunnanson Collection 19. li nt du Jour, 1926 on paper, 19 * x 16r & in oil on canvas, 20 x 25 in B'L.-r lY-i no Collection Marjorie and Charles Benton Collection 20. Subway Steps, 1926 The Wooden Soldier), 1922 od on panel, 25 x 20 in. Bowdoin College Museum of Ari Addison Gallery of American 21 Uomen s Locker Room, National Museum of American Art, ' :r / N . .■ J'Lr, 1928 M ir»e'. . Ana:r; «u Art IVn. 32. / '.eJ ■ . ir;?r 'A, 1928 Jooulu.,. 37 x 29 m Tdkm A C» *df*r Fund Aj.^nse C ■ L - r?. Sice, 1 3 ’• x 10 »in. Auettn P Kcdey CrHett. in Art. 34 Bal des (Juatru Arts, 1929 <il on ...n.-.’ja, 28. i x 36JZ: ui. 1 lie David and Alfred Crr.-irt Museum nf Gift of Fbter Adams, *52 Island, 1926 eW-f« 51 r.. :. r ind graphite -n pafxr, PlulLpa Academy 10. Shovel Hats, 1923 1928 -■ i I 1 A < I'/ A in L-inrur ■:. «i • <Jk turn 33 od on panel, 21 ’* x 171m Gift of Walter K. Gutman, ‘24 od on canvas, 20 x 1414 in. ,.14,11 '/i in ' u-L .. ., 11:-; -.t-.n-.r . uid M _i - .7:. < f Art watenuLjt; charcoal, and graphite Confercnce, 1922 title: JVjVttr V V watcnalr ami ink on pajx-r, 16 4 x 16 m 13% in. 9. The Life Soldier (Former ' - i ' «'! - u t *’■. 13.. T * x 18 in 18. Pans Cafe, 1926 8.Disarmament Con]ere nee/Peace ■' ; i Jm Knuyltuar, l')?7 ! ! San Diego Museum of Art 15 ax ■> 30. After iC Dale od on canvas, 24’. ■ x 32 in 7. The Coachman, 1922 r V> m. I’lidlipii Academy Gift of I ’ll*- it er 6. Chanticleer, 1922 Aojontj Return,na, VP; ■ <! on '.«iv.u, 25' Ire Gle Irr’ , 16. Gid Tying Her Shoe, 1926 19*2 x 14*/* in. Allen Memorial Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. Malcolm 1. McBride, 1948 oil on rain j... 1 V . x IQ m 23. fit,, 1927 J "n . ... .’!•/. x 18',Sin ‘ Art. li-rt UuJmlJe, 1-L.rJj Bequest of John Hinkle 5. In the Wings, 1921 oil on panel, S'njrr. 1027 26. Jfic Ak M. .■7x1 -t. '! I.). Collection oil on panel, 21 A * 18 in Museum of Fine Arts, Gift of die Charter Pal,- Knualuu GeUeriu Cafi Madrid (Ibrtratt of Mr. and watercolor on paper, 13 x 10’Zi in 57- 27 Mrs. Chester Dale), 1926 charcoal, ink, watercolor on paper, . University cf Nebraska-T -inert!n Coney od on canvas, 20 x 16 in. John P. Axelrod Collection * Art, The I diversity of cL-ago Gift of Wdliam Benton 35. Country Wzdding, 192i od ou canma, 36 z 29 in. Smithsonian Institution 22. Americans in Pans, 192i The Mauoogian Collection Gift of Sara Roby Foundation od on canvas, 281 * x 36J/a in. 36. Bather and Son, 1929 11. Studio on Lafayette Street, 192-3 (73 x 92.4 cm) The Museum of Modern Art, New York od an canvas, 21 x 18 inWmtney Museun of .Wrican Art od on panel, 1914 x 24% in. Bavly Art Museum of the University of Virginia Given anonymously, 1935 23. Girl at Montparnasse, 1927 PUrckase 37. He Art Of*™?, n.l watercolor and ink on paper. !□ x 1172 in­ Richard and Carol Levin Helen. G-^a®cr- Gilecboo _ ��� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1995 May 21 Guy Pene Du Bois: The Twenties at Home and Abroad Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Guy Pene DuBois Betsy Fahlman Stanley I. Grand Stanley I. Grand Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1995 May 21 - August 13 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Type The nature or genre of the resource N/A Subject The topic of the resource N/A https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/7649ed040d3ca51181e6a91dfa5a8fb2.pdf 74e62c02af2ae5573112af5a4ee36efd PDF Text Text ���������������������������������� https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/2c0d523a9dfeb104de75a3f570a3efa3.pdf 790f76241b4e79100754aad2115f29d5 PDF Text Text Hpiaiia 101 fei=® ffla i fe Si B S W i f ■/. - I ■ �BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL �BETWEEN HE Union Square I Exhibition curated by­ Stanley I Grand - 3 V ,ii> 5- Essays by James M. Dennis and Kathleen Stanley I Grand E.S.FARl WILKES WILKES- SORDONI ART GALLERY / W WILKES-BARRE, PENNSYLVANIA 35 Edith Nankivell Union Square, 1935 etching and aquatint, 91/; x 11 Collection ofJohn Beck Photograph by Professional Photographic Services JANUARY 21 THROUGH MARGE �BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL Union Square in the 1930s Exhibition curated by Stanley I Grand Essays by James M. Dennis and Kathleen M. Daniels Stanley I Grand I V i E.S. FARLEY LIBRARY WILKES UNIVERSITY WILKES-BARRE, PA SORDOMI ART GALLERY / WILKES UNIVERSITY WILKES-EARPE. PENNSYLVANIA JANUARY 2i THROUGH MARCH 3, 1996 ft IQUft Soidonl Ait Galluiy �A MODERN Isabel Bishop s Dante James M, Dermis University of i’7.< ■-r-.w-Af 'f/. ;i Kathleen M. DanieL College of St. Catherine 7V5 0 3 0 Wq 05 I ‘iCi* 6 Isabel Bishop Dante and Virgil in Union Square, 1932 oil on canvas, 27 x 52Va Collection of Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington Gift of the Friends of Art, 1971 Photograph courtesy Delaware Art Museum 4 17 Isabel Bishop Virgil and Dante in Union Square—Study, 1932 graphite, 13 x 26 Collection of Palmer Museum of An, The Pennsylvania State UniversityPhotograph courtesy Palmer Museum of Art A s AN “AmEXICAN-ScENE” z L Bishop is generally assoc Street School of the 1930s whit Kenneth Hayes Miller. Edward and Raphael Soyer. At first. Bi borhoed on Fourteenth Street logist Dr. Harold G. Wolff ip. subway from Riverdale to her the northwest corner of L’nioi etchings, and paintings contin (more often than men) who li shopped around this near-to-c Created two years before her r ing, indeed mystifying, of all I in Union Square (Cat. no. 6) c< contrived display of densely p shadowy silhouettes of the rot dozen figures distributed aero: front row of the crowd, repres would never during that perio Union Square en masse, with Virgil. Bishop's painting is th; qualify as a genre depiction o possibly a history painting in vernacular traditions. Rather, should be interpreted allegori Tenuous interpretations of upon a familiar New York Ci published, and Bishop herself personal reasons for the units Questions are raised but go u example, did she move the Gt trian statue from the south er around, and align it in the ce guests? In pondering such ma ■: 1996 James M Dennis and Kathl 5 �P inte in Union Square-Study, 1932 *26 ■f Palmer Museum of Art, vania State University courtesy Palmer Museum of Art A MODERN AMERICAN PURGATORY Isabel Bishop’s Dante and Virgil in Union Square, 1932 James M. Dennis University of Wisconsin-Madison Kathleen M. Daniels College ofSt. Catherine A s an “A.merican-Scene” urban realist, Isabel offer more precise hypotheses with regard to the painting’s 1\. Bishop is generally associated with the Fourteenth diverse allusions than have heretofore been attempted. Street School of the 1930s which included her teacher In pursuing a plausible explanation for Dante and Kenneth Hayes Miller, Edward Laning, Reginald Marsh, Virgil’s visit to a working-class gathering place suddenly and Raphael Soyer. At first, Bishop lived in the neigh­ crowded with fashionably dressed members of the borhood on Fourteenth Street; but after marrying neuro­ middle class, we will look into Bishop’s personal and logist Dr. Harold G. Wolff in 1934, she commuted by professional origins and review the changing conditions subway from Riverdale to her new studio overlooking of the square and its immediate surroundings as they relate or fail to relate to the painting. We will also the northwest comer of Union Square. Her drawings, compare and contrast Bishop’s stage-like depiction to etchings, and paintings continued to depict women other examples of her Union Square work and to (more often than men) who lived, loitered, worked, or shopped around this near-to-downtown Manhattan hub. relevant examples by her neighborhood colleagues. Most Created two years before her marriage, the most intrigu­ significant, we will consider how the painting represents ing, indeed mystifying, of all her works, Dante and Virgil her basic social beliefs, in particular her faith in the American ideal of upward mobility. in Union Square (Cat. no. 6) confronts a strangely Directly related to the latter consideration, it must be contrived display of densely packed people with the shadowy silhouettes of the robed, literary pair. Some two noted that Bishop lived a comfortable, apparently contented, and perhaps even complacent life throughout dozen figures distributed across the foreground as the the Great Depression and beyond, enjoying her privi­ front row of the crowd, represent a social class that leges without any apparent qualms. Therefore, simply to would never during that period have jammed into assume that Dante and Virgil are visiting a twentieth­ Union Square en masse, with or without Dante and century inferno, is, in view of her secure, optimistic Virgil Bishop’s painting is thereby unreal. It does not qualify as a genre depiction of ordinary activity nor is it outlook, misleading. In a 1976 interview with Cindy Nemser, Bishop stated unequivocally, “But the Square possibly a history painting in either the classical or the was not the Inferno to me. It was not hell; it was beauti­ vernacular traditions. Rather, its personal iconography ful.”1 Such a positive opinion complies with her confi­ should be interpreted allegorically. dence in an ongoing condition of social progress. Tenuous interpretations of this curious intrusion Accordingly, her many female figures “in motion,” as upon a familiar New York City setting have been opposed to relatively passive male figures, might be published, and Bishop herself suggested rather vague interpreted as signifying the assertive “New Woman” in personal reasons for the unusual nature of the painting. quest of equality. On the other hand, if viewed as Questions are raised but go unanswered. Why, for willingly submissive in expression, her office-girl example, did she move the George Washington eques­ portrayals by the mid-thirties represent young women trian statue from the south end of the square, turn it biding their time in the marriage market.2 While not a around, and align it in the center with the two mystery highway of guaranteed upward mobility, marriage was guests? In pondering such manipulations, we intend to the mapped-out route for most; and Bishop, newly married to a prosperous man herself, apparently had no argument with this custom, accepting it as a given in a t. ]996 James M. Dennis and Kathleen M. Daniels 5 Bb-rij’Vtw �On the other hand, her relationship with generally parallels that of Virgil to Dante: figures, some with fur collars and at least two with children, hold the front line of Dante andVirgil s carefully orchestrated Union Square. With such promi­ nence they could stand for the dreamed-of destination of Bishop’s hopeful young women working their way up. A number of parallels can be drawn between Isabel Bishop’s life up to 1932 and Dante and Virgil in Union Square. As outside observers, Dante and Virgil are clearly separated from the crowd of people that fills the square. When examining Bishop’s earlier years, one soon discovers a pattern of social separation to the point of seclusion. She too was an outsider looking on. The last bom of her parents’ five children, Bishop was thirteen years younger than the second of two sets of twins who preceded her. She grew up in a working-class district of Detroit on a street bordering a more affluent neighborhood. Her well-educated, intellectual parents turned their backs on their immediate neighbors and would not allow their youngest child to play with the children of the block. She watched them enviously from her windows, excluded: We were very isolated in Detroit and had almost no social life because although we didn’t have the money, we identified with the big houses on the next block. I wasn’t supposed to play with the children in my block, or be connected with them but wanted to be. I thought, “Oh, they have a warmer life than I do-they all know each other, and see each other and we are isolated.”4 She would continue to express this feeling as an artist depicting incidental activities viewed from her Manhat­ tan studio: I think my being drawn to the 14th Street people and my sympathetic fascination with them came partly out of my isolation as a child and my fascination with my block, although I didn't realize it myself until a long time after.5 Remembering her childhood generally as a state of lonely detachment, Bishop also spoke of painful estrangement especially from her mother: “I wanted to be special. I always wanted more than I got. I overheard her say one day she felt like a grandmother to me. I hated that. I wanted a mother.”6 The reference to Dante in the painting, as well as the statuesque coldness of its female figures, in particular the mother on the left side, might be associated with the frustration she suffered because of her mother’s lack of interest in her: All the years of my growing up, she was totally absorbed a,tlng Dante’1 ^nize now that she was living with the disappointment of wanting to be a writer and of never getting published. But I was so mixed up then. Eveiyone was trymg to do something to me, excent mv' mother. She was indifferent.’ * P ? 6 r ' My father adopted me as his special intere ■ ::. . family as divided into two groups, “we" and " J- Mother and my sisters and brothers were on >• and my father and I were on the other.’ In Dante’s Divine Comedy, Virgil joins Dant: j mentor, guide, and protector on a joumes throigh the afterlife. In real life, Dante, as a proto-Renaissance, classical humanist, had turned to Virgil’s writings in search of inspiration and a model for his own As Virgil had been of help to Dante, Bishop’s father was of constant assistance to her on many levels. Consequently despite her mother’s translation of Dante’s masterpiece, Bishop dedicated the painting to her father. It was scaled to hang over the fireplace mantle of her parents' house in White Plains, New York, where they lived from the time of his retirement as a teacher of Greek and Latin until his death.’ Following several years’ study at the Art Students League, completely financed by her father’s wealthy cousin, James Bishop Ford, Bishop settled into a studio­ residence at 9 West Fourteenth Street a year or so before the Stock Market crash. There she stayed until her marriage in 1934, when she moved her studio to 857 Broadway, catercomer from the northwest end of Union Square.10 By that time, with encouragement from her close friends Reginald Marsh and the painter-critic Guy P6ne du Bois, she had made a good start in overcoming the stilted, rather bulbous figural forms learned from her academic instructor, Kenneth Hayes Miller." Though she attributed her disciplined techniques and working habits to him, while possibly looking to the figural style of Edward Laning as well (Cat. no. 29 ), her drawings and etchings of this period foreshadow a personal style advanced by Dante and Virgil in Union Square. Without adopting a Robert Henri, “life over art’’ spontaneity once practiced by John Sloan and George Luks, its finished figures, while precisely contoured, do retain a slight painterly quality inherited from prepara­ tory studies (Cat. nos. 16, 17, and 18). The ironic display of highly prosperous-looking people on what had become a gathering place of depres­ sion-stricken workers may have been aimed at the artist’s parents, a kind of compensation in view of their inability to achieve the upper-middle-class status they envied, a common dilemma of secondary teachers and scholars. Historically, such a fantasy of economic elevation harks back to an earlier phase in the life of Union Square. During the second half of the nineteenth century, the Union Square district, especially Fourteenth Street, flourished as New’ York’s center of fashionable entertain­ ment and shopping, catering to, among others, the residents of mansions around the square. Built in 1854 15 Isabel Bishop Union Square Looking East, graphite, 6Lz * 9'.; Collection of Sordom Art Gift ofJudge Herbert W. J 16 Isabel Bishop Union Squa-e Lulling Ezi, graphite, 4 * 51; Courtesy ot DC Moore G Photograph by Profession 7 �cd, her relationship with her father ly parallels that of Virgil to Dante: ither adopted me as his special interest. He saw the y as divided into two groups, “we” and “they-.” er and my sisters and brothers were on one side, iv father and I were on the other.8 inte’s Divine Comedy, Virgil joins Dante as a guide, and protector on a journey through the . In real life, Dante, as a proto-Renaissance, humanist, had turned to Virgil’s writings in if inspiration and a model for his own. As Virgil n of help to Dante, Bishop’s father was of t assistance to her on many levels. Consequently, her mother’s translation of Dante’s masterpiece, dedicated the painting to her father. It was scaled over the fireplace mantle of her parents’ house e Plains, New York, where they lived from the his retirement as a teacher of Greek and Latin death.’ ving several years’ study at the Art Students completely financed by her father’s wealthy ames Bishop Ford, Bishop settled into a studio: at 9 West Fourteenth Street a year or so before k Market crash. There she stayed until her : in 1934, when she moved her studio to 857 y, catercomer from the northwest end of Union By that time, with encouragement from her mds Reginald Marsh and the painter-critic Guy Bois, she had made a good start in overcoming d, rather bulbous figural forms learned from emic instructor, Kenneth Hayes Miller.11 she attributed her disciplined techniques and habits to him, while possibly looking to the tyle of Edward Laning as well (Cat. no. 29 ), her and etchings of this period foreshadow a style advanced by Dante and Xlrgil in Union Vithout adopting a Robert Henri, “life over art” ■ity once practiced by John Sloan and George finished figures, while precisely contoured, do slight painterly quality inherited from prepara­ lies (Cat. nos. 16, 17, and 18). onic display of highly prosperous-looking n what had become a gathering place of depresken workers may have been aimed at the arents, a kind of compensation in view of their to achieve the upper-middle-class status they common dilemma of secondary teachers and Historically, such a fantasy of economic 1 harks back to an earlier phase in the life of quare. g the second half of the nineteenth century, the quare district, especially Fourteenth Street, id as New York’s center of fashionable entertaind shopping, catering to, among others, the of mansions around the square. Built in 1854 4- J . . M- * ■ iJ 15 Isabel Bishop Union Square Looking East, n.d. graphite, 6‘/r * 9'h Collection of Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes University Gift ofJudge Herbert W. Salus 16 Isabel Bishop Union Square Looking Edit, Study for Virgil and Dante, c. 1927 graphite, 4 ' yti Courtesy of DC Moore Gallery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Services 7 7 �/; .... on the south side of East Fourteenth, the Academy of Music hosted opera companies from abroad while plays were performed on the opposite side of the street at the living Place Theater and Tony Pastor’s theater. Tiffany s jewelry store and Brentano’s bookstore were well established on Union Square West by the Seventies; and the original Hearn s, Macy s, and 13. Allman and Company soon followed nearby as the city’s most elegant department stores. In keeping with the rapid growth cycle of an American urban economy, the heyday' was over by the turn of the century. Commercial buildings replaced the wealthy residences; most of the great stores had moved further uptown; and FourteenthStreet theater declined to vaudeville, then to burlesque, and finally to striptease. The predominance of garment­ industry sweatshops among the growing number of small manufacturers put a finishing touch on the general deterioration of the area as a residential neighborhood.12 Construction of new apartment buildings to the south, in what is now called the East Village, helped to revive the growth of retail businesses around Fourteenth Street and Broadway during the twenties. Hearn’s, still in its original location, led the way by expanding toward Fifth Avenue. Then the giant discount stores, Ohrbach’s and S. Klein’s, specializing in women’s wear and accesso­ ries, opened. In addition, a half-dozen banks, the Guardian Life Insurance Company, the Consolidated Edison Company, and several other major office buildings were erected by the end of the short-lived, post-World War I boom.13 The Crash of 1929 halted the progress. This was visible until the mid-1930s on Union Square itself. From 1928 until 1936, a major subway construction project, designed to unite Union Square Station on the Broad­ way line with the Fourteenth Street line, dragged on. It was necessary to raise the square some five feet or more and build a retaining wall around it in place of a nineteenth-century wrought-iron fence. With complete relandscaping, it seemed to take forever. Henry Kirke Brown’s equestrian statue of George Washington, completed in 1856, was moved from its original location at the intersection of Fourteenth Street and Fourth Avenue to face downtown on the exact center of the south end of the square, while his Lincoln statue of 1868 was taken from its traffic-ridden spot at Fourteenth and Broadway and relocated toward the north end of the square. Frederic-Auguste Bartholdi’s Lafayette statue, the first to be shifted from one place to another, was placed on the east side of the square looking across at S. Klein’s annex As indicated by the excavated area around Adolf von ^hTftHn Mothcrandr Children Foun,ain’ 1881. shown of^he /4/6°<;/Pai,ncn;g’ Du™g ,be ^nsion of the 14 h Street Subway Station (not in exhibition), Bishop lived through the changes, large and small However She bore little witness to them, drawing much £ “ ’eC' I*3*1" ,r°m F°Urteenth 8treet- In On th Street (Fourteenth Street), 1931 (Cat. no. 13), two aggressive 8 women dressed in white stride forward. she , shoulder, through a sidewalk group of , ing men.1* 1 he men of On the Street, in o >• five most prominent male figures opposite . Dante and Virgil in Union Square, are doubt ■ ing class, probably unemployed Their sullen discontent is as close as Bishop ever . . acknowledging the local gatherings that 1 ac increased in the form of unemployment d r , political rallies and protests against polic. brut Labor unions and the newly formed Comma'; U.S.A, shared May Day around and finally or. ■ of the square throughout the Depression. Though not an active participant in any <.t . events, Bishop could not have avoided being a* u~ them, especially after moving her studio tn )'U< th: marchers coming down Broadway and convergi-g at Union Square, the noise, the music, the chants and speeches. All of these she relished as a mam cc arse cf the neighborhood’s basic menu: I imagine I listened to the Third Internationa! ;rax morning until night. I watched the parade floats and heard the shouts to free Tom Mooney. My world i through my window. I look out of my window ar. • I fee! I’ve eaten/5 Individual body language rather than rhetoric, physical mobility rather than political movements and their ideologies, preoccupied Bishop from her years of life-drawing to the “walking” pictures toward the end of her career. “Earthy” female nudes in at nor poses or paired, young working women from the surrounding offices, attentive to each other's talk, represent her most intimate art.1* The majority of her men, Union Square idlers, “bums” she called them, appealed to her artist’s eye as a ragged fringe. So her sketch-to-painting responses to them, in works such as The Club (Cat. no. 4), were physically empathic rather than politically sympathetic. People have said to me “You must have been very socially conscious then because of the depression,” but I did not see it that way. I felt then, and still feel, that the* are aliens by temperament. I don’t say their economic disadvantages haven’t something to do with their condition but essentially they are persons who are eccentric. They are really hedonists. I got to know them as I had a series of them come up here. They would bring each other and they would take anything they could las their hands on.17 Close up and quiet, without intruding in detail upon the individual portrayed. Bishop approached men and women in essentially the same way. Though very similar in technique to Honore Daumier’s Th.rd Clan Carnap, c. 1862, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. her painting of bunched-up, coarsely clothed men at the base of the Washington equestrian statue in The Club1935 (Cat. no. 4) was not meant to expose a critical 26 Peter Hopkins Riot ar Union Sqiuy. Mi-.-t. .’930.1947 oil on canvas, 37 » 4S Collection of Museum of the City of New York Gift of the Artist Photograph courtesy Museum of the Ccv of Ne 9 �.. de forward, shoulder-to; side" ..Ik group of shabby, convershe men of Ctn Street, in contrast to the eminent male figures opposite the poets in rn;.7 in Union Square, are doubtlessly workobably unemployed. Their appearance of item is as close as Bishop ever came to ng the local gatherings that had recently the form of unemployment demonstrations, ies and protests against police brutality, is and the newly formed Communist Party d May Day around and finally on the park : throughout the Depression. ot an active participant in any of these >p could not have avoided being aware of ally after moving her studio in 1934: the tning down Broadway and converging at e, the noise, the music, the chants and of these she relished as a main course of hood’s basic menu: listened to the Third International from itil night I watched the parade floats and bouts to free Tom Mooney. My world is ■f window. I look out of my window and I feel body language rather than rhetoric, bilit}' rather than political movements and jes, preoccupied Bishop from her student drawing to the “walking" pictures toward er career. “Earthy” female nudes in action •ed, voung working women from the offices, attentive to each other’s talk, ■ most intimate art.16 The majority of her Square idlers, “bums" she called them, her artist’s eye as a ragged fringe. So her nting responses to them, in works such as at. no. 4), were physically empathic rather illy sympathetic. e said to me “You must have been very socially hen because of the depression,” but I did not vay. I felt then, and still feel, that these are unperamenL I don’t say their economic ;es haven’t something to do with their sut essentially they are persons who are They are really hedonists. I got to know them cries of them come up here. The;.' would bring and they would take anything they could lay i on." and quiet, without intruding in detail upon al portrayed, Bishop approached men and ssentially the same way. Though very similar : to Honore Daumier’s Third Class Carriage, he Metropolitan Museum of Art, her bunched-up, coarsely clothed men at the Washington equestrian statue in The Club, 10. 4) was not meant to expose a critical 26 Peter Hopkins Riot at Union Square, March 6, 1930, 1947 oil on canvas, 37 r 43 Collection of Museum of the City of New York Gift of the Artist Photograph courtesy Museum of the City of New York 9 �condition as an appeal to reform it.- Whatever rhe human dilemma might be, social, psychological, or (as is most likely) a combination of the two, the figures impart an aura of calm. A melancholy of endurance contrasts considerably to the obtrusive melodrama of Albert Halper’s descriptions of the raucous masses in is 1933 novel Union Square. With the first crack of daylight the parade of the Fourteenth Street beggars began. There were legless fellows; blind men who held onto small, faithful dogs; deformed, cleanly shaven fellows who wore army shirts and overseas hats to give a good “ex-service" effect ... The noise was terrific, everything was bedlam. Folks crossed the street against the traffic and were shouted at by our vigilant police. Everywhere you turned a vender shoved an object under your nose, yelling, screaming, urging you to buy.” Such raucous conditions find a substantial degree of confirmation in early 1930s works by Bishop’s colleague Reginald Marsh. Painted a year after Halper’s novel. Marsh’s In Fourteenth Street (not in exhibition) includes at least fivo pathetically handicapped men, one in the lower right-hand comer and the other in the left middleground. The latter, legless on the curb, seems to be screaming rather than merely begging for change, the crowd oblivious to his pleas. The other leans heavily on crutches, face somber, clothes disheveled in shocking contrast to the mannequin-like, blonde glamour girl nearest to him.20 While not as overtly critical in his imagery as Marsh, Raphael Soyer also sympathized with the down-and-out of Union Square and the Fourteenth Street area. The heads of three pathetic men dominate the lower right corner of the painting, In the City Park, 1934 (Cat. no. 43). The central man, a self-portrait of the artist wearing a cap, stares downward woefully. In front of him, a friend or stranger sleeps with his mouth open. Head fallen back, he cushions it with his left hand whose arm rests heavily on a twine-wrapped bundle. The third man, also sleeping or in a trance, leans forward with his jawsunk in a hand as thick-fingered as that of the fore­ ground. In the middleground, a newsboy, two women, and a man in shirtsleeves circle and turn toward the equestrian statue of Washington retreating on its high pedestal in the direction of Fourteenth Street buildings Several more men sit idly in the background.2' Bishop’s intolerance for such crisis content in Pontings biased her description of an exhibition of over 500 entries she judged in the mid-thirties. Highly skeptical of their subject matter, she wrote: “You'd think bus great country- was entirely composed of these little tmy [rrc] people living in slums.’22 C&Atc?atCdjj\the beSt °‘ her “bum” P‘ctures> upon Sim' {P™ly me"tioned), she looked Xh a uadh- T c lnhlbitints of Vni™ S^are esptially h d ?h ?r the Pitturc«Iue- Th< men y he aesthetic appeal of any crusty, highly textured forms. They could be rendered m . or pigment as “colorful.’’ as abstraction.—with . ...... mal concern for their physical, psydwlog ci; , condition: I’ve been interested in bums and s<> cn-■ r . interested because I could get then-,. They v- ?r, . , and they were very beautiful to dra--. were victims exactly, but that their lr.es were matter of choice.1* . Viewing poverty as picturesque prevailed :r. Futopean painting from the Early Renaissance the three shabby shepherds in Hugo van der Goes’ Portman Altarpiece tumble into the nativ v scene as a beautiful arabesque of down-to-earth reality. Religious iconography aside, a detached aesthetic attitude toward the poor continued to be assumed by many leading artists as diverse as Dtlrer, Hals, Rembrandt. Murillo, and Manet. In New York, Bishop’s predecessors in Henri’s circle of urban realists, espe< i illy George Luks, maintained a similar detachment in their attraction to the lower Manhattan poor, an aesthetic class conscious ness with little apparent intention of exposing social |||, The working people provided them a subject matter with an unspoiled, rough “edge,” as Luks termed it. Sounding essentially like Bishop in his attitude toward poverty, Luks considered the slums from an optimistic point of view characteristic ol the Progressive period, that is, as a refuge for the momentarily poor It is not in human nature to repose, passive and resistless, on the bottom. The result is that all hands go to work to puli themselves up out of their rut of poverty, and the dominant message of rhe slums becomes “We Strive." There are many other notes tn the song that the slums are singing, but that one expresses the prevailing spirit of it all. And that spirit bears fruition, too. The people do overcome their poverty and pass on into other spheres ” That a bum’s life was “largely a matter of choice" to Bishop clearly reflected a basic belief advanced by the Progressive period. Accordingly, poverty, at least for most white Americans, need only be a temporary condition. As social historian Robert Bremner con­ cluded in From the Depth.-: "In normal times Americans were accustomed to think of unemployment as exclu­ sively the problem of the inefficient and indolent. ~ In short, class mobility resulted from ambition and personal effort in a society of ostensible equal opportu­ nity. To be prosperous was a virtue, a sign of puritanical blessedness while poverty was a punishment for 'he deadly sin of sloth. Bishop's comments the subject simply repeats an American adage that a middle-class existence awat'-s _ anyone who strives for it "It’s something that s true or America. The people I paint are dearly defined as a- cj«But they i-e not be and to that class. There s tic tion to what they may do and no telling where they ■ *■ 18 Isabel Bishop Virgiland Dante in Un :r; : graphite, 6- i ■ 1Courtesy of DC Moore G; Photograph by Protessiona wind up.’ ’ 10 11 �>- . " could be rendered in graphite, ink, r;ent as "colorful,” as abstractions—with a minincem for their physical, psychological, or social on: ?een interested in bums and so on for years. I was ested because I could get them. They were available, hey were very beautiful to draw.... I didn’t feel they victims exactly, but that their lives were largely a :r of choice.23 i. ing poverty as picturesque prevailed in European g from the Early Renaissance. As early as 1476, :e shabby shepherds in Hugo van der Goes’ *i Altarpiece tumble into the nativity scene as a jl arabesque of down-to-earth reality. Religious aphy aside, a detached aesthetic attitude toward r continued to be assumed by many leading s diverse as DQrer, Hals, Rembrandt, Murillo, net. In New York, Bishop’s predecessors in circle of urban realists, especially George Luks, ned a similar detachment in their attraction to er Manhattan poor, an aesthetic class consciousfa little apparent intention of exposing social ills, rking people provided them a subject matter with oiled, rough “edge,” as Luks termed it. Sounding Uy like Bishop in his attitude toward poverty, nsidered the slums from an optimistic point of iracteristic of the Progressive period, that is, as a ar the momentarily poor: □t in human nature to repose, passive and resistless, : bottom. The result is that all hands go to work to temselves up out of their rut of poverty, and the lant message of the slums becomes “We Strive.” are many other notes in the song that the slums are g, but that one expresses the prevailing spirit of it id that spirit bears fruition, too. The people do >me their poverty and pass on into other spheres?4 a bum’s life was “largely a matter of choice” to dearly reflected a basic belief advanced by the ive period. Accordingly, poverty, at least for rite Americans, need only be a temporary n. As social historian Robert Bremner conn From the Depths-. “In normal times Americans ustomed to think of unemployment as exclue problem of the inefficient and indolent.”25 In ass mobility resulted from ambition and effort in a society of ostensible equal opportube prosperous was a virtue, a sign of puritanical ess while poverty was a punishment for the in of sloth. p s comments on the subject simply repeated an n adage that a middle-class existence awaits A'ho strives for it: “It’s something that’s true of . The people I paint are clearly defined as a class, are not bound to that class. There’s no limitariiat they may do and no telling where they may 18 Isabel Bishop Virgil and Dante in Union Square-3 Studies, 1932 graphite, f>'/i * 3'A Courtesy of DC Moore Gallery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Services 11 �J If individuals of the working poor wanted to move, Bishop believed they could "in a social sense. I was after mobility and I felt about these class-marked people that they were mobile in life, and that some of them did move. I’ve kept track dunng many years and some have moved in life. Others, of course, haven t, but an emphasis on this possibility seems to me a characteris­ tic of American life.27 While possible improvement of one’s class status might be read into Bishop’s paintings of young working women, Dame Fortune, or at least her rewards of advantageous choice in a mobile society, is allegorized in only one major work: Dante and Virgil in Union Square (Cat. no. 6). The Calvinist-Puritan doctrine that an outward show of inward grace awaits those predes­ tined few who profitably tend their earthly gardens equates with the well clad, obviously prosperous people who fill the lower third of the composition. All the women wear cloche hats, and most of them sport furcollared coats or separate fur pieces. Their outfits are in the style of the day, their skirts are fashionably knee­ length. They carry clutch purses and some packages. Except for the woman on the far right who seems to enjoy her conversation with a smiling male companion to the point of laughing out loud, the faces remain relatively expressionless. The fewer men are dressed in two- and three-piece suits, bow ties, neckties, and mostly fedora-type hats. While they engage in the same leisurely coming and going as the women, two of them, who stand to the right of center, appear to be discussing the strange looking pair in front of them. With the introduction of Dante and Virgil as supplementary subject matter, any literal “genre" meaning in the painting is replaced by'an obtuse, allegorical one. As critic Craig Owens, in reference to Benedetto Croce’s theory of allegory, explains: “Conceived as something added or superadded to the work after the fact, allegory will consequently be detachable from it... The allegorical supplement is not only an addition, but also a replacement. It takes the place of an earlier meaning, which is thereby either effaced or obscured.”28 Not only the foremost figures of Dante and Virgil SX ^l'Xh SPM,,”S ' outfit, a working" £ mfn J 7 ” a short red brown, his threewXrh ln dark baggy trousers hanging ove/l’ 8‘ng 3nd hlS his shoes. Unlike the other men ln their full-brim hats, he -- wears a cap, a sign of his 12 lower status. He too walks away from u> :■ direction converging with that of the wcr. would meet at a crowded point in front background structure: a weakly supper awning ambiguously located in front ot Square Savings Bank building. Ongiruliv ' . . relatively solid, freestanding, arched emr. no. 18), this final version casts a dark ova! against which three other capped heads apy.-ji ;r, -j,cjr triangular relationship, the two outcast figure .rjj vague destination serve as a subtle reminder h.. Un on Square is not easy street. Along with this token of impoverishment, the peculiar presence of Dante and Virgil causes Bishop’s painting to become something more (or less) than a “rose-tinted” view of an affluent shopping-center extension of Fourteenth Street. The meaning of this as a social statement must stem in part from her often repeated childhood memory of living on a borderline between prosperity and poverty. This region-Union Square-interests me in a way that 1 don't understand myself. I think it has to do with a deep association from the time of my childhood in Detroit, and there was a kind of appetite that I developed for the other direction, toward the slum region. It seemed warmer to me. It seemed more human, and 1 liked ii better, and yet I know that my family’s feeling was that we were only one street from the good section, they wished to associate themselves with the good section. There was conflict. I feel that may be part of the reason for my loving this Union Square region, which is a rather shabby business region of New York.1’ On the one hand. Bishop was attracted to Union Square and its neighborhood for the same reasons she had been attracted to the poor neighborhood back home in Detroit: its human warmth. On the other, she eased her conflict with her parents’ class-conscious envy by converting the square momentarily into a “good section" of affluence. This accommodation, combined with her belief in the American “boot-straps" myth of social mobility, lends a clue as to what aspect of the Divine Comedy Dante and Virgil’s New York visit most convincingly alludes and how this reference expresses her basic reaction to the worst years of the Depression. Dante, it must be remembered, takes the reader on a progressive tour of hell and purgatory with Virgil as his guide. Hell, or infemo, is divided into nine stages, each t different punishment befitting an earthly sin. The first stage, limbo, indefinitely confines the souls of the unbaptized and virtuous heathens. In contrast to Delacroix’s famo us painting. The Barque of Dante and Virgil Crossing the River Styx, 1822. based on an episode from Canto VIII of the Inferno.. Bishop’s rather benign scene of orderly people, snugly deposited on Union , Square, represents none of the specific stages of heli. She obviously did not intend to illustrate an) e1,c“ punishment and left possible association with Enuo. 2 Isabel Bishop At the .Voon Hour, c. 1932 tempera and pencil on composition board, 2: Collection of Museum of Fine Aits, Spnngfx James Philip Gray Collection Photograph courtesy Museum of Fine Arts 13 �T.s away from us in an oblique ■ith that of the woman. They led point in front of a peculiar a weakly supported, rounded seated in front of the Union uilding. Originally sketched as a nding, arched entranceway (Cat. on casts a dark oval shadow her capped heads appear. In their , the two outcast figures and their i as a subtle reminder that Union :n of impoverishment, the ante and Virgil causes Bishop’s mething more (or less) than a n affluent shopping-center h Street. The meaning of this as a stem in part from her oftenanory of living on a borderline 1 poverty. [uare-interests me in a way that I elf. I think it has to do with a deep ime of my childhood in Detroit, >f appetite that I developed for the d the slum region. It seemed ted more human, and I liked it that my family’s feeling was that ;t from the good section, they emselves with the good section, eel that may be part of the reason ion Square region, which is a rather I of New York.30 ishop was attracted to Union irhood for the same reasons she the poor neighborhood back home warmth. On the other, she eased >arents’ class-conscious envy by momentarily into a "good This accommodation, combined American “boot-straps” myth of a clue as to what aspect of the and Virgil’s New York visit most nd how this reference expresses he worst years of the Depression, tmembered, takes the reader on a II and purgatory with Virgil as his >, is divided into nine stages, each a befitting an earthly sin. The first :ely confines the souls of the ms heathens. In contrast to tinting, The Barque of Dante and r Styx, 1822, based on an episode ae Inferno, Bishop’s rather benign le, snugly deposited on Union ae of the specific stages of Dante’s d not intend to illustrate any given possible association with limbo, 2 Babel Bishop At the Noon Hour, c. 1932 tempera and pencil on composition board, 25 x 1 8'/h Collection of Museum of Fine Arts, Springfield, Massachusetts James Philip Gray Collection Photograph courtesy Museum of Fine Arts 13 �hell or purgatory open to interpretation. In a character­ istically understated manner, she claims only to ha enlisted Dante and his ancient guide to wrtness a multi­ plicity of souls.”3' She does not say they were lost or doomed and, in fact, seems to stress the setting rather than its occupants. In reading a literal translation of Dante, perhaps her mother’s, she discovered that his attachments to to descriptive passages matched her warm attachments the physical nature of Union Square. Dante’s Inferno, in this down-to-earth “unpoetical” translation, has to me a marvelous homely quality, almost a “genre” feeling in its reference to the definite, particular and concrete features of objects. They are thus given an every day character even in the midst of the fantastic underworld! This “genre" aspect connected in my mind with my feeling for Union Square, which I felt to be homely, ugly, and in that quality, lovable (instead of fearful) as the setting for hordes of human beings.12 Bishop’s reading of the Inferno ironically did not dwell on terror but on pleasant references. These related to her positive feelings for Union Square inversely conditioned by her memories of the marginal residential district in Detroit. In conformity with her parents’ preference for the well-to-do a block away, the “multiplicity of souls" is hardly a “genre” subject of working-class people in the traditional art-historical sense of the word. With two definite exceptions, this crowd was enlisted from the hordes of middle-class shoppers on Fourteenth Street. Furthermore, from their pant-legged appearance in the original pencil studies, even Dante and Virgil evolved from immediate pedestrian beginnings (Cat. no. 18). In the final preparatory drawing (Cat. no. 17) they face the east side of the square; and in the painting, the sun is to their backs, shining from the northwestern sky over their left shoulders. This would make the time of day mid-to-late afternoon, as indicated by the lengthening shadows. In contrast to the darkened foreground of Dante and Virgil and the cloud-filled, background sky, three clusters of buildings absorb the sunlight and shine forth. As in the early fourteenth-century Peaceful City from Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s fresco Allegoy of Good Government in the Sala della Pace of the Palazzo Pubblico in Siena, the radiant city of pristine surfaces reflects a civic ideal of prosperity, an ideologically blessed system, which in the United States promises upward mobility, his context, among others, needs to be considered in mterpretmg the meaning of Bishop’s Dante and Virgil in Union Square vis-i-vis the Divine Comedy. * The rush-hour velocity of rapid descent into what S“,r; f“"of 14 4 ™.T‘LX8„k,n facade is topped by three stacked balls. If onl , these could be read as attributes of Saint Nldvf • ' Myra, the patron saint of travelers as well a. ?, ‘. type for Santa Claus, a transfiguration m 1 ?!I , ' hoped for benefit and well-being.33 While praising the execution and “poetic . ■ ibi •, of Bishop’s early major painting as superior to an paintings by either Kenneth Hayes Miller or R;-Hnald Marsh, Helen Yglesias flirted with an interpretation of its Union Square as a contemporary hell- If the multiplicity of human souls on the square ate the sinners in a circle of hell, then hell is the ordinariness of daily living and tMhe “sinners” face their “lives of desperation” with a measure of patience, courage and dignity that overlays the scene with a strange calm.3* Lacking the dynamic sublimity or agonizing disrup­ tions of a convincing hell h la Delacroix, the final version of the painting, with its crowded quietude, contrasts with Bishop’s earliest painting bearing the name of the place. In Union Square During the Expansion of the 14th Street Subway Station, 1930 (not in exhibition), two men work around Von Donndorfs fountain of motherly love waist deep in dirt and debris, similar to the fifth stage of Dante’s hell where the wrathful sink into a mire. In a setting dark and barren, a wagon, retaining wall, some sheds, and a few more vaguely discernible figures blend into the bottom stories of tall, dark buildings receding down a side street. Foreboding, these provide no sense of security, not even a fire escape. Only the dusky golden sky and the isolated sculpture of a mother with her children offers relief in an otherwise desolate atmosphere. In the second and third small pencil sketches (Cat. no. 18) preliminary to the painting of Dante and Virgil in Union Square, the possible image of a crowd being drawn into a subway entrance as if siphoned into a nether­ world, might be related to the second stage of hell in which the souls of carnal sinners are continuously blown around by stormy winds. The subway train, in its dark subterranean tunnels, moves people here and there, day in, day out. However, as discussed earlier, Bishop abandoned the frenzy of these sketches in the final painting and settled on a quiescent arrangement of clearly delineated figures against a background of bright rectangular forms. Karl Lunde, in his brief 1975 monograph on Bishop, while intending to focus on the content of her work, avoided concrete conclusions concerning any of its particulars. He did, however, in asking the question , “What are Dante and Virgil doing on Union Square; hypothesize that a central theme of limbo began with their appearance before the staid city crowd and contin ued through several subsequent paintings. Who are the Strap Hangers being hurtled through the , underground? And what is the meaning of the cathe ra. complexity of the station shown in Under Union Sqaan- I 12 Isabel Bishop Noon Hour, 1935 etching, 7*5 Collection of Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes Univ Sordom/Myers Acquisition Fund Purchase Photograph by Professional Photographic Servii 15 �three stacked balls. If only golden, 1 as attributes of Saint Nicholas of aint of travelers as well as the proto­ ns, a transfiguration in keeping with ind well-being.33 he execution and “poetic ambiguity” lajor painting as superior to any Kenneth Hayes Miller or Reginald sias flirted with an interpretation of s a contemporary hell: of human souls on the square are the of hell, then hell is the ordinariness of the “sinners” face their “lives of a measure of patience, courage and ys the scene with a strange calm.'* tmic sublimity’ or agonizing disrupng hell a la Delacroix, the final ting, with its crowded quietude, op’s earliest painting bearing the In Union Square During tie Expansion 'raay Station, 1930 (not in exhibition), jnd Von Donndorfs fountain of t deep in din and debris, similar to ante’s hell where the wrathful sink tting dark and barren, a wagon, e sheds, and a few more vaguely alend into the bottom stories of tall, ding down a side street. Foreboding, nse of security, not even a fire escape, den sky and the isolated sculpture of children offers relief in an otherwise d third small pend! sketches (Cat. no. the painting of Dante and Virgil in ossible image of a crowd being drawn tnce as if siphoned into a netherated to the second stage of hell in carnal sinners are continuously tormy winds. The subway train, in its tunnels, moves people here and there, rwever, as discussed earlier, Bishop izj’ of these sketches in the final 1 on a quiescent arrangement of igures against a background of bright is brief 1975 monograph on Bishop, focus on the content of her work, onclusions concerning any of its , however, in asking rhe question nd Virgil doing on Union Square?” central theme of limbo began with efore the staid city crowd and continil subsequent paintings. Hangers being hurtled through the i what is the meaning of the cathedral station shown in Under Union Square"'. 12 Isabel Bishop Noon Hour, 1935 etching, 7*5 Collection of Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes University Sordoni/Myers Acquisition Fund Purchase Photograph by Professional Photographic Services 15 �,<W <■' jnv rsc»tar .0^ -"“■-KJ-'' f her 1 ' and no recr0 Ru?h '^the I"1’1”. ^fsh.n" r tin,rrl front ‘ and menj" £ and , return^ iS1* J referenv. here observed- ,WD> “"Sy «««■•* ‘ £S^^,iOTO s^.- m-ny M formal^ a ” action. That thts wa> existence, however, is quest' display of upward social n final composition evolved Square extended indefinite; figures to enter and exit at interpretation, this openin oriented composition coir an unfixed state of class d she completed this major mic animation of her coll be equated metaphorically advancement. This is cons retrospective references to I was conscious of their be fixed If I succeeded m ma senns°° J ‘hat Aey could t ense, this opened up a sui m Ude the ability of J Projectlhro. Ph°tenrU1 thj L'ni°n Square ^_ninetecn ' b0>’ and a b2P7tatle’ « SUrnrned up rh ^Unde, !n Raphael Soyer In the City Park, 1934 oil on canvas, 37% x 39% Private Collection Piiotograph by Michael Thomas hui ini °vemcnt,lnh7nv^on source The r ‘tan<e a/nr>ual ‘r"? >u B‘Shc, �Why is the painting so calm and still? Where are these people? They are in Union Square, in the subway, in life— and they are in limbo?5 He went so far as to apply his hypothesis to the “walking" paintings of the sixties and seventies in which “the figures are doing what the title denotes, but they are also transparent wraiths in a limbo where paths cross and recross and no one ever touches or meets anyone else.””' Ruth Weisberg, in her 1985 article on Isabel Bishop, reiterated the limbo interpretation of Dante and Virgil in Union Square. From its criss-cross ambling of women and men in front of shining high buildings Bishop returned "again and again to the limbo of the modem city and its shitting patterns of purposeful walkers.”37 In reference to the 1957-1958 Suhray Seme (not tn exhibi­ tion) Weisberg observed: "The overall transparency and fleeting, ghostly presence of people remind us again of Dante and his evocation of souls who wander timelessly in limbo."53 The evenly placed figures of Dante and Virgil in Union Square mark a point in her early career at which Bishop formalized a rather mechanical pattern of human inter­ action. That this was meant to express a limbo-like existence, however, is questionable in view of their sartorial display of upward social mobility. Furthermore, as its final composition evolved, Dante and Virgil in Union Square extended indefinitely on both sides, allowing figures to enter and exit at will. Very significant to our interpretation, this opening out of an otherwise centeroriented composition complements Bishop’s fixation on an unfixed state of class distinction. And, by the time she completed this major work the increasingly rhyth­ mic animation of her collective figures allowed itself to be equated metaphorically with self-assertive social advancement. This is consistently verified in her retrospective references to the growth of her figural style: I was conscious of their being class-marked, but not classfixed. If I succeeded in making them seem to the onlooker that they could rum and move in a physical sense, this opened up a subjective potential which could include the mobility of content.-' It was this potential that Bishop apparently wished to project through nineteen stage-front women in her 1932 Union Square spectacle, accompanied by seven men, a boy, and a baby. Lunde, in spite of his limbo contention, summed up this early interest in social mobility accurately when he wrote The single aspect of nature that most interests her is humankind in the environment of Union Square. People in movement, in transition, flux and change are the source of what she paints?' The central significance of mobility and change to a decade that saw an annual average of five million Americans move across state lines in search of economic betterment underlies Bishop’s maneuvering of Brown's equestrian George Washington. She moved the bronze monument from the south end of the square, reversed its direction, and placed it in the exact center of the composition, the horse's hindquarters and tail coincid­ ing with the middle contour of Dante and Virgil (Cat. no. 17). So relocated, it helps to fasten together the two most energetic zones of the painting: that of the milling people and that of the erratic tops of tall buildings. Both horizontal bands signify dynamic change, while the equestrian Washington provides a constant. As a historic icon, highlighted by the 1932 bicentennial of his birth, the grand commander of loosely organized colonial forces blesses the mass of twentieth-century people below with an outstretched hand, summoning them to repose as he did his motley troops. By the same token, he now gestures toward what had become the “ladies mile,” the fashionable Broadway shopping area above Union Square. For the immediate future prosperity assumed an uptown direction. Thus, far from seeing Union Square as a chaotic hell-like environment, Bishop took compositional and iconographic control of it To the left of center, exactly halfway between the George Washington and the mysterious, ill-defined awning, Bishop placed another statue on a high pedestal. In the final, squared-off pencil drawing (Cat. no. 17), the pedestal of the second statue closely resembles that of Bartholdi’s Lafayette (Cat. no. 14) which, in its original location, faced the equestrian Washington offering his sword of assistance. The elongated figure, the sketchiest detail of the drawing, however, indicates none of the swirling, baroque contrapposto of Bartholdi’s animated Lafayette. In the painting, the pedestal is clearly that of Brown’s Lincoln and while the figure remains obscure, its back turned to the observer, it stands straight and still in a Lincolnesque manner with an illuminated contour following the lines and proportions of the sculpture. If it is indeed the nation’s redeemer, his proximity to the father of the country would relate to Bishop’s basic theme of promise and fulfillment. Her major painting symbolizes a positive social transition, the progressive presumption of expansive economic upgrading. As described by John Hart, the biographer of novelist Albert Halper, Union Square, “in its honest and genuine concern for betterment, had always been American to the core ... the past forever being overthrown; the future forever being coaxed into existence. It is the vortex of change; it is America in transition.”41 Betterment becomes the allegorical theme of the painting as the modest, round-shouldered woman in a shawl and the brown-clad worker follow other receding figures toward the shadowy background entranceway detached from the front of a bank. In provocative contrast, two pairs of fashionably dressed, upper-class women flank him and step assertively into the fore­ ground. From Bishop's faith in an inevitable state of well-being, the six figures signal the beginning and end �of upward mobility. The same may be said of a left-toright progression of back-turning female figures, each bearing to the right. It starts with a woman carrying a child close behind the long-skirted one. Her pose is repeated by a figure placed in the middle of two curving lines, which appear to be streetcar tracks, that stop inexplicitly at the left toes of two flanking women. This third figure, in sketchy white apparel, seems in a state of transformation from her counterpart to the far left. The ultimate good life manifests itself in a fourth figure to the tar right which gravitates toward the sunny side of the street that opens up the distant buildings. She is dressed in a beautiful green coat and white fur shoulder piece. Her large-crowned yellow hat functions as the dot of an exclamation mark created by the bright vertical of the most radiant building facade in the block. Bishop expressed her confidence in progressive social mobility in the overall tonality of her painting. Its golden haze radiates optimism in distinction to the shadowy depths reached by the Depression in 1932, when forty percent of the work force was unemployed and the income of corporations had fallen from eleven billion dollars to two since late 1929.42 In this regard, at least one passage in Dante’s Purgatorio compares con­ vincingly with Bishop’s Dante and Virgil in Union Square. While hell knows no sun, it shines once again in purga­ tory and brings contentment. A stanza in Canto II reads: My master and I, and all that people around Who were with him, had faces so content, As if all else out of their thoughts were drowned.43 That Dante and Virgil on Union Square serves as a timely allusion to Dante’s Purgatorio is supported by Bishop’s basic meaning of mobility as “potential for change” and, in the progressive American sense, change for the better. Even in the midst of an economic depression, she viewed deprivation as a matter of choice and from a traditional laissez faire, liberal point of view, a matter of purgatorial expiation rooted in hope. As opposed to Lunde’s and Weisberg’s negative interpreta­ tions of Bishop’s painting as a Virgilran limbo, a theme of purgatory seems by all evidence to be more appropri­ ate to Dante and Virgil in Union Square. While limbo is an intermediate region between heaven and hell in which souls are confined and barred from entering heaven through no fault of their own, puigatory is a mohP?’^ Te Where S°U1S paUSe t0 where mobility is elevation. As stated by T. S. Eliot in his Dante. a\inditatcd in her Herbert Darwinist natural selection to economic growth. So loved by post-Civil War, American entrepreneurs. Sou, ■■ Darwinism meant that the evolution of capitalism, ki> free from state interference, could, in theory, “end only in the establishment of the greatest perfection and me':, complete happiness”45 for the very fittest of a modem society. Therein lies the original meaning of liberalism with its view of unlimited economic opportunity. The most enterprising among us rise to the top from the humblest beginnings. The acceleration of corporate consolidation in the new century had rendered this innocent version of the American dream outmoded, indeed archaic, by 1932—the Great Depression notwithstanding. Nevertheless, many still adhered to the belief-including Isabel Bishop. With faith in individualism, she would continue to look down upon failure from a conservative point of view. The marginal male members of society she witnessed on Union Square, not the system, were to blame for their own impoverishment. To her they were misfit bums who could succeed in rising above their miserable condition only through personality adjustment, not through social change. In order for Bishop’s “working girl” of the mid­ thirties to dream of becoming a well-dressed shopper, she had to behave herself on the job and wait patiently for either a rare promotion or a proposal of marriage. Self-redemption in one way or another releases the soul from purgatory to ascend toward heavenly existence. As evidenced by cautious analysis of the painting, augmented by Bishop’s guarded statements regarding its meaning, it is clear that she did not intend it to be either an inferno or a limbo. Eternal torture would hardly correspond with her attraction to bodily energy and her belief in its social equivalent: the American “bootstrap” theory that sustained self-assertion guarantees success. Curiously linked to Dante and Virgil, this American postulate allows that the painting is best interpreted as a modern purgatory. NOTES The authors thank Stanley Grand for his constructive observations. 1. Isabel Bishop, as quoted in Cindy Nemser, “Conversation with Isabel Bishop,” The Feminist Art Journal 5 (Spring 1976): 15. 2. In both her Ph.D. dissertation (“Gender, Occupation and Class in Paintings by the Fourteenth Street School, 1925 to 1940,” Stanford University, 1987, Chapter 5, “Isabel Bishop’s Deferential Office Girls,” pp. 282-322) and its rewritten and redefined book version {The “New Woman" Revised, Painting and Gender Politics on Fourteenth St’tet [Berkeley: University of California Press, 19’3], Chapter 7, “The^ Question of Difference: Isabel Bishop’s Deferential Office Girls, pp. 273-311), Ellen Wiley Todd thoroughly demonstrates that Bishop s conservative imaging of young female office workers conforms in type to demographic tables, statistical surveys, government reports, periodical studies, advice manuals, employment counselor publica­ tions, and employers’ demands. Bishop’s volunteer models reveal the deferential manners, modest clothing, make-up, and hair styles, expected ot the fledgling office girls whose “balanced behavior an proper attitude were essential to obtaining and retaining their low paying jobs. Promotion out of a stenographic pool to a secretarial position delineated their nariow road to success. Todd points out J 4 Isabel Bishop The Club. 1935 oil and tempera on canvas, 20»24 Private Collection �1g is af re r >t >f 1 I 'C. e e Darwinist natural selection to economic growth. So loved by post-Civil War, American entrepreneurs, Social Darwinism meant that the evolution of capitalism, left free from state interference, could, in theory, “end only in the establishment of the greatest perfection and most complete happiness”-15 for the very fittest of a modem society. Therein lies the original meaning of liberalism with its view of unlimited economic opportunity. The most enterprising among us rise to the top from the humblest beginnings. The acceleration of corporate consolidation in the new century had rendered this innocent version of the American dream outmoded, indeed archaic, by 1932-the Great Depression notwithstanding. Nevertheless, many still adhered to the belief-including Isabel Bishop. With faith in individualism, she would continue to look down upon failure from a conservative point of view. The marginal male members of society she witnessed on Union Square, not the system, were to blame for their own impoverishment. To her they were misfit bums who could succeed in rising above their miserable condition only through personality adjustment, not through social change. In order for Bishop’s “working girl” of the mid­ thirties to dream of becoming a well-dressed shopper, she had to behave herself on the job and wait patiently for either a rare promotion or a proposal of marriage. Self-redemption in one way or another releases the soul from purgatory to ascend toward heavenly existence. As evidenced by cautious analysis of the painting, augmented by Bishop’s guarded statements regarding its meaning, it is clear that she did not intend it to be either an inferno or a limbo. Eternal torture would hardly correspond with her attraction to bodily energy and her belief in its social equivalent: the American “bootstrap” theory that sustained self-assertion guarantees success. Curiously linked to Dante and Virgil, this American postulate allows that the painting is best interpreted as a modem purgatory. NOTES The authors thank Stanley Grand for his constructive observations. 1. Isabel Bishop, as quoted in Cindy Nemser, “Conversation with Isabel Bishop," The Feminist Art Journal 5 (Spring 1976): 15. 2. In both her Ph.D. dissertation (“Gender, Occupation and Class in Paintings by the Fourteenth Street School, 1925 to 1940,” Stanford University, 1987, Chapter 5, “Isabel Bishop’s Deferential Office Girls,’ pp. 282-322) and its rewritten and redefined book version (The Ara ll cmrn” Revised, Painting and Gender Politics on Fourteenth Street [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993], Chapter 7, “The Question of Difference Isabel Bishop’s Deferential Office Girls," pp. 2.3-311), Ellen Wiley Todd thoroughly demonstrates that Bishop’s conservative imaging of young female office workers conforms in type to demographic tables, statistical surveys, government reports, penodical studies, advice manuals, employment counselor publica­ tions, and employers’ demands. Bishop’s volunteer models reveal the e.erential manners, modest clothing, make-up, and hair styles expected of the fledgling office girls whose “balanced behavior” and Ptope* attitude were essential to obtaining and retaining their low,c'jS’7,on,ott°n out of a stenographic pool to a secretarial P -non eltneated then narrow road to success. Todd points out that 4 Isabel Bishop The Club, 1935 oil and tempera on canvas, 20 * 24 Private Collection 19 �....female tigutes man for socioeconomic g li;: .. Rizzoli, 1989]: 10)7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. 10. Seemap of Union Square artists’ studio locations in Todd, “A-IrUr-r.’e,'p.9L 11. Yglesias, Isabel Bump, p- 1212 Todd, TVfl» Wiwtair.'pp. 85-86. 13. Ibid., p. 87. 14. The etching served as the basis of On the Strut (Fourteenth Stntt'i, 1932 (private collection, not in exhibition). The women in both works retain a resemblance to the shopping women of Bishop’s 1927 painting, Hum's Department Slorc-Fourleenlb Stmt Shoppers (private collection, not in exhibition), which provided prototypal female figures for Dante and Virgil in Union Square. 15. Bishop, quoted by Fred Ferretti, “Artist Losing Her Window on the World," TheNer York Times, June 24,1978, p. 21. 16. See for example Homeward, 1951, which depicts two young women straphanging on the subway. 17. Bishop, quoted by C. Nemser, “Conversation,” p. 18. 18. The same may be said of the austere mother and sleeping child in WiiMg, 1938. 19. Albert Halper, Union Square, (New York: Literary Guild, 1933): 47-48. 21 in her discussion of this painting, Ellen Wiley Todd tends toward a hell analogy in the direction of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment: “At the center of a swirling maelstrom of lost souls, attracted to the temptations of 14th Street’s sidewalk commerce, the central hawker... assumes the pose of the judging Christ.” (Todd, “Gender," p. 66). Since the pose is reversed, however, he is trans­ formed “into a deceptive figure who raises his sinister left hand instead of his right and offers seduction instead of judgment.” (Ibid., pp. 66-67). Also see Todd “New Woman,"pp. 118,209-210. In both her dissertation and her book, Todd assumes that Marsh borrowed directly from Michelangelo’s Last Judgment in creating the hawker and crowd for In Fourteenth Street. The connection actually appears rather loose. For example, the raised left hand of the awkward-looking hawker touches forefinger to thumb, creating a tight circle far re. -.cred from the open right hand of Michelangelo’s muscular ■metK-lookmg Christ. In Marsh’s Holy Name Mission, 1931 (private •c”-'7»n. not in exhtbition), hungry men line up in the dark, their twe'Cfo ” Par7■"H>’ i."UminJ "dandbydcbris 'he l,ghtlit,crframthe insidc e Wo h f strc«s. His i, • ' 7^: M" e. <U Io,, of, JJ. Jnd s["d> 'd!'in?’ ln ',!,ns'W0 8 P0PUlj,10n the dX^Kt m ?::^934 ,no',n "bibi'io"). »«<« of ***» 20 stares at the viewer from beneath wrinkled brow. Next to him.m very center, a much younger man grasps his left hand in his lap.: lips parted and eyes wide open as if dumbstruck by his situation T .. third man in front holds onto a pair of crutches as he leans back an attempt to sleep. The others, to the rear, while slightly varied V their expressions, share a mood of despondency. Except for the partially highlighted faces, the painting is appropriately dark. 22. L. M. Starr, “Interview with Isabel Bishop,” The Oral Hi Research Office, Columbia University, 1956, Part 2, No. 16. 23. Bishop, quoted from an interview, March 18-19, 1974, with Sheldon Reich (Reich, Isabel Bisbop [Tucson: University of Arizona Museum of Art, 1974]: 25. 24. Luks, quoted by L. Baury, “The Message of Proletaire,” Bookman 34 (December 1911): 402. 25. Robert H. Bremner, From the Depths: The Disccroeiy oj P : :riy in the United States (New York: New York University Press, 1956): 14. 26. Bishop, quoted by Adelaide Kerr (“babel Bishop Paints Four Pictures a Year," Toledo Times, May 2, 1943). 27. Bishop, quoted from an interview, March 18-19, 1974, with Sheldon Reich (Isabel Bishop, p. 24). In general reference to Bishop’s depictions of “working girls,” the docent handout notes for Dante and Virgil tn Union Square at the Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington, reiterates the consensus: “She has also said that what she was trying to capture in her models was ‘mobility,’ not necessarily potential movement, but rather social mobility, the possibility that these people could do anything they wanted." 28. Craig Owens, “The Allegorical Impulse: Toward a Theory of Postmodernism,” October 12 (Spring 1980): 84. 29. This figure does not appear in the final, squared-off drawing of Dante and Virgil in Union Square but was added in the painting. 30. Bishop, quoted in Starr, “Interview," Part 2, No. 65. 31. Bishop, quoted in Yglesias, Isabel Bishop, p. 16. The full statement is: “I used Union Square as a subject, crowds, people, the multiplicity of souls. I was reading Dante then, in a very literal translation. It struck me as a good story. It was the idea of the multiplicity of souls that was enormously important to me." 32. Bishop, quoted \n American Painting and Sculpture (Wilm­ ington: Delaware Art Museum, 1975): 122. 33. George Ferguson, Signs and Symbols tn Christian Ari (New York: Oxford University Press, 1961): 135-136. 34. Yglesias, Isabel Bishop, p. 16, 35. Karl Lunde, Isabel Bishop (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1975): 17, 36. Ibid., p. 21. 37. Ruth Weisberg, “Webs of Movement and Feeling," Artreek 16 (March 9, 1985): 7. 38. Ibid. 39. Bishop, quoted by Reich (Isabel Bishop, p. 24). A year later, apparently unaware of Bishop’s consistent explanations of what she meant by “mobility,” the critic Lawrence Alloway, in an article entitled “Isabel Bishop, the Grand Manner and the Working Girl" (Art in America 63 [September 1975]: 63), saw Bishop’s figures as “embedded in their time” without the flexibility of moving beyond their inherited stations. He considered her attraction to the Fourteenth-Street "working girl, for example.” as a traditional upperclass view of laboring people. She depicted them as a continuation of Dutch peasant genre, uninhibited and robust He dismissed the implications of mobility, therefore, as spurious. In his opinion, Bishop valued her working girls because they represent a stratum ot tough, unchanging vitality. 40. Lunde, Isabel Bishop, p. 14. 41. John Hart. Albert Halper (Boston: Twayne, 19801: 45. 50. 42. Basil Rauch, The History oj the Neu Deal, 1933-193S (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons. l°e>3): 8. 43. Dante Alighieri, The Divine Corneas, translated by Laurence Binyon in 77v Portable Dante, (New York: Vikin;, 1963): 1’3. 41 T. S Eliot, Dante (London: Faber, 1930): 39-40. 15 Herbert Spencer, Fin/ Pmunples, 4th ed. (New York, u 1880g .'3'-' t'L XJfe..l. I 31 George Luks High Tide at Idkbota's, 1933 oil on board, 16 x 20 iCollection of Scrdoni Art Gallery. Wilkes University Gift of Helen Farr Sloan Photograph by Professional Photographic Services 21 �H ■ mu»h ■ I and c. man grasps his left hand in his lap, his open ifdumbstruck by his situation. The fror,t holds onto a pair of crutches as he leans back in • to sleep. The others, to the rear, while slightly varied in Lstons. share J mood ot despondency. Except for the flighted faces, rhe painting is appropriately dark. Starr, “Interview with Isabel Bishop,' The Oral History pffice, Columbia University, 1956, Part 2, No. 16. top, quoted from an interview, March 18-19, 1974, with rich (Reich, Isabel Bishop [Tucson: University of Arizona fArt, 1974]: 25. s, quoted by L. Saury, “t he Message of Proletaire,” >4 (December 1911): 402. >ert H. Bremner, From tbe Depths The Discovery ofPoverty in Slates (New York New York University’ Press. 1956): 14. iop, quoted by Adelaide Kerr ( Isabel Bishop Paints Four Year,’ Toledo Times, May 2.1943). hop. quoted from an interview, March 18-19, 1974, with .eich [IsabelBishop,p. 24). In general reference to Bishop’s I ; of “working girls," the docent handout notes for Dante in Union Square at the Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington, the consensus: “She has also said that what she was trying in her models was ‘mobility,’ not necessarily potential t. but rather social mobility, the possibility that these old do anything they wanted.’ rig Owens, “The Allegorical Impulse: Toward a Theory of mism,” Odokr 12 (Spring 1980): 84. is figure does not appear in the final, squared-off drawing of i Virgil in Union Square but was added in the painting. hop, quoted in Starr, ‘Interview,* Part 2, No. 65. (hop, quoted in Yglesias, Isabel Bishop, p. 16. The full : is: “I used Union Square as a subject, crowds, people, the ity of souls. I was reading Dante then, in a very literal m. It struck me as a good story. It was the idea of the tty of souls that was enormously important to me.” (hop, quoted in Amerian Painting and Sculpture (Wilm(elaware Art Museum, 1975): 122. orge Ferguson, Signs and Symbols in Christian Art (New York: Iniversity Press, 1961): 135-136. ,lesias, Isabel Bisbcf, p. 16. irl Lunde, Isabel Bishop (New York: Hany N. .Abrams, 1975k 17 ii,p. 21. rth ’Xeisbag, “Webs of Movement and FaHinzf Arttneek 16 ', 1985): 7. id. shop, quoted by Reich [Isabel Bishop. p. 24). A year later, tycncaare of Bishop’s consistent explanations of what she r “mobility," the cntic Lawrence Alloway, in an article Isabel Buhcp, the Grand Manner and the Working Giri” •trcns 63 [September 15751: bi), saw Bishop’s figures as ed in thetr rime" wiaout the ffexftirfity of moving bevond rated stations. He considered her attraction to the .rT ■‘WOtkin??ri. for example," as a traditional upper‘ laboring people She depicted them as a continuation of «ant genre, uninhibited and robust. He dismissed the nsof[mobility, therefore, as spurious. In his opinion, nshtngirgXlmy gIrlS rCpKS“t " °f -nde./arWB^j. 14. ': • ,Eoston: Twayne, 1980g 45. 50. tnam^ Sons. ’9^7 B> l933~I93S YOrlL' a - Etor itrben^ ^f7\^Cyo7v unSbted LaUrcn“ Z?™ ’930/ ”t!E&JM0 i9«>fi9G^4lhed lN;wYork,c. lg80);530. Collection of Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes University Gift of Helen Farr Sloan Photograph by Professional Photographic Services �UNION SQUARE’S ICON OF FREEDOM Stanley I Grand Wilkes University ■ '' Ur November 25, 1783, a contemporary observer s \_y watched General George Washington lead his t “weather-beaten and forlorn”1 troops into New York City. As Washington approached from the north, a ' 1 welcoming delegation gathered at “The Forks,” a spot where Old Bloomingdale Road (now Broadway) and Battery Road (once part of the Boston Post Road, now Fourth Avenue) met. Earlier in the day, General Sir Guy Carelton had evacuated the remaining British garrison onto ships anchored in the East River. The war for American independence was won. Since that November day, the area once known as The Forks, then as Union Place, and finally Union Square, has been associated with the concept of freedom. How this tradition evolved over two centuries will be traced in this essay by considering the physical development of the area, examining the iconography of the major public artworks sited on the square, and exploring the social history associated with the square. HISTORY OF THE SQUARE 40 John Sloan Fourteenth Street, The Wigwam, 1928 etching, 9’/< * 7 Collection of Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington Gift of Helen Farr Sloan Photograph < ourtesy Delaware Art Museum Long before Captain Verrazano and the crew of the Dauphine became the first Europeans to sight Manhattan in the spring of 1524/ the area destined to become Union Square was a sand hill in the middle of the heavily forested island, populated by Algonquins of the Wappinger Confederacy? Almost a hundred years passed between Verrazano’s sighting and the arrival of the first white settlers, primarily French, in 1623, aboard the Netherlands which belonged to the Dutch West India Company. For safety reasons these settlers decided to establish a trading post on Governor's Island, a small parcel of land off the southern tip of Manhattan. Three years later, on May 4, 1626, Peter Minuit, the Director General of the Dutch province of New Netherland. assembled the local Indian chiefs, distributed among them 60 guilders worth of beads, cloth, hatchets, and 23 �UNION SQUARE’S ICONOGRAPHY OF FREEDOM Stanley I Grand I! ■ i November 25, 1783, a contemporary observer watched General George Washington lead his “weather-beaten and forlorn”1 troops into New York Qty. As Washington approached from the north, a welcoming delegation gathered at “The Forks,” a spot where Old Bloomingdale Road (now Broadway) and Battery Road (once part of the Boston Post Road, now Fourth Avenue) met. Earlier in the day, General Sir Guy Carelton had evacuated the remaining British garrison onto ships anchored in the East River. The war for American independence was won. Since that November day, the area once known as The Forks, then as Union Place, and finally Union Square, has been associated with the concept of freedom. How this tradition evolved over two centuries will be traced in this essay by considering the physical development of the area, examining the iconography of the major public artworks sited on the square, and exploring the social history associated with the square. HISTORY OF THE SQUARE Lt. .c before Captain Verrazano and the crew of the Dauphine became the first Europeans to sight Manhattan spring of 1524,2 the area destined to become cr; Square was a sand hill in the middle of the . tc’-fy tor-;,island, populated by Algonquins of the Wzpp ' y/.-r Confederacy.3 Almost a hundred years passed L • r Verra/ano's sighting and the arrival of the first ■/j'i'-r... primarily French, in 1623, aboard the New Nt'ktrland, which belonged to the Dutch West India Company. For afety reasons these settlers decided to •U i trading post on Governor’s Island, a small P<.n.' • o( land off the southern tip of Manhattan. Ihree year- Dor. on May 4, 16/6, I’etet Minuit, the Director ( of the Dutch ptovince of New Nel het land, d 'he local Indian chief,, distributed among 'Item 6 guilders worth of Dads, doth, hatchels, and 23 similar articles, and thereby purchased Manhattan for the equivalent of approximately forty dollars.4 Over the next 175 years, the future Union Square was deforested, farmed, and used as a potter’s field. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, as New York City continued to grow and expand northward, the state legislature realized that a plan was necessary to avoid the chaotic jumble of streets, lanes, and alleys characteristic of lower Manhattan and Greenwich Village. In 1807 the legislators empowered a commis­ sion, consisting of Gouvemeur Morris, Simeon De Witt, and John Rutherford, to draw up a comprehensive city plan for the area north of Fourteenth Street. In the prior year, 1806, it had been decided that Broadway should proceed due north, commencing at Tenth Street, which required the thoroughfare to make an acute angled bend to the west. Now, to obviate the maladroit intersection of Broadway and Bowery Road,5 the commissioners decided in 1811 to create Union Place since “the Union of so many large Roads demands space for the Security and convenience and the morsels into which it would be cut by continuing across it the several Streets and Avenues would be of little use or value.”6 A year later, in 1812, a Common Council committee became anxious over the “very heavy and unnecessary expense” and recommended that the square be “discontinued.”’ The Legislature ignored the recommendation although it did reduce the size of the square in 1815. By 1831 members of the Common Council had become concerned that the square was neither adequate in size nor pleasing in form. They petitioned the Legislature to reconfigure the “shapeless and ill-looking place, devoid of symmetry.”3 This was accomplished in 1832. and Union Place became Union Square.’ In the following year, the authorities ordered the existing “buildings and incumbrances" razed and the hill itself “graduated [graded] to the city level.""’ The ideal of civic well-being was dramatically symbol­ ized by the Croton Fountain in the center of the �going strong, if boisterously, according to . uks’s High Tide at Ltichow’s (Cat. no. 31). i the city city .had ,1, century,r the hau 1 -suited front bp? nd cholera (1832*"a, y in 1835, voters appr MhUi water supply nalh. from the water from the 'icfe.endunr to suppl) County.. The plan involve involved aqueduct. Th 1 he Ooton River in %nslrUcting an aqueduct damming the "vcr J^ricd the water across the Ha Harlem High Budge, whuh ca aqueduct in the R°ma Rivet, was justly held Acqua Felice of 15 sense, worthy of Pope S‘«us to France ... as at the those wondrous ru,"s -u On July 5,1842, the city Font du Gard near Nim Croton disputing celebrated the a e built in the Egyptian nu > reservoir, a great s HiU at Forty-Second S Which cTXe 'Although the Union Square founand Fifth Avenue Ah cau d by tain symbolized f d Templeton Strong wa imPUTXd ShorS"fter its inauguration he described middle, and nothing more.A “squirt” or not, the fountain was the focal p of • away on Irving nauc. nwiuj culture” were to be found: On Fifteenth Street was the Century Club, with the Union League Club not far away on another border of the Square. The Metropolitan Museum of Artsfirst home was on Fourteenth Street, the New-York H’s‘orl^al Society was just to the east on Second Avenue, while the Astor Library, the New York Society Library, and New York University were just to the south. To the west was fashionable Fifth Avenue, and just off the northeast comer was Gramercy Park, the city’s most elegant neighborhood.15 As early as 1860, however, the neighborhood had ’begun to change ' o: as commercial enterprises increasingly apP“rQed’ * ’ the ' area. T The transformation ,„.i was complete ----- -3e„Ch.Urcl? °f ?e, P?ntans> built scarcely twenty years earlier, was demolished to make way for the cast-iron Tiffany Building (subsequently the Amalgam­ ated Bank Building) at 11-15 Union Square West. In addition to Tiffany’s jewelry store and Brentano’s Literary Emporium, both of which fronted the western side of the square, other prestigious retailers, such as Vantine’s, whiih specialized in Oriental goods, and and station .™ Gorham's, known for its silver ..and stationary, co: ^competed for the patronage of the carriage trade."1 Catering primarily to a female client,il, Hearn’s, which opened its Fourteenth Street store in 1879, was known for its ■•I" tion of women's apparel. Residents and shoppers <ould dine nearby at Delmonico’s or Ltichow’s (estab­ lished 1882); a half .enttiry later, the latter was still 24 oniy did legitimate theaters appear, but, after ]%9 as welL In 1881> T Pastor opened his % (vaudevillc theater-offering wholesome family entertainment_in Tammany Hall. This landmark building, which John Sloan depicted in Fourteenth Street, ne Wigwam (Cat. no. 40) housed the Tammany Society 9 when lt moved lnt0 new headquarters on un^ Seventeenth Street and Ur-on Tammany Hall, a classically inspired building with a sunnounting four columns in the WaJdo parish’s Unton Square Rally (Cat no. 36). by Steinway and Sons in 1853, almost a dozen piano UdJ man well<rafted instruments. At this time, as bus Thomas^ co^plexity” of New York.18 Not only was “the Square... ^“fountain as “a circular basin with a squirt in th to most rrfuoubk resitalial tarto«uh. 1 "“Y8 ”'h .. the home of theaters, hotels, restaurants, department Broadway . .. the Square was also [by the to pkcc of bo[hwork and play for to.orki, and....................... immigrant classes of New York.”19 By the 1920s, the square had become a major shop­ ping center: “According to some accounts, stores sold more women’s apparel in one day on Union Square than in any other place in the country.”20 Symbolizing the change from Rialto to emporium is Samuel Klein’s purchase in 1924 of Steinway Hall, which he tore down and replaced with a seven-story department store that catered to the lower-class bargain shopper. The growth of S. Klein’s proceeded rapidly—in the thirties he was able to open a more upscale annex—and the signs adorning his shops appear in many works including Eugene C. Fitsch’s Unemployed Union Square (Cat. no. 23) and Union Square (Cat. no. 24). The legions of women shoppers who frequented the square became the subjects of works such as Kenneth Hayes Miller’s Leaving the Shop (Cat. no. 34) or Mary Fife’s Two Women with Children Crossing 'the Street'fCzt. no. 21). Over the years, Union Square itself underwent major changes. The square has assumed different shapes from ellipsoid of the 1840s to the present shield-like form. Architecturally, unlike the Place Vosage in Paris. Union Square is an eclectic mix of period styles: the aforemen­ tioned cast iron Tiffany Building, the Romanesque Lincoln Building (1889, 1 Union Square VCest),-' the SpanishMoorish Union Building (1893, 33 Union Square West), and a bit later, the Classical Revival Union Square Savings Bank (1907, now American Savings Bank, 20-22 Union Square bast). Not all critics find this variety pleasing. Richard Sennett, tor example, decries the “mechanka quotations of Renaissance and Baroque architectura. forms adding that “you don't recover the spirit of the 34 Kenneth Hayes Miller Leaving the Shop, 1929 etching, 7’s * 97. Courtesy of Susan Teller Gallery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Service 25 �.-oucy according to Georg < < (Cat. no. 31). ynion Square neighborhood was the district (known as The Rialto).17 ire theaters appear, but, after 1869, 1881, Tony Pastor opened his rater—offering wholesome family nmany Hail. This landmark Sloan depicted in Fourteenth Street, 40) housed the Tammany Society aved into new headquarters on the mth Street and Union Square East, classically inspired building with a four columns in the center, appears ; Union Square Rally (Cat. no. 3c?. ans in 1853. almost a dozen pier, supply the growing theatrical cd instruments. A: this rime. as served. Union Square, “mere than dty... represented... the cultural >rki! Not only was “the Square ... hotels, restaurants, department .. the Square was also [by the h work and piay for the working at New York."1 ■ [uare had become a maier shopig to some accounts, stores sold i in one day on Union Square than the country."--’ Symbolizing the emporium is Samuel Klein’s teinway Hall, which he tore down ven-story department store that ass bargain shopper. The growth or ipidiy—in the thirties he was able le annex—and the signs adorning any works including Eugene C tun Square (Cat. no. 23; arid . 24). The legions of women ted the square became the s-J: jeers ueth Hayes Miller s Zaut .yg 'U Mary Fife’s Tao 'Xvrr.m -a t1!ki (Cat no. 11). ion Square itself underwent ma;or as assumed different shapes from to the present shield-like forme the Place Vosage in Pari-. Union nix of period styles: the aforemeny Building, the Romanesque Li.-.. ', n ion Square West)/1 the Span, ri­ ling (1893. 33 Union Square WL- c ■ssical Revival Union Square Savingrican Savings Bank, 20-22 Union critics find this variety pleasing , example, decries the “mechanic.!* stance and Baroque architec :ural ou don’t recover the spirit ot the - J,' -4 Kri i.r'u Ha;.-, Miller G« .4/ tie '.(■ ■;/, J 929 «■ ■;.;!•.•■, T. . ‘ »'/. jr> klier Gallery. U< w York r'-'.ioj-r.-j.h I,-; Profn-.iorial Photographic Servius 25 �tion) depicts the work m pr 8 statues were the Washington, Linco m Linej wo blocks to relocated. Work on th vided the subject of the west of Union Squa e, gojided 2g) Charles Kellers Open Cu changes. Morns Not all artists, howe , a nostalgic Kantor, for exampl , recently, the Farewell to during the 1980s. square underwent a major found a home inSsquare. Works‘ Lincoln, Lafayette^ and Gandhi g been Charity and the DeclarationHussion given by well-meaning citizens. will demonstrate that the idea o disparate monuments. Iinites these ree THE MAJOR ARTISTIC MONUMENTS TO FREEDOM The first statue to be sited at Union Square was the large bronze equestrian George Washington (1852-1856) created by Henry Kirke Brown (1814-1886) assisted by John Quincy Adams Ward (1830-1910).23 Prior to receiving the commission, Brown executed a plaster model, which was subsequently cast in bronze (Cat. no. 19). Not only was this the “first statue ornamenting a public site erected in New York since that day [Novem­ ber 25, 1783],”24 but was, as well, the only public statue of Washington then to be found in the city. Brown based Washington’s face on Houdon’s bust portrait, which the French artist had created from life.25 Richard Upjohn (1802-1878) designed the austere, fourteen-foot granite pedestal. The statue was presented to the nation on July 4, 1856, by a number of wealthy New Yorkers, who-under the leadership of Colonel James Lee-had raised $30,000 to pay for it.26 According to one author­ ity, the statue was located “on the very spot” where the citizemy had “received” Washington and his army.22 As originally installed, therefore, the statue would have thThorse’s ^mple^^Vd^6115 e^evate<^ v'ew ............ * , whose quaint .............. ........ has ridden from out the horrors of war hi ■! - r, ., only for its ends of justice, calmly re-i; y,.-- , j steed amidst the acclamations of victories ■’ assured liberty, his sword, ever wielded with tempered by mercy, is firmly sheathed no-l0t','‘ again, for his country’s foes are vanqui- Led and he?11 no other; his broad, benign brow is bare in acknotvld? ment of our unanimous love; and, as he passes on f the great past of his glorious deeds into the great which will develop the stupendous destinies of the nation, whose life he inaugurated, his hand is stretched forth, with grave gesture, not more in promise to iuti loyalty than in deprecation of the... treason that would ™ imperil our vital unity by goading the silkness of sectional jealousy into the blind fury of fratricidal hate* Continuing on this theme by leaders comparing the (Fabius accoir. plishments ot wasmngton witn ancient plishments of Washington with leaders ancient (Fabius Cat0> Scipio Africanus, Epamnondas, Cincinnatus) and modern (Cromwell and Napoleon), Bethune concluded that “Washington alone has the honor of bavins established established free free principles principles and and perpetuated perpetuated his his work work””»31 Yet he cautioned that those very principles were in danger and pleaded to God, who gave him, keep that life in us! for, when that spirit is lost, when our elements revolt from their oneness, and, like the maniac among the tombs, whose devils were Legion, we cut and tear ourselves, this fair confederacy will soon lie beneath the heavens the most mangled, loathsomest coipse that ever polluted the breath of humanity with its putrification. Some of the devils are in us now.31 In sum, Dr. Bethune’s words, uttered before a vast gathering and transmitted to an even greater audience on the following day when the entire speech appeared on the front page of the New York Evening Times, urged the return to the ideals associated with the founding of the Republic and served, further, as a tocsin against the gathering storm of sectional conflict that was to erupt four years later in 1860. Brown’s George Washington joined a long parade of monumental equestrian civic monuments celebrating military victors. At the head of this tradition is the second century a.d. bronze Marcus Aurelius, whkh ______________ Bethune indirectly _______ evoked bv, picturing ashington ’ ■ to rule. ’ Mateus "ascending the Capitoline height Aurelius, the humanist Roman emperor whose dC tions encapsulate concisely the stoic ideal, repn>en^ many Plato’s philosopher king. With the devnne c Roman Empire, however, the ability and ne'-e“j, w produce large bronzes of this type faded ano t -3 do so were lost. Although works such as th.s^n’.er, Bamberg Rider (late thirteenth century. Bam M many) were occasionally carved tor jrc'li,cU?.r’. ven i’f it was not until the Renaissance when the r ■ ,, lost casting techniques, revived interest in t e growing cult of fame, and economic prosper!. 19 Henn' Kirke Brown General George Wasbhtgfon on He bronze model, 37' > x 42‘i x 12' Collection of Yale University Al Civen in Memory of Edmund I and Eliphalet Bradford Ter Photograph courtesy Yale Unive �has ;6. in ibilign. cs to 28). ris , the me :n. 1 been reion ese he by no. a emitue i hard foot non trs, ad borthe r As e» of ie MOI mg A hi,: re. • ! = out the horrors of war his heart endur-a only for ends of justice, calmly restraining his proud ‘ steed amidst the reclamations of victorious peace ar. a assured liberty, hrs sword, ever wielded with strength tempered by mercy, is finely sheathed not to drawn again, for his country's foes are vanquished and he knew no other; his broad, benign brow ts bare in a,knowh ^ -= ment of our unanimous love, and, as be passes en tro-' the great past of his glorious deeds ttno the great rut'are which will develop the stupendous destinies of the nation, whose life he inaugurated, hrs hand is »t:e;c , forth, with grave gesture, not more m premise to suture loyalty than in deprecation c f the. . treason that w<x_re ' imperil our vital unity bv goading the sickness of sectional jealousy mto the blre.c fury of fra tn, rec i hate Continuing on this these ire comparing the uccoi". p’ishments of'Kbshingrcn with irectrs incten: :Fab;v< Cato, Scipio Africanus, Epgrinmnus, Ctn.nnn.re.-re ■ i;-modern iCrcrnwCi and Xapciem , tethunc ccncindeh that Tasbir.gmn :icni h_> the honor of having established free principles and perpenmted ms w-rL" Yet he auroned th;t there- verc prinepiss were •danger and pitre.re Gcdwre i~i hits. seep mat ide in _-i tie when tint: stint is it:-:, wits our Ceoer.5 revclt from the_r onesere. rei lie re trannie reg the tombs, w ire se aevib were Legren. -v ret red ire eurselves, tire fare . ■retv.re. ■ a-_ sc ~ re bens re tne heavens the me mangiec. .reiirenieit ..rtre rere ever pc_iuteri the bread; . ’renire.’y with re f _ .::n_rere. Scene the dtrrth are re . rere In -m. S S: i.-.n srrn re.rer:J treble r va gi’.htn.re ,7. :ran.~.ir’rt re re even greater reiren.v ■red-re . i.re iire re: rere■ ??reh iptz.'.tz ire. rer.rere rent ’Az i'-t Lz:~.'. Tir::.. .rpyg rec re'um. , ;tw . -. re ire w.re. ire re'.rre.ng cf ret RepLirk and -reei f.-:.zz. . re . re. re.ir. ' '.fre ptherisg stonn of settxxul confbct that was to erupt four years k-er ;r. Biown' . .re /_•> . 7.-- . . p.r- i- mreu.renre ere--re - mre.-Eients reirere’-r.; nre.’.-n re:re. A' t i red • • ... rere second rere.r, ; ' - .i. • ,r re. re rer . ^. . ascending the CapitdiEt height to rAjtreu.. t;;t ...n..;..'f re/remr »i . b*t encapsulate ameudy the stoic ideal, represented for nrey !d.-: ■ , ri„: ■r: y .j- .. .. •■. Roman Empire, however, the abtiiry and necewty *o produce Urge bron/es -his tv, - tired and the ■ i °;'re*-ire . - Aith-^h » !t ■-•'’e.., mt it but ? .!jtc < ....... jrerr.l 19 Ur .•re-- C-/.■ ' Kit). EtoA'ii fj>. j r X'u lmiybin nn /luribiiik,1 - IMS? (cast 1912) ■'•./• ■■ - :< I, ',7G - 42G 12*/< f . t ..I Yale I 'iir.HMty Ah Gallfly, tlrw I lawn ?j:?. Jr.re’, for ar ire. 'ut^i ' ' r'.'1' ’ Un,i' ''nr Renureai ■; U •) - ’■ i ' ‘r’-. 11,-reret -ire re '■ re' 1 f u tot tame, and econonuc prosperity f ul't ' .. .1. Idmun-l Imy, II A IH57, I dmund Roderick leny, H A . • d 1 ■ j.i re-i Bradford 1. ny B.A 1HHH, by Miss Marion lerry 1'1 I’Hyr fi < ..-.(I. Yale I juversity An Gallery C.v 27 �> ■■■ I, I in the reappearance of large, freestanding bronze SueX statues. The iconography of the monumental, mounted condottiere, or military leader reappear,s in Paolo Uccello’s painting SirJohn Hawkwood (1436, Florence); within a few years of its completion, Dona­ tello began his Gattamelata (c. 1445-1450, Padua), the first surviving monumental bronze equestrian statue, since Roman times. This was followed by Verrocchio s Bartolommeo Colleoni (c. 1483-1488, Venice) and Leo­ nardo’s ill-stared, never completed project for Milan. Subsequently, the equestrian statue became one of the most popular of monarchial authority and becameand thepotent visual images grounding for countless vista’s and public spaces, both in Europe and in the United States. Brown’s achievement, however, consists not only in his ability to create a work of this magnitude and complexity-it was one of the first large equestrians to be cast in the United States-but also in that he redefined a symbol long associated with absolutism and tyranny into one befitting of the founder of the American republic.14 The civic ideals embodied in the statue were under great challenge at the time of its inauguration. Not only, as Bethune noted, did a growing separatist movement threaten to destroy the Union itself, but also the great influx of immigrants, most of whom were uneducated '-~4 in the traditions of American democracy, were viewed by many as a growing menace. In 1856, the same year the equestrian was installed, the American Sunday School Union lamented, The refuse population of Europe... congregate in our great cities and send forth wretched progeny, degraded in e deep degradation of their parents-to be the scaven­ gers, physical and moral, of our streets. Mingled with elTdmnk S° the OfF?St ChiIdren OfAmer'Can debauch- ..Murbjn disorder mounted and the wicked-city stereotype gained currency in the late antebellum period, the moral-control impulse became, for some, correspondingly more urgent.”36 Thus Brown’s George Washington would have also served as a didactic paradigm, a point underscored by Bethune: “we have set the lofty image there, that it may stand forth a memorial of divine mercy, a monitor of our duty, an example to all coming generations.”37 Bethune’s concept of duty, which he shared with many of the era’s other moral leaders, might well be described as noblesse oblige. Praising the benefactors who paid for the statue, he said: “Wealth has heavy responsibilities and must therefore have its reputation; when one [won] by private or public dishonesty, it is a livery of shame[;] when hoarded or spent for mere self, it is like gilding on vile pottery; when fairly acquired and fairly used it is respectable; but when liberally devoted to true charity and the common benefit, it deserves extraordinary celebration.”" Ironically, during the difficult years of the 28 depression, the base of Brown’s statue became a fa spot for the unemployed to gather, a scene recorded j Reginald Marsh’s Discussion (Al Base of Union " Washington Statue) (Cat. no. 32) and his Union Square (Cat. no. 33). Although Washington’s gesture of bfossfo appears twice in Eugene C. Fitsch’s Union Sip.-arc (Cat n 24), it cannot provide any relief to men without jobs ° Henry Kirke Brown also created the second statue to be placed at Union Square, a bronze Abraham Lincoln which was paid for by popular subscription organized by the Union League Club.3’ Originally standing on a smallr— parcel of land at^the intersection of Fourteenth -----Street and University Place, the statue w~ ‘•MullTCnU1 1870 without, curiously, “any formal - ‘nstaI[ed *n 1870 without, curiously, “any formal ceremony. ‘ ert™onv””«® Lincoln rises almost eleven feet in height and stands on a twenty-four foot granite pedestal. Although the pedestal has no inscription, “a galaxy of stars [36 of them] representing each State in the Union” is incised in the upper stone.41 Subsequently a parapet and balus­ trade were installed around the statue. On the plinth of the parapet is the inscription, taken from Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address, “With Malice Toward None, With Charity For All.”42 The statue (but not the parapet) was moved to its present location, seen in Raphael Soyer’s On the Steps (Cat. no. 44), when Union Square was raised during the late 1920s and early 1930s. The reporter who covered the installation for The New York Times observed approvingly that Lincoln’s “wellknown face is reproduced with photographic accuracy.”43 From the shoulders of the but-recently-martyred president falls an “ample cloak ... in the fashion of a Roman toga.”44 The head is bare and the left hand holds the Emancipation Proclamation. Subsequent critics, however, have tended to denigrate the aesthetic qualities of the work, faulting especially its static, column-like form. One commentator felt that the Lincoln “suffers in outline for being a too literal expression of the very - ---u.uxo-U 111 I ,uts o owing the Civil War. 43 A more telling appraisal was at rown, like his American contemporaries “rarely create a penetrating psychological study of his subject.. .’ Instead, a naturalistic likeness was all’that was ernanded. Brown could not go beyond this even with such a heroic figure as Lincoln.”46 On April 25, 1865, approximately five years before rown s Lincoln came to stand at Union Square, the teat Emancipator’s body, after lying in state at City a > continued its slow, solemn, homeward journey to Winors. The funeral procession headed up Broadway to ourteenth Street, passed by the southern end of Inion quare before proceeding up Fifth Avenue and then westward to the Hudson River Railroad depot. Shortly a ter the procession passed by, a memorial service for the martyred President was held in Union Square. Two 1 ousand citizens gathered in front of the speakers Platform and heard George Bancroft deliver the princiPal eulogy. After noting that “the friends of freedom 0‘ 44 Raphael Soyer On the Steps, 1930s watercolor and pencil, 9 ' 73'« Courtesy of Forum Gallery, New York Photograph courtesy of Fotum Gallery �own's statue became a favorite to gather, a scene recorded in ,7 ('■?/ Base of Union Square o. 32) and his Union Square Washington's gesture of blessing Fitsch’s Union Square (Cat. no relief to men without jobs. o created the second statue to i, a bronze Abraham Lincoln. pular subscription organized Originally standing on a t intersection of Fourteenth e, the statue was installed in any formal ceremony. ven feet in height and stands lite pedestal. Although the i, “a galaxy of stars [36 of :ate in the Union’ is incised in gently a parapet and balus1 the statue. On the plinth of on, taken from Lincoln’s “With Malice Toward None, The statue (but not the present location, seen in tts (Cat no. 44). when Union : late 1920s and early 193'?$. rd the installation for Xex ringly that Lincoln’s “weVwith photographic accuracy."'but-recently-marryre d leak ... in the fashion of s 's bare and the left hand holds lation. Subsequent ertrics. enigrate the aesthetic c'-Utties dally its static, cok.mn-bKe elt that rhe Lin: > “suiter? tn real expression of the very f the years immediately ’ A more telling appraisal was ican contemporaries “rare.y lologkal study of has subjectkeness was all that was ot go beyond this even with coin.”44 roximately five years before tand at Union Square, tne , after lying in stare at City ■olemn, homeward tourney >•-’ ssion headed up Broadway by the southern end of Union up Fifth Avenue and then liver Railroad depot. Shortly 1 by. a memorial service tor is held tn Union Square. Two 1 in front of the speakers ;e Bancroft deliver the princ:hat “the friends of freedom ot ■. and per ■ i], ’> ' i '< lornm Gallery, New York ; • ■ UI!< r,l | (, Jlel, �■ II I _ m 1 in every I-"’a are his mournerS’" gSSttf-. adminisitation oix s< w'.,hinRton the ground on them; that when heI < ■ kft ''^^n^Sioni.hat traitors had seized nfPa‘ >ni uscnals, and he recovered them ... that the capital, w hich he found the abode of slaves, now the home onlv of the free ... and the gtganttc system of wrong, which had been the work of more than two centuries, is dashed down, we hope forever. Bancroft then asked “How shall the nation most ipletely show its sorrow?... How shall it best honor com] his memory?" and answered that, “above everything else, Ithe Emancipation Proclamation must] be affirmed and maintained.”4’ After providing a lengthy legal defence of the Proclamation, Bancroft concluded by stating “that a constitution which seeks to continue a caste of hereditary bondsmen through endless generations is inconsistent with the existence of republican institutions.”4’ Before dispersing, the crowd heard several prayers and a pair of poems-one but a few hours old—by W. C. Bryant. On September 6, 1876, a new apostle of freedom joined Washington and Lincoln in Union Square. While the assembled bands played the “Marsellaise,” FrdddricAuguste Bartholdi (1834-1904) unveiled his Marquis de Lafayette? Edmond Breuil, the French Consul General, presented the statue to New York City on behalf of his government in gratitude for assistance rendered during the Franco-Prussian War.51 Although now facing Union Square East, at the time of its dedication the statue was sited at the southern end of the Square, in such a way that Lafayette appeared in an “attitude of offering his hand and his sword to Washington.”52 “To The City of New York, France, In Remembrance Of Sympathy In Time Of Trial. 1870-71” and “As Soon As I Heard of American Independence My Heart Was Enlisted. 1776” are inscribed on the pedestal along with garlands of laurel, symbolizing victory, in low relief.53 Although Brown’s Lincoln and Bartholdi’s Lafayette show some formal similarities, fundamentally they exemplify two different sculptural traditions.54 In both figures one arm crosses the chest (Lincoln’s right gracefully and lightly /•»!>', "he ”7 and figur<- j jk, j M’lly Imposing the 'am- the.onv-x linc ,)(M‘‘"1UIS Serous assis- — .... ±1iaiu,;n,,w,iiiiw-'Hn,,h(lrJWnsilhl’11 ^/'f'vLmoh. IhH,"^ ....."* .. ............ 30 Like the nation itself during these postwar yearLincoln embodied a spirit “darker, sadder, sober’ The dedication of Bartholdi’s Lafayette coiX. summer of celebrations honoring the center,a- , - ’ American Independence. Present were a large r.' .■ X military troops, including a “phalanx” of elder! °F veterans from the War of 1812.56 F. R. Coudert gave th main address, which The New York Time: printed'“in substance.” Like the other speakers, Coudert evoked Lafayette’s love of freedom: “He served the cause of freedom in a foreign land [and] the same cause in his own land.”57 After noting that he spoke on Lafayette’s birthday, Coudert found the physical placement of thstatue symbolic and most appropriate: He [Lafayette] would surely tell us that the place for him was next to the one [Washington] who called him “Son,” and who loved him with a father’s love. And lest, looking up to these two founders of our nation, and glorying much in the heritage which they have transmitted, we should forget that the bloodiest of our trials was brought upon us, not by foreign hands nor rival nations, but by our own hot and intemperate haste, we have before us the image of that President [Lincoln] whose fortune it was to hold the helm of State during the stormiest times of our history, and we may all, I think, unite in saying that whatever faults partisan spirit may justly or unjustly impute to him, whatever shortcomings he may have carried with him to the judgment seat, yet was he so earnest in his love of freedom, so honest in his love of country, so kindly and so gentle in his love of his fellows, that the illustrious men who now bear him company would cheerfully admit him to their friendship.51 Nevertheless, the font of enlightenment idealism, optimism, and liberalism on which the Declaration of Independence had been drawn (and indeed codified) had become polluted by the political realities of the day. The party of Lincoln had, under President Grant, become synonymous with corruption, cronyism, and criminality. The same and worse, much worse, could be said of the governance of New York City under Boss Tweed, whose “ring” had systematically robbed millions of dollars from the city treasury.59 A few months after the dedica­ tion, in an occurrence symbolic of the era, Rutherford B. Hayes literaly stole the presidential election of 1876.“’ Five years after the dedication of Bartholdi’s Lafayettf New Yorkers assembled for the unveiling of the f Square Drinking Fountain (the James Fountain), which The New York Times characterized as “the handsomest fountain on Manhattan Island.”61 Created by Karl Adolph Donndorf, and presented to the City by DWillis James, the fountain was “more pretentious as a wr of art than any other in the city.”62 Atop the bronzy fountain is a group, seven feet high, also of bronz^. consisting of a mother and two children, one a babe m arms, the other a bare-legged little boy running at et. side.... The mother is clothed in drapery in the c as t 14 Isabel Bishop Study of Lafayette, n.d. graphite, 10 ‘ a * 7:o (sheet) Courtesy of DC Moore Gallery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Services 31 �these postwar years. Brown's the ru ■ -it "darker, sadder, soberer.”55 jin cm-.-" re cdedic.. ■- ■' Bartholdi’s Lafayette concluded mer of celebrations honoring the centenary . of rican Independence. Present were,a large number of ary troops, including a "phalanx” of elderly ans from the War of 1812“ F. R. Couden gave th.ie i address, which The New York Times printed "in ance.” Like the other speakers, Couden evoked rette’s love of freedom: "He served the cause of om in a foreign land [and] the same cause in his land.”57 After noting that he spoke on Lafayette's day, Coudert found the physical placement of the . symbolic and most appropriate: [Lafayette] would surely tell us that the place for him ; next to the one [Washington] who called him “Son,” 1 who loved him with a father’s love. And lest, locking to these two founders of our nation, and glorying ch in the heritage which they have transmitted, we mid forget that the bloodiest of our trials was brought ;n us. not by foreign hands nor rival nations, but by ■ own hot and intemperate haste, we have before us the ;ge of that President [Lincoln] whose fortune it was to d the helm of State during the stormiest rimes of our ton’, and we may alh I think, unite Ln saying that never faults partisan spirit may justly or unjustly jute to him, whatever shortccmmgs he may have tied with him to the mdgment seat, yet was he so nest in his love of freedom, so hottest in his love of intry, so kindly and so gentle in his love of his fellows, t the illustrious men who new bear him company old cheerfully admit him to their friendship.55 vertheiess, the font of enlightenment idealism lism, and liberalism on which the Declaration of >endence had been drawn land indeed codified) had ne polluted by the political realities of the cay. The of Lincoln had, under President Grant, become tytnous with corruption, cronyism, and criminality, ante and worse, much worse, could be said of the nance or New York City under Boss Tweed, whose ” had systematically robbed millions of dollars the city treasury. ' A few months after the dedicain an occurrence symbolic of the era, Rutherford tyes literals- stole the presidential election of 1876.“-’ ’e years after the dedication of Bartholdi's Lafayette, Workers assembled for the unveiling of the Union 'tDnnkini Fountain (the James Fountain). which sfi? York Tinus characterized as “rhe handsomest tain on Manhattan Island.Created by Karl ph Donndort, and presented to the City by D. 5 James, the fountain was "more pretentious as a ’work t han any other in the city.”*2 Atop the bronze tain is a group, seven feet high, also of bronze, 2SisUr,g ofl mother and two children, one a babe in f . e °tb.er a bare-legged little boy running at her '' e mother is clothed in drapery m the classic 14 Isabel Bishop '.ludy of Ijifayettt, n.d graphite, joy, , ■/ ■/< (sheet) ''.ouitesy of of DC 1jo Moore Gallery, G.J!<-iy, New York Gourte.y Holograph by Professional Photographic Services 31 �«vle' “U’ '’m’ 'CS‘other?neck and the other extended J,s|xd tht ' blroth(,|. wh0 is tiying to take from Smother th pitcher she carries in her left hand, and l^ fi contained water, as it is supposed to, would, m thJ’atigle at which it is held, be spilled by any but a person of bronze. The fountain itself consists of four basins, shaped like -iant shells into which once flowed jets of water from the mouths' of four lions. The remainder of the fountain is highly decorated with a menagerie of flying birds; crawling salamanders; butterflies; dragonflies; and garlands of flowers, leaves, and fruits.64 Together these symbolize earthly bounty and abundance. The lower portion of the fountain, including bronze basins, is visible in Isabel Bishop’s Girls Sitting in Union Square Fountain (Cat. nos. 8 and 9), Man at Fountain (Cat. no. 10), and Mending (Cat. no. 11). The theme of charity invoked by the inscription surrounding the nearby Lincoln predominates in the James Fountain, which was intended as an allegory of Charity, the foremost of the three theological virtues.65 In his dedicatory remarks, James made this interpreta­ tion explicit: “If the bronze ... shall be the means of kindling in any heart that spirit of love-Charity—it is intended to illustrate, I shall indeed be more than compensated. ”66 Professor Leonard Corning, who in gave the keynote speech of the J. day, concurred by seeing the fountain “the exemplification of that best chosen emblem of charity, the motherly instinct. It will ever stand a silent preacher of the institutes of Christian kindness as well as an enduring work of art.”67 Both Mayor Grace, who accepted the fountain on behalf of New York City, and the Reverend Dr. Roswell D Httchcock saw in the fountain an altruistic gesture to e p t e disadvantaged, many of whom were recent immigrants. the donor other munificent The workmayor ... forthanked the betterment offor thehis condi tiono P°°r and working classes by proviJng for" th m tenement-houses, clean, healthy, and at a reasone rate of rental-the most practical and munificent of works of charity.”68 The Reverend Dr. Hitchcock echoed this sentiment as he praised “the merchant princes of New York [who] were .. . leading the world in benefi­ cences for the public good, of which this fountain is an example, and in this way earning what their fortune should incite them to obtain more than anything else, But thP the reward of popular gratitude and affection.”69 bur tne need for charity was not directed only toward the poor; 11 nation itself needed charity, and forgiveness, after umonifind ?n 'n7dibIy dest™ctive Civil War. Charity, penomfied in the James Fountain, was an essential “li^libe",?'1 of 'he American ideal of 111• >‘lHHy and the pursuit of happiness ” ............. ..... Rising to a height of ninety feet in the centc . • Square and costing $80,000, the flagstaff rep;.. • /.?r‘ earlier Liberty flagpole erected by the Tammany s-" that had stood at the southern end of the he base of the Murphy flagpole was intended to b - . M “permanent public exposition” of the Dcclar.tion of Independence, whose text, along with the names of signatories, appears -- . in .. high ’ ' relief' on1 an eight-foot<. u„ base, a s«-and-a-half-f00t square tablet. Encircling ,the nn which which Anthony Anthnmr de rlzi Framed E------1 bronze relief on ’ labored for three vears denir,. I887~ 1964) labored for three years, depict s “the evils of' oppression and bondage and the blessings of indepen dence and liberty.”71 These allegorical figures trace “the march of mankind from slavery to freedom.”72 Sadly th» well-dressed, seated figures in Isabel Bishop’s^/ of the Flagpole (Idle Conversation) (Cat. no. 1) were shonly to be replaced by more desperate individuals enjoying “the blessings of independence” brought on by wide­ spread urban unemployment. Inscribed on the pedestal by Perry Coke Smith is Thomas Jefferson’s admonition: “How little my countrymen know what precious blessings they are in possession of and which no other people on earth enjoy.”73 Other decorative motifs include the coats of arms of the United States and of the original thirteen states. The most recent statue to be installed at Union Square is a likeness of Mohandas Gandhi by . ‘ r’ r y kthe Indi™ ndlan scu^ptor Kantilal B. Patel. Dedicated on the" " October ” 92,1986, 1Q9,: -k 117th anniversary of Gandhi’s birth, the eight-foot bronze depicts a bespectacled, striding Gandhi holding a bamboo walking stick and wearing a dhoti, a garment associated with Hindu asceticism.74 The figure stands on a low concrete pedestal about four feet high, to which a bronze plaque is attached with Gandhi’s dates (October 2, 1869-January 30, 1948) and a quotation that sumsup his political philosophy: “My optimism rests on my ‘ln^Iute possibilities ' 16 fm of the individual to develop nonviolence. ... In a gentle way you can shake the world.” The plaque further indicates that the statue was presented to “the city of New York and the citizens of the United States of America” from the Gandhi Memorial International Foundation. Yogesh K. Gandhi, a great-grandnephew of Mohandas, led the effort to place the statue in Union Square; Mohan B. Muriani underwrote most of the $60,000 cost.75 At the dedication, Parks Commissioner Henry I. Stem observed ‘I can think of no better place to honor Mahatma Gandhi than Union Square park, which his been a forum for public assembly and peaceful protest since the early part of the 20th century." '' His remark r -t f TT » 1 « ■ >' addressed objections that had been raised by various groups, including the Union Square Park Comm unit' Coalition. Even more relevant, however, Gandhi continued the tradition of honoring individuals "b° had dedicated their lives to the ideal of freedom ashington, Gandhi was paterpatria who had led a colonial revolt for freedom against the British-1n;! L 9 (left) Isabel Bishop Girls Sitting in Union Square Fountain, 1936 etching, 57s * 47s Collection of Delaware Art Museum, Wilmingt Gift of Helen Farr Sloan Photograph courtesy Delaware Art Museum 10 (right ’ Isabel Bishop Man at Fountain, 1945 (printed 1985) etching, 4 .7 « 3"s Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gallery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Servic �to a height of ninety feet in the center of U ■ and costing $80,000, the flagstaff replaced an'* Liberty flagpole erected by the Tammany Socic d stood at the southern end of the square70 Th ' the Murphy flagpole was intended to be a 6 inent public exposition” of the Declaration of ndence, whose text, along with the names of th ries, appears in high relief on an eight-foottablet Encircling the base, a six-and-a-half-f00t relief, on which Anthony de Francisci (1887abored for three years, depicts “the evils of ;ion and bondage and the blessings of indepen,nd liberty.”71 These allegorical figures trace “the of mankind from slavery to freedom.”72 Sadly, the rssed, seated figures in Isabel Bishop’s At the Base " lagpole (Idle Conversation) (Cat. no. 1) were shortly tplaced by more desperate individuals enjoying usings of independence” brought on by wideurban unemployment. Inscribed on the pedestal y Coke Smith is Thomas Jefferson’s admonition: itde my countrymen know what precious js they are in possession of and which no other on earth enjoy.”73 Other decorative motifs the coats of arms of the United States and of the 1 thirteen states. most recent statue to be installed at Union Square mess of Mohandas Gandhi by the Indian sculptor 1 B. Patel. Dedicated on October 2, 1986, the nniversary of Gandhi’s birth, the eight-foot depicts a bespectacled, striding Gandhi holding a walking stick and wearing a dhoti, a garment ted with Hindu asceticism.7’ The figure stands on oncrete pedestal about four feet high, to which a plaque is attached with Gandhi’s dates (October -January 30, 1948) and a quotation that sums up ideal philosophy: “My optimism rests on my n the infinite possibilities of the individual to ) nonviolence.... In a gentle way you can shake rid.” The plaque further indicates that the statue isented to “the city of New York and the citizens United States of America” from the Gandhi rial International Foundation. Yogesh K. Gandhi, -grandnephew of Mohandas, led the effort to he statue in Union Square; Mohan B. Murjani rrote most of the $60,000 cost.75 he dedication, Parks Commissioner Henry J. Stem ed “I can think of no better place to honor ma Gandhi than Union Square park, which has forum for public assembly and peaceful protest he early part of the 20th century.”'4 His remarks sed objections that had been raised by various s, including the Union Square Park Community ■■or.. Even more relevant, however, Gandhi ■ued the tradition of honoring individuals who emcated their lives to the ideal of freedom. Like pater patriot who had led a “•Iev0;t for freedom against the British. Unlike I I I I I 1 » 9 (lift) Isabel Bishop Girls Sitting in Union Square Fountain, 1936 etching, 57a x 47a Collection of Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington Gift of Helen Farr Sloan Photograph courtesy Delaware Art Museum 10 (right) Isabel Bishop Man at Fountain, 1945 (printed 1985) etching, 47a x y/t Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gallery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Services �1 - i: Washinjion. ho«w«. G‘“J\„|kfng sriek. for resistance in his strugg •■ H Gandhi led; his dhoti alludes to the many^arh« sdf_sufficiency, recalls the movement hr.mesDun clothing, that symbolized by inPst the British; and served as a powerful , grecalis the numerous finally, his thin, birdlii Y of llbeny hunger strikes he un , appropriateness of Although ^^^XVsuch as Gandhi, this objection honoring ^.^ y when °ne recalls the importance seems ironic, especia _y ially Dr. Martin SOCIAL HISTORY As WE HAVE SEEN, the association of Union Square with freedom began with Washington’s triumphant approach to the city in 1783. Until the 1860s, however, City Hall rather than Union Square was the locus of political protest in the city. As residential neighborhoods moved northward, so did political activity. Between the Civil War and World War II, Union Square was the gathering site for rallies of every cause. Although a few organized protests had been held in the square during the 1850s—in 1859 George 7’empleton Strong recorded in his diary observing a grand demon­ stration” of two thousand “Reds” honoring “the pious Orsini” and a co-conspirator who had attempted, unsuccessfully, to assassinate Louis Napoleon7i-the tradition of protest truly began with the Civil War. In December 1859, a mass rally was held in favor of preserving the Union. The “largest” political gathering to date-estimates of the crowd vary from 100,000 to 250,000-was held shortly after Confederate forces attacked Fort Sumter in Charleston harbor during the early morning hours of April 12, 1861.” Along with demonstrations in favor of national unity, Union Square increasingly became a site of class con­ flict. Yet, as Paul Boyer has noted, “Urban disorder was familiar enough from the antebellum period ... in the Gilded Age it took on a more menacing aura as a direct expression of labor unrest.”80 One of the earliest labor demonstrations occurred in 1860 when striking railroad drovers gathered at the George Washington statue Workers who had lost their jobs in the economic depression of 1873 rallied at Unton Square and urged Kni.Ci.T %^the unemPlQyed- In the 1880s, the Knights of Labor repeatedly called for the adoption of Day « an Z7u M the estabIishme™ of Labor ay as an official holiday. In 1887, when the state Union Square T„ ° i hour day converged on tint ’ celeb'“'! 8«>h«ed io c r an ei?ht' «rmjny May Dly pLTBnhdemta X” 34 as teenth century; Union Square had become r with labor unrest. According to David Duwhat oversimplified view, “As the square be. point for unionists, socialists, and anarchist;. . - - • stores slipped away to Fifth Avenue.”’1 In the first two decades of the twentieth century Union Square was the site of numerous demonstrati In the summer of 1914, the Anti-Militarist I;asU1: “funeral service” for three anarchists, who died under 1 mysterious circumstances, after protesting the “Ludlow Massacre,” which had occurred when company guards shot and killed striking miners and their families in * Ludlow, Colorado.82 After a decline in the number of political rallies during most of the 1920s, the final years of the decade saw a reawakening of unrest. On the evening of August 22, 1927, thousands gathered in the square to await the execution of Sacco and Vanzetti.83 Violence erupted when police sought to disperse the crowd. As the twenties drew to a close, political activity increased. Responding to the new mood, the Communists, in 1929, organized the first May Day parade in thirteen years.84 Latei that year, on October 29, the stock market crashed. Writing in 1939, Frederick Lewis Allen dramatically summarized the impact of the market decline: “In a few short weeks it had blown into thin air thirty hillion dollars-3 sum almost as great as the entire cost to the United States of its participation in the World War, and nearly twice as great as the entire national debt.”” The repercussions were immediate: unemployment, reduced production, a decline in prices, postponed expansion, and a curtailment of foreign trade. Breadlines, “the worm that walks like a man” in Heywood Broun’s poignant phrase, began to form.' Reginald Marsh’s No One Has Starred (not in exhibition), which appeared in the New Masses, depicts one such worm. Marsh’s title brings to mind Jonathan Norton Leonard's mordant description in Three Years Down (1939): “All of them [the striking miners] were hungry and many were dying of those providential diseases which enable welfare authori­ ties to claim that no one has starved.”8' Although stocks rose briefly' in the early months of 1930, in April they began the long descent that contin­ ued until they reached their nadir in 1932. In March, 1930, the New York State Industrial Commissioner announced that unemployment had reached its highest level since the state had begun collecting statistics in 1914.8a Despite this evidence, many otherwise well informed individuals did not comprehend, or chose to ignore, the seriousness of the problem: In a poll con­ ducted by the National Economic League in January 1930, respondents rated unemployment eighteenth _ among the “paramount problems” facing the nau°R' This background provides the context tor the^,.n > of March 6, 1930, when Union Square witnessed ®e largest Communist demonstration ever held in . York City’.90 Estimates of the size of the crowd varied vauft- 36 Betty Waldo Parish Union Square Rally, c. 1935-1945 etching, 7’/* z 91, Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gallen; New York holograph by Professional Photographic Ser.t.s �■. Union Square had become synonymous rest. According to David Dunlap’s some. >Iified view, “As the square became a focal mists. socialists, and anarchists, the old away to Fifth Avenue.”41 wo decades of the twentieth century, was the site of numerous demonstrations ■ of 1914, the Anti-Militarist League held e” for three anarchists, who died under zumstances, after protesting the “Ludlow ch had occurred when company guards ! striking miners and their families in ado.82 ne in the number of political rallies 'the 1920s, the final years of the decade ling of unrest. On the evening of August sands gathered in the square to await the icco and Vanzetti.83 Violence erupted ught to disperse the crowd. As the o a close, political activity increased. the new mood, the Communists, in 1929, irst May Day parade in thirteen years.*4 on October 29, the stock market crashed. 939. Frederick Lewis Allen dramatically e impact of the market decline “In a few tad blown into thin air rfriry billion ;lmost as great as the entire cost to the if its participation in the World War. and great as the entire national debt’"55 The rere immediate: unemployment, reduced lecline in prices, postponed expansion, ent of foreign trade. Breadlines, "the cs like a man” in Heywood Broun s e. began to form.8* Reginald Marsh’s Ao i (not in exhibition), which appeared in , depicts one such worm. Marsh’s title . Jonathan Norton Leonard’s mordant Three Years Dcnen (1939): "All of them {the ] were hungry and many were dying of rial diseases which enable welfare authonlat no one has starved.”87 acks rose briefly in the early months of they began the long descent that continreached their nadir in 1932. In March, York State Industrial Commissioner t unemployment had reached its highest state had begun collecting statistics tn : this evidence, many otherwise well riduals did not comprehend, or chose to lousness of the problem: In a poll conNational Economic League in January mts rated unemployment eighteenth iramount problems” facing the nation.' □und provides the context for the events >30. when Union Square witnessed the '-mis! demonstration ever held in New stimates of the size of the crowd varied w t 34 B«ty Waldo Parish Square Rally, <■■ 1935-1945 «<hing.7% / 9V< Courtesy of Sylvan Cole < lallery, New York ’ by Professional Photographs Servins �n ! from 35 ooo to 100,000. The rally had been called by the Third ‘international to focus attention on International Unemployment Day. At a meeting with representatives of the Communist Party, Police Commissioner Grover Whalen stated that the rally was illegal since a permitt he allowed the rally had not been obtained. Nonetheless, 1-----to proceed on the condition that it terminate by 1 p.m. When the deadline approached, however, the crowd began to march out of Union Square toward City Hall. Commissioner Whalen thereupon ordered his pohee to fall upon the marchers and a bloody riot ensued—“the worst disorder New York had seen in many years.”’1 Peter Hopkins and Edward Laning responded to this disorder; Hopkins, painting seventeen years after the event, sought to capture the tumult and chaos in his Riot at Union Square, March 6, 1930 (Cat. no. 26). Laning, on the other hand, depicted a preternatural stillness in his Unlawful Assembly, Union Square (Cat. no. 29), whose composition is clearly indebted to a photograph that appeared in The New York Times.91 The riot did have one positive consequence: It “galvanized the public against police interference, and under pressure, city officials guaranteed the right to free assembly in the square.”93 Throughout the 1930s, Union Square was the undis­ puted "center of America’s radical movement,”” Head­ quartered in the area were numerous radical publicationsthe New Masses and the Daily Worker among the most prominent-and oiganizations-including the John Reed Club and the Communist Party.95 Demonstrations became a way of life in the square and artists including Leonard Pydak (May Day [Cat. no. 38]), Louis Lozowick (Demonstration [Cat. no. 30]), Betty Waldo Parish (Union Square Rally [Cat. no. 36]), Albert Potter (Parade in the Park-Union Square Demonstration [Cat. no. 37]), Ben Shahn (May Day [Union Square Demonstration] [Cat. no the sJecTPhael 50761 (nC Cr0Wd [CaL n°- 42]) treated loi±? unemPloH men waited. They things to change. Finally L rh 41])’ hey Waited for up in anticipation of World WaiiV°n°?y began t0 heat The end of the thirties signal/} C°"dlt]Ons ^proved. attitudes. The United States^nvV ChaDge “ Ameri«n and the authorities discourage the square’s former Now permission for meetings in the square is rare1- Today, Union Square seems best known far farmers’ market. The heritage of long-past Struggle f c_ romninc rsnlv in flip irnnnorir,!-,. _ r r-*~ ~ freedom remains only in the iconography of shared by all the major monuments in Unir ' 'ai’ i°n Square NOTES 1. Samuel Eliot Morison, The Oxford History ofthe America, o (New York: Oxford University Press, 1965): 268. ' ' Wflc 2. Edward Robb Ellis, The Epic ofNew York City: A NarratiHistory (New York: Old Town Books, 1990): 11. 3. Ibid., pp. 18-19. 4. Ibid., pp. 24-26. 5. Originally laid out by Peter Minuit’s engineer, Bowery ROai north-south artery, was named for the dozen farms (bouweria) that 3 were nearby. Broadway, originally an Indian warpath, was also know as High Street and Bloomingdale Road. 6. Quoted in M. Christine Boyer, Manhattan Manners: Arcbiteaim and Style 1850-1900 (New York: Rizzoli, 1985): 10. 7. Quoted in Richard Hoe Lawrence, Harris D. Colt, and I. N Phelps Stokes, History of the Society of Iconophiles ofthe City oj New York and Catalogue ofIls Publications, With Historical and Biographical Noto, etc. (New York, 1930): 122. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. According to M.C. Boyer (Manhattan Manners, p. 11) the area became a public square in 1831; Lawrence, however (History oftht Society ofIconopbiles, p. 123) states that this occurred in 1839. The iron fence that surrounded the Square (illustrated in M.C. Boyer, Manhattan Manners, p. 46) was erected in 1835 and 1836. (Lawrence, History of the Society of Iconophiles, p. 122). The iron fence was removed in the 1870s (The W.PA. Guide to New York City: The Federal Writers' Project Guide to 1930s New York [New York: Pantheon, 1982]: 200). The W.PA. Guide lo New York City incorrectly claims (p. 200) that the area did not officially become known as Union Square until the 1870s. 10. Quoted in Lawrence, History of the Society of Iconophiles, p. 122. 11. Paul Boyer reminds us that “Today, parks are so ubiquitous and familiar a feature of the urban scene that we give little thought.. to their social significance. Thus, it takes a considerable imaginative leap to realize that the park movement once had the force of a fresh social discovery that could arouse intense and passionate commit­ ment, and that its moral implications were carefully explored and debated by moralists, urban reformers, social critics, landscape designers, and municipal authorities alike” (Urban Masses and Mors! Order in America: 1820-1920 [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1978]: 236). 12. Norval White, New York: A Physical History (New York: Athenaeum, 1987): 42. 13. Ibid., p. 43. 14. Ibid., p. 44. 15. Thomas Bender, New York Intellect: A History oj IntdletlnALi1 in New York City, from 1750 to the Beginnings of Our Own Time York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987): 216. 16. Maxwell Marcuse, This IVis New York.' A Nostalgic Pur,': ? Gotham in the Gaslight Era, 2nd rev. ed. (New York: LIM Press, 1 ' 225-229. 17. For a detailed studv. Bender cites lohn \\. Frick, Jr., -e, Rialto: A Study of Union Square, the Center of New YorksF:^ Theater District, 1870-1900" (Ph.D. dissertation, New York V > sity, 1983). 18. Bender, New York Intellect, p. 21b. 19. Ibid. , 20. Ellen Wiley Todd, Toe "New WernM'Revised: PammgFSPolitia on Fourteenth Street (Berkeley: University of’ 1993): 96, For a discussion of Hearn’s and S. Klein s. see pp- 36 29 Edward Laning Unlawful Assembly, Union Square, 1931 tempera on composition board, 14-/i * 36 Collection of Whitney Museum of American Art, New ic Gift of Isabel Bishop Photograph Copyright C 1995; Whitney Museum of Anu �,;,e aut.'.c-r-tics discourage the square’s former uses. T perm.ssion for meetings in the square is rarely asked more rarely given.”4 ay, Union Square seems best known for its rs’ market. Tire heritage of long-past struggles for m remains only in the iconography of freedom, by all the major monuments in Union Square.’ ES amuel Eliot Morison, The Oxford History oj the American People >rk: Oxford University Press, 1965): 268. idward Robb Ellis, The Epic ofNev York City: A Narrative New York: Old Town Books, 1990): 11. bid., pp. 18-19. rid., pp. 24-26. •riginally laid out by Peter Minuit’s engineer, Bowery Road, ju:h artery, was named for the dozen farms (houveries) that irby. Broadway, originally an Indian warpath, was also known Street and Bloomingdale Road. luoted in M. Christine Boyer, Manhattan Manners: Ardriteetn "1850-/900 (New York: Rizzoli, 1985): 10. Quoted in Richard Hoe Lawrence, Harris D. Colt, and I. N. tokes, History ofthe Society oflanwpbiles oftire City ofNev York liogoe ofIts PuHiatlions, With Historical and Biographical Notes, •York, 1930): 122. lid. >id. According to M.C Boyer (Manhattan Manners, p. 11) the line a public square in 1831; Lawrence, however (History ofthe 'Tarnopbila, p. 123) states that this occurred in 1839. The iron it surrounded the Square (illustrated in M.C. Boyer, tue Manners, p. 46) was erected in 1835 and 1836. (Lawrence. /'the Society ofIcoaopbiles, p. 122). The iron fence was removed 370s (Toe W.PA. Guide to Nev York City: The Federal Writers’ 'ride to 1930s Nev York [New York: Pantheon, 1982]: 200). Terr wide to Nev York City incorrectly claims (p. 200) that the area officially become known as Union Square until the 1870s. luoted in Lawrer.ee, History ofthe Society oj Iconopbiles, p. 122. aul Boyer reminds us that Today, parks are so ubiquitous Liar a feature of the urban scene that we give little thought.. r social significance Thus, it takes a considerable imaginative realize that the park movement once had the force of a fresh iscovery that could arouse intense and passionate commitr.d that its moral implications were carefully explored and by moralists, urban reformers, social critics, landscape rs, and municipal authorities alike” (Urban Masses and Moral America: 1520-1920 ‘Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University 97s]: 236). s’orval White, Nev York-A Physical History INew York: eum, 1987): 42. bid., p. 43. bid., p. 44. fhonus Bender, Nev York Intellect: A History oj Intellectual Life Irri City, from 1750 to the Beginnings of Our Ovn Time (New ihtd A Knopf, 1987X216. Vtardl Marcuse, This llis Nev York! A Nostalgic Picture of ire tn Gauign Era, 2nd rev. ed. (New York: LIM Press, 1969). for a detailed study. Bender cites John W. Frick, Jr., “The n Yudy of Union Square, the Center of New York’s First ■’ Drnrict, 1870-1906' ;Ph D. dissertation. New York Univer•13k Render, Nev Kri Intellect, p. 216. Tbdd. The “Nev Woman"Braised: Paintingand Gender ^^tetnlb Street (Bcrke^-. University of California Press, ' ‘ d“Q;ssion of Hearn’s and S. Klein's, see pp. 96-10°- I 29 Edward Laning Unlaujul As tmhly, Union Square, 1931 'empera on composition board, 147i * 36 ollection of Whitney Museum of American Art, New York yft of Isabel Bishop Photograph Copyright "> 1995: Whitney Museum of American Art �21. Among the artists: who had Is'J'hiW-IW) 23. The composition th tatue Am„ pans tin, 2 P"*”1"'’’ part* Thc body of the horse was cast ^SS-X^ehness of 3/8 inches. The statue took ^/rSTa'ltus' and Walter E Trsnd, Statues ofNeu, York (New statue. New York Evening Tima (hereafter cited 7) U ‘T^Tfluly 5.1856): 1. A list of the subscriber appear in the NYET (Ibid.). The sponsors’ names were inscribed between the hooves” of the horse. (Tie Neu, York Times [Hereafter cited as ATT], July 11, 1930): 21). 27. Saltus and Tisne, Statius oj Nett, York, p. 28. 28. NYET (July 5,1856): 1. Subsequently, in the late 1860s, Henry K. Brown created a portrait statue of Dr. Bethune for Brooklyn s Packer Institute (Wayne Craven, Sculpture in America [New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1968]: 156). 29. NYET (July 5,1856): 1. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid. Located on the Capitoline Hill atop a pedestal by Michelangelo, Marcus Aurelius (c. A.D. 165) is the only statue of its type to have survived from the ancient world. During medieval times it was believed to represent Constantine, the first Christian emperor. Other famous, but now lost, examples of the genre include monu­ ments to Trajan (Rome), Justinian (Constantinople), and Theodorus (which Charlemagne removed to Aachen after he was crowned Holy Roman emperor in 800). 33. Other stone medieval equestrian statues include thc Saint Martin in Lucca, the Otto I in Magdeburg, and the Bemabd Visconti in Milan (Charles Rufus Morey, Mediaeval Art [New York: W.W. Norton, 1942]: 295-296). 34. This was especially true for New Yorkers, who in gratitude for George Ill’s repeal of the Stamp Act, caused an equestrian statue of the king to be erected in the city’s Bowling Green, at the foot of Broadway. Thc gilded lead statue, set on a massive pedestal, was dedicated on August 21,1770. Six years later, the citizens destroyed what had become a hated symbol of oppression. 35. Quoted in P. Boyer, Urban Masses, p. 80. 36. P. Boyer, Urban Masses, p. 75. 37. NYET(July 5,1856): 1. 38. Ibid. thc!»^?T(STe,?ber 17> I87°): 1 ACC°rdlng to y»rk Times Sass “"bilk" •“ 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid. 4i NJ7(Sr|,irml„.r 17, 18AI): . Is |i;l74',d ll'^ Sw‘'’’’/AV-W.p 10 47. AH (Apul ?r.. IKr,*,). x 48 Ibid I’ 156 49. Ibid. 50. Bartholdi’s best known work is the colossal Statu: .v p, (Liberty Enlightening the World), 1875-1884. For the ,tor. oj Liberty see Ellis. Epic, pp. 384-392. 51. Saltus and Tisne, Statues of Neu York, p. 32. 52. The statue was moved to its present location in A _-2l , NYT (August 7, 1929): 18. See also Saltus and Tisne. Stu; :■ '■ “ York, p. 32. 53. King, King's Handbook, p. 176. Also inscribed on thc plinth ls 54. Although Brown had made the Italian pilgrimage and indeed spent four years working first in Florence and then Rome, heb-camconvinced, especially after his return to New York in 1846, of the ' need to forge a truly American art. To this end he rejected continental neoclassicism in favor of American subjects rendered directly and' naturalisticly. Bartholdi, on the other hand, was a true inheritor of the European sculptural tradition. In his elegant Lafayette, one sees the sophisticated interplay of light and movement, the subtle surface relationships, the animating contrapposto, and the idealization that characterize that tradition. 55. Lewis Mumford, The Brovn Decades: A Study of the Arts in America 1865-1895, rev. ed. (New York: Dover, 1971): 2. 56. NYT (September 7, 1876): 1. 57. Ibid., p. 7. 58. Ibid. 59. William Marcy Tweed was arrested in December 1871. After his first trial ended in a hung jury, prosecutors successfully retried him, in November 1873, and obtained convictions on 120 counts. On appeal, his sentence was reduced to one year in prison and a $250 fine (Ellis, Epic, pp. 351-354). 60. Morison, Oxford History, pp. 733-734. 61. NYT(October 26, 1881): 8. 62. Ibid. 63. Ibid. Originally scheduled to be completed within two and a half years from the date of the commission contract, May 10,1877, the work dragged on until 1881. The sculptor's wife and infant served as models for the figural group. The standing child was a Stuttgart youth renowned for his “ideal grace of form.” The bronze statue was cast in Brunswick, Germany, at the G. Howaldt foundry (ibid.). 64. The pedestal is a highly polished red Swedish granite Three steps enable individuals to reach thc ornamental fountain basins (Ibid.). 65. “And now abideth faith, hope and charity._but the greatest of these is charity” (I Corinthians 13:13). Giving drink to the thirsty (symbolized by the bucket full of water) represents the second of the Six Mercies (Matthew 25:35-37). Since the fourteenth century. Charity has been personified as a mother with two (usually suckling) f r infants. 66. NYT (October 26, 1881): 8. 67. Ibid. 68. Ibid. 69. Ibid. 70. ATT (May 22. 1930): 1. The flagstaff was dedicated on It-.v 4,1930; the actual sesquicentcnnial had occurred in 1926. Chat.es Francis Murphy was a Tammany Hal, leader. 71. ATT (July 5, 1930k 1. 72. ATT (Mas 22, 1930): 1. 73. W.F.1 Guide, pp 202-203. 4. V)T(October 3. WStO; fl. 3. 75. Ibid. 76. Ibid. ' ’. flu- Union Square I'.rk Communitv Coalition. tbr exampfe had obieued to the add tion of a new statce. claiming that I’uion S.jy.v.c we e nor being maintained properly (A •* H. ,H \lu*:.'.ni< 'c.'vCx’< b'-. n KMiuoiHi $ :o :he p, Common for nuinteiun<e the Union Squire xutuarv (MT [October 3. $ C V?*; . p ;1 20 Ernest Fiene Lincoln Monument tn L lithograph, 13V., x 10-7 Collection of Woltganj Photograph by Profess! �best known work is the colossal Statue of Liberty eg 12.' U'criA, 1875-1884. For the story of the Statue , Epic, PP- 384-392. Tisne, Statues ofNao York, p. 32. was moved to its present location in August 192Q 929): 18. See also Saltus and Tisne, Statues ofXev ' i Handbook, p. 176. Also inscribed on the plinth is Irown had made the Italian pilgrimage and indeed ,-orking first in Florence and then Rome, he became dly after his return to New York in 1846, of the ily American art. To this end he rejected continental avor of American subjects rendered directly and tholdi, on the other hand, was a true inheritor of ptural tradition. In his elegant Lafayette, one sees nterplay of light and movement, the subtle surface animating contrapposto, and the idealization that radirion. ford, Til Beran Decades A Study oftie Arts in i, rev. cd. (New York; Dover. 1971): 2. mber 7, 1876): 1. iny Tweed was arrested in December 1871. After his a hung jury, prosecutors successfully retried him, I, and obtained convictions on 120 counts. On :e was reduced to one year in prison and a S250 i. 351-354). ford History, pp. 733-734. >er26,1881): 8. ally scheduled to be completed within two and a : date of the commission contract, May 10, 1877, m until 1881. The sculptor’s wife and infant served rigural group. The standing child was a Stuttgart >r his "ideal grace of form.’ The bronze statue was Germany, at the G. Howaldr foundry (ibid.). 1 is a highly polished red Swedish granite. Three duals to reach the ornamental fountain basins bideth faith, hope and charity-but the greatest of Corinthians 13:13). Giving drink to the thirsty e bucket full of water) represents the second of the tew 2535-37). Since the fourteenth century, tersonified as a mother with two (usually suckling) ter 26, 1881): 8. 22,1930); 1. The flagstaff was dedicated on July sesquicentennial had occurred in 1926. Charles as a Tammany Hail leader. i, 1930): 1. 22, 1930): 1. it, pp. 202-203. her 3. 1986): fl, 3. Square Park Community Coalition, for example, te addition of a new statue, claiming that the other rues were not being maintained properly {NYT (July hmani silenced this objection by donating an 90 to the Parks Commission for maintenance of al! : statuary (ATT [October 3,1986]: II, 3). •■!. C. Boyer, Manhuiatt Manners, p. 85. �’-Sfc 'Uhln f^c°' ih^rW^rst^^U| 1,0 “' ■'■nen, L°pyngh, ?uev an *1*. i �rd the Pho‘ograph’s i. on Square That Wj, •’ !, 1958): 72. hagf Isabel Bishop At the Ban ofthe Flagpole (Idle Conversation), 1928 etching, 5x6 Collection of Whitney Museum of American Art, New York Felicia Meyer Marsh Bequest Photograph Copyright & 1995: Whitney Museum of American Art ���? f ! I I < i I j 3 Isabel Bishop S-.-.'B-ti 1933-1934 oil on paper mounted on fiberboard 1 ?' , Codeoion or Hir-.-j-.r-: :;■ Gift ofJoseph H Hirshhorr, .-:r Photograph by Lee $u;sworh 44 _•. ■. I ��£**>«•** B J ofix:! Phbyp, I g-*!**'1 Bn ^ofKG 46 �J V I i f - i 7 'opposite) Isabel Bishop ^MArian Stall", Unton Square, c. 1927-1931 graphite, 10s/a x 77. Counesy of DC Moore Callery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Services 8 47 Isabel Bishop G,rls Sitting j„ Union Square Fountain, 1936 and tempera on gesso panel, 16 * 14 "° ection of Mr. & Mrs. John Whitney Payson �' pi 3^ 11 (o/yvsfte) Isabel Bishop Mending, 1945 oil on fiberboard, 25 . x ifo- , Collection of National Museum of American Art, Smith Gift of the Sara Roby Foundation Photograph courtess National Museum of American Art babel Bishop the Street {Fourteenth Street}, 1931 etching, 47.* 10 >/. f c'lles.tion ot \X hitney Museum of American Art, New '1 eeiuia Meyer Marsh Bequest holograph Copyright 1995: Whitney Museum of An �na �< r* i 1 1 p.-^ * , «h i •< ■ c . ' .... » 1 I"---' I 1 I I ■ i ) 21 (<p/m) Mary Fife Txo Women with Childre etching, fe;/sx 4.4 Courtesy of Susan Telle Photograph by Professk 22 4 50 51 Eugene C. Fitsdi ^■'h Street C„,o„ Sljhan, “thograph, 9 x 15 Courtesy of Sylvan Col. ‘holograph byProfessk �21 (opposite) Mary Fife Two Women with Children Crossing the Street, c. 1925 etching, 67s x 47a Courtesy of Susan Teller Gallery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Services 22 (above) Eugene C. Fitsch 14th Stmt Union Square, 1931 lithograph, 9 * 15 Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gallery, New York Photograph bt Professional Photographic Services �23 Eugene C. Fitsch Ihumplorftd Union Square, 1936 lithograph, 9 * 13 Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gallery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Services 24 fe* * ph by p 53 �------ 1 �i' I'' | I 25 (above) Emil Ganso Metropolis, 1935 etching with aquatint and roulette, 1 l!/s * 15 Courtesy of Madeleine FortunofFFine Prints, Locust Valley, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Services 27 (opposite) Morris Kantor Farewell to Union Square, 1931 oil on canvas, 36'/> x 27'7s Collection of The Newark Museum Purchase 1946, John Cotton Dana Fund Photograph by Armen May 54 ��1 28 (above) Charles Keller Open Cut-6th Avenue Subway, 1938 lithograph, ll’ft * 14'A Courtesy of Susan Teller Gallery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Services 30 (opposite) Louis Lozowick Demonstration, 1937 lithograph, 14'/w x U'/i Collection of National Museum of American Art, Smithsonian institution Gift of Adele Lozowick Photograph courtesy National Museum of American Art 56 ��I I I I j * i V» '» . ' « | I? ( y./ Vv is J ' t t‘r w v» I I i I 37 Albert Potter Parade in the Park-Union Square Demonstratijn, < 1935 crayon and watercolor, 13 « 20‘r (sheet. Courtesy of Susan Teller Gallery, New York Photograph by Professional Photographic Services l-fon^rrj K - W"? / 4 *«y 58 59 �1 M* * < t ah 33 I eomrd !\tbk PJ..V. 19 is hthogrjph, 7' ■ G'.new ci .Vusii! ii,_. Phoiogriph bv .n, .\c* Ve.'i. r.•/: v:v. �A^A.'-' lit 111 III III I 1 •It If I I & f iGf * J< 4 M C, �■ ■L’ 99 « ■ ii IH «n �* II ■ 21 Mary Fife (1904-199' Tito Women with Cnda ■- , etching. 67< ■ 4/; Courtesy of Susan Teller CJiecki.ist or the exhibition .... < r 1 Isabel Bishop (1’0? 1988) I; 'v I'.,-.' qt the Flagpole (Idle < 'animation), 1928 etching. 5*6 t olliMion of Whitney Museum of American Art, New York 1 .-Ik ia Merer Marsh Bequest page 13 2 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) At the Noon Hour, c. 1932 tempera and pencil on composition board, 25 * 18 ’/s Collection of Museum of Fine Arts, Springfield, Massachusetts James Philip Gray Collection J page 44 3 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Boot Black, 1933-1934 oil on paper mounted on fiberboard, 197/s* 17 Collection of Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, Smithsonian Institution Gift ofJoseph H. Hirshhorn, 1966 4 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Vie Club, 1935 oil and tempera on canvas, 20 x 24 Private Collection 22 EugeneC. Fitsch (18’2-J9.’2 14th Street Union Square. 193! lithograph, 9 - 15 Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gal page *11 page 19 11 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Mending, 1945 oil on fiberboard, 25 7« * 167/. Collection of National Museum of Arn Smithsonian Institution Gift of the Sara Roby Foundation 23 Eugene C. Fttsch 1892-1972 Unemployed Union Square, 19 lithograph, 9 * 13 Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gal - • 12 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) page 15 Noon Hour, 1935 etching, 7*5 Collection of Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilke, I JnivetIHlty Sordoni/Myers Acquisition Fund Purchase 24 Eugene CFitwh (18’2-1972 Unton Square, 1930 lithograph. 10 • 14‘« Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gal 13 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) page 4? On the Street (Fourteenth Street), 1931 etching, 47/s * 107r Collection ofWhitney Museum of American Art, New York Felicia Meyer Marsh Bequest 25 Emil Ganso (1895-1941) Metropolis, 1935 etching with aquatint and ro Courtesy of Madeleine Fortt Locust Valley. New York 14 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Study of Lafayette, n.d. graphite, 103/s* 7'A (sheet) Courtesy of DC Moore Gallery, New York 26 Peter Hopkins (b. 1’11) Riot at Union Square. Ma-rh t oil on canvas, 37 < 48 Collection of Museum of th< Gift of the Artist P*& 31 I 5 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) page 45 Conversation, 1931 etching, 6*4 Collection of Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington Gift of Helen Farr Sloan 15 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Union Square Looking East, n.d. graphite, 6Vz x S'/i Collection of Sordoni Art GalleryGift ofJudge Herbert W. Salus 6 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Dante and Virgil in Union Square, 1932 oil on canvas, 27 * 52V, Collection of Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington Gift of the Friends of Art, 1971 16 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) page' Union Square Looking East, Studyfor lirgf; and Da~:r. c 1’2" graphite, 4 * 5Vz Courtesy of DC Moore Gallery, New York 7 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Equestrian Statue, Union Square, c. 1927-1931 graphite, lO’/iv * 7'A Courtesy of DC Moore Gallery, New York 8 Isabel Bishop (1’02-1988) Girls Sitting in Union Square Fountain, 1936 oil and tempera on gesso panel, 16 * 14 < oiler tion of Mr. & Mrs. John Whitney Payson page 4 page 46 page 47 9 1 abci Bishop (1902-1988) W 33 Gul Sitting in Union Square Fountain, 1936 el1 lung, 5 /. » 4'/. ' -.'1 hoi- of Ih-Dw.iir Ail Museum. Wilmington Gib of Helen 1 nt Sloan 10 !■ >1 Bishop 1190? 1988) P.hn at t ,uutam, 19 |‘> (pnnit-d 1’85) lung 4 i. - i'/» Co > 7,1,'I,. I ,,|r ( ...llcy, N,w yo|t 42 17 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Virgil and Dante in Union Square-Study, 1’32 graphite, 13 * 26 Collection of Palmer Museum of Art. The Pennsylvania State University 18 Isabel Bishop (1902-1’88) Virgil and Dante in Union Squa\-S S'»d:.<, 1’32 graphite, 6'/a x 3'.k Courtesy of DC Moore Gallery. New Aork Page * 27 Morris Kantor (1896-1974) Farewell to Un a n Sj*w y. 193 oil or. canvas, 36 ' 27 • Collection of The New ark M Purchase 1946, John Cotton 28 Charles Keller (b. 1914) Open Cut-bth Avenue Sutra . lithograph. 1T-: * 14' a Courtesy of Suvan Teller Gal: page 4 29 Edward Lantng (1906-1’81) hl.-ivr--.-. L Squ tempera on composition boa Collection of Whitney Museui Gift of Isabel Bishop .•->11 30 Louis Lozowtck (18’2-1’73) DemonI’.” lithograph, 14 'll Collection of National Muset Smithsonian Institution Gift of Adele Lozownk 19 Henty Kirke Biown Blown (1814-1886) iXj- General («<>;«;. (>eneral Georg, WarAwy.'.w Washington ,>•.• .‘V Ho^ba 1___ (•, c. 1852 (cast 1’52) bronze model, 37' .• * 42‘ ■ * 12' . Collection of Yale University Ait Gallery, New Haven Given in Memory of Edmund Terry . B A 1837. EJnuu'J Roden.k line, B A 18’8, and Fliphalet Budtow deny. B \ 1888, by Miss Manon let rv 20 Imcst Fienc (18’4-1’65) I m,oln ll. ’ra";.m Union Squa ■ ■ I4'* Itthogiaph, 13’ < * It)1’. t olle.tion ot Wolfgang A Hei. I a., 3'* 31 George I uks (1867-1933) : . .. .. .11'. 1’33 oil on board, 16 * 20 i olle. non or Sordoni Art Gal Gitt o! Helen Farr Sloan 32 Reginald Maish (18’1-1’54! D; ,AtBd\ oft n:on Squ. etching, 6'9 Cour levy ot Sm lun Teller Galle 63 �21 Mary Fife (1904-1990) Two Women with Children Crossing the Street, c. 1925 /><<?<■ 50 etching, 67sx 41/, Courtesy of Susan Teller Gallery, New York noN !^41 fork K? 13 22 Eugene C. Fitsch (1892-1972) 14th Street Union Square, 1931 lithograph, 9 x 15 Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gallery, New York 11 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) page 48 .Mending, 1945 oil on fiberboard, 25 Vs x 167s Collection of National Museum of American .Art, Smithsonian Institution Gift of the Sara Roby Foundation 23 Eugene C. Fitsch (1892-1972) Unemployed Union Square, 1936 lithograph, 9 x 13 Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gallery, New York 12 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) page 15 Noon Hour, 1935 etching, 7 x 5 Collection of Sordoni An Gallery, Wilkes University Sordoni/Myers Acquisition Fund Purchase 24 Eugene C. Fitsch (1892-1972) Union Square, 1930 lithograph, 10 x 14V« Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gallery, New York 13 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) page 49 On the Street (Fourteenth Street), 1931 etching, 47sx 103,'< Collection of Whitney Museum of American Art, New York Felicia Meyer Marsh Bequest 25 Emil Ganso (1895-1941) Metropolis, 1935 etching with aquatint and roulette, 117s x 15 Courtesy of Madeleine Fortunoff Fine Prints, Locust Valley, New York 14 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Study ofLafayette, n-d. graphite, 107ix 77. (sheet) Courtesy of DC Moore Gallery, New York 26 Peter Hopkins (b. 1911) Riot at Union Square, March 6, 1930, 1947 oil on canvas, 37 x 48 Collection of Museum of the City of New York Gift of the Artist r»?44 en, &19 2£r45 page 4 page 46 15 Isabel Bishop <1902-1988) Union Square Looking East, D-d. graphite, 6’i x 91/2 Collection of Sordoni Art Gallery Gift ofjudge Herbert W. Salus page 31 page . 27 Morris Kantor (1896-1974) Farewell to Union Square, 1931 oil on canvas, 36‘/s x 277s Collection of The Newark Museum, Purchase 1946, John Cotton Dana Fund page 51 page 52 Page 53 page 54 page 9 page 55 16 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) pa&el Union Square Looking East, Studyfar Virgil and Dante, c. 1927 graphite, 4 x 51.2 Courtesy of DC Moore Gallery, New York 28 Charles Keller (b. 1914) Open Cut-6th Avenue Subway, 1938 lithograph, ll’/a x 141/. Courtesy of Susan Teller Gallery, New York 17 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Virgil and Dante in Union Square-Study, 1932 graphite, 13*26 Collection of Palmer Museum of Art, The Pennsylvania State University page 4 29 Edward Laning (1906-1981) page 37 Unlawful Assembly, Union Square, 1931 tempera on composition board, 147a x 36 Collection ofWhitney Museum of American Art, New York Gift of Isabel Bishop page 11 30 Louis Lozowick (1892-1973) page 57 Demonstration, 1937 lithograph, 14 7i« x 11 '/2 Collection of National Museum of American Art, Smithsonian Institution Gift of Adele Lozowick page 56 18 Isabel Bishop (1902-1988) Virgil and Dante in Union Square-3 Studies, 1932 graphite, 6!'z > 3‘. Courtesy of DC Moore Gallery, New York page 33 19 Henry Karke Brown (1814-1886) pag>- 27 General George Washingfan on Hoisdxuk, c 1852 (cast 1932) bronze model, 37:< ' 42‘5 ' 12G Collection of Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven Given in Memory of Edmund Terr,-, B A. 1837, Edmund Roderick Terry, B.A. 1878, andEliphalet Bradford Terry, B.A. 1888, by Miss Marion Terry 31 George Luks (1867-1933) page 21 High Tide at Lilehow's, 1933 oil on board, 16 x 20 */» Collection of Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes University Gift of Helen Farr Sloan 20 Ernest Fienc (1894-1965) Lincoln Monument in Union Square, 1935 lithograph, 13". z 107, Collection of Wolfgang A. Hei :rz 32 Reginald Marsh (1891-1954) page 42 Discussion (At Hase of Union Square Washington Statue), 1934 etc lung, 6'9 Courtesy of Susan Teller Gallery, New York page 39 63 34 Kenneth Hayes Miller (1876-1952) Leaving the Shop, 1929 etching, 77s x 97, Courtesy of Susan Teller Gallery, New York 35 Edith Nankivell Union Square, 1935 etching and aquatint, 9'h x 11 Collection ofJohn Beck 36 Betty Waldo Parish (1910-1986) Union Square Rally, c. 1935-45 etching, 73/. x 97. Courtesy of Sylvan Cole Gallery, New York Page 25 Pagel page 35 37 Albert Potter (1903-1937) Parade in the Park-Union Square Demonstration, c. 1935 page 58 crayon and watercolor, 13 x 2OV2 (sheet) Courtesy of Susan Teller Gallery, New York page M Page 33 33 Reginald Marsh (1891 1-1954) Union Square, 1933 page 43 lithograph, I3‘/r x gi/2 Courtesy of Hatay Stratton Fine Prints and Drawings, Veto Beach, Forida 38 Leonard Pytlak (b. 1910) May Day, c. 1935 lithograph, 7Vi x 10 Courtesy of Susan Teller Gallery, New York 39 Ben Shahn (1898-1969) May Day (Union Square Demonstration), 1934 watercolor, 123/i x 87s Collection of Bemarda Bryson Shahn page 59 page 60 40 John Sloan (1871-1951) page 22 Fourteenth Street, The Wigwam, 1928 etching, 93/. x 7 Collection of Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington Gift of Helen Farr Sloan 41 Isaac Soyer (1907-1981) Xgr 61 Employment Agency, 1937 oil on canvas, 34'/. x 45 Collection of Whitney Museum ofAmerican Art, New York Purchase 42 Raphael Soyer (1899-1987) The Crowd, c. 1932 oil on canvas, 257s x 227. Collection of Wichita Art Museum, Kansas page 1 43 Raphael Soyer (1899-1987) In the City Park, 1934 oil on canvas, 373/. x 391/2 Private Collection page 16 44 Raphael Soyer (1899-1987) On the Steps, 1930s watercolor and pencil, 9 x 7H Courtesy of Forum Gallery, New York pagf 29 �ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The -----Sordoni Art ----r Gallery thanks the lenders and spon.’ --------------for their generosity in making this exhibition rsnccrh possible. ... also thank James ■M.■ Dennis " ”. We and' Kathleen M. Daniels for their catalogue essay; Susan Teller and Sylvan Cole, Jr., who have been especially supportive and helpful; and John Beck, who designed the catalogue. Ja“}es Dennis, Lawrence Kuhar of Wilkes University and Nancy Krueger, my associate at the Sordoni A-r Gallery, read early drafts of my essay; I appreciate comments and insights. LENDERS TO THE EXHIBITION ADVISORY COMMISSION John Beck Sylvan Cole Gallery, New York Delaware Art Museum, Wilmington Madeleine Fortunoff Fine Prints, Locust Valley, New York Forum Gallery, New York Wolfgang A. Herz Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, Smithsonian Institution DC Moore Gallery, New York Museum of Fine Arts, Springfield, Massachusetts Museum of the City of New York National Museum of American Art, Smithsonian Institution The Newark Museum Palmer Museum of Art, The Pennsylvania State University Mr. & Mrs. John Whitney Payson Bemarda Bryson Shahn Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes University Hatay Stratton Fine Prints and Drawings, Vero Beach, Florida Susan Teller Gallery, New York Whitney Museum of American Art, New York Wichita Art Museum, Kansas Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven Two Private Collections Freddie Bittenbender Christopher N. Breiseth, Ph.D. Joseph T. Butkiewicz Marion M. Conyngham Molly Cornell Virginia C. Davis, Chair Stanley I Grand, Ph.D. Robert J. Heaman, Ph.D. Mary Jane Henry Keith A. Hunter, Esq. J. Michael Lennon, Ph.D. Melanie Maslow Lumia Theo Lumia Ken Marquis Constance R. McCole Hank O’Neal Arnold Rifkin Kim Ross Charles A. Shaffer, Esq. William Shull Helen Farr Sloan Andrew J. Sordoni, III Sanford B. Stemlieb, M.D. Mindi Thalenfeld Joel Zitofsky SOfS fL.* .2.-' SIG STAFF Director Stanley I Grand, Ph.D. Coordinator Nancy [.. Krueger Preparalor Lari W. Lehman Gallery Attendants Donna Bytheway Tom Harrington Sarah Karlavage Jennifer Plumbo Deborah Tibet �WILKES UNIVERSITY LIBRARY A A - &AfLC4C FS �" ■■ ■ rf t: � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1996 January 21 Between Heaven and Hell: Union Square in the 1930's Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Isabel Bishop Henry Kirke Brown Ernest Fiene MaryFife Eugene C. Fitsch Emil Ganso Peter Hopkins Morris Kantor CharlesKeller Edward Laning LouisLozowick George Luks ReginaldMarsh Kenneth HayesMiller Edith Nankivell Betty Waldo Parish Albert Potter Leonard Pytlak Ben Shahn John Sloan Isaac Soyer Rachel Soyer James M. Dennis Kathleen M. Daniels Stanley I. Grand Stanley I. Grand Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1996 January 21 - March 3 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource Between Heaven and Hell is an exhibition dedicated to the art made about or during the 1930's depicting New York Ciy's famous Union Square. Featuring works on paper, paintings, and sculpture, this exhibition acts as a cumulative survey of American Art surrounding New York's vibrant history. Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition program Subject The topic of the resource NYC New York City Union Square thirties 1930s https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/e7317731d31f6c7a9b749924c169cd55.pdf 243723e257cfce74d62a895b5d611373 PDF Text Text ��������������������������������������������������� https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/0d67d47ee56ebf19ace79c65035a6729.pdf 2812d5918f2dcb3b6168a5e26b8f24f6 PDF Text Text ais m I ROBERT L. SCHULTZ Drawings 1980-1995 2gg M 1 litf I 3 = ;' j jrVf-~~- 7~T~~X • _ J 7__ _ —- I A ■ . wr TO \ t '■/ m' Fl a xffe».x mi ■ -7 XT L__ _ ___ \ LT'; //'J ■ ' _ \ ^-O ■nA^ 7i7C -.1 ■ : X MB . j 4 I ■ - -f i ;.. SORD GA N7570 G7 1996 xL Ti* f _ .4 •:_v l\y V ' iW >'■ XI v<’ ': V \\ -'z ■ ■ V' . .. 3 �ROBERT L. SCHULTZ Drawings 1980-1995 ��ROBERT L. SCHULTZ Drawings 1980-1995 Stanley I Grand E.S. FARLEY LIBRARY WILKES UNIVERSITY WILKES-BARRE, PA SORDONI ART GALLERY Wilkes University Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania March 17 through April 21, 1996 �ARCHIVES Affc.-WVE'S PATRONS George and Nia Choles J. Laurence Everard Irving and Robert Goodman Judd Hammack Marti Koplin Dirk Lohan William L. Schultz Dr. Willard E. White Mary Alice Wimmer ACKNOW G , / 77 EXHIBITION UNDERWRITERS Franklin First Savings Bank Maslow Lumia Bartorillo Advertising Nabisco, Inc. G. R. Noto Electrical Construction PNC Bank, N.A. Andrew J. Sordoni, III SPONSORS The Business Council CBI-Creative Business Interiors Friedman Electric Supply Co., Inc. Friends of the Sordoni Art Gallery Mr. and Mrs. David C. Hall Marquis Art and Frame Panzitta Enterprises, Inc. Pennsylvania Council on the Arts with funds from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Pennsylvania Millers Mutual Insurance Co. Rosenn, Jenkins and Greenwald, L.L.P. Trion Industries Inc. Wilkes University Text © 1996 Sordoni Art Gallery Art and photographs © 1996 Robert L. Schultz 1500 copies were printed by Llewellan and McKane Designed by John Beck Photographs by Pam Bentzien, Dale Johnson, and Lynn Levy Set in Adobe’s edition of Stempel Garamond, Linotype-Hell ■ HIS CATALOGUE resl in Robert L. Schult JL the exhibition, I coi supporters and collectors fi ing the catalogue. George a Everard, Irving and Robert Marti Koplin, Dirk Lohan, E. White and Mary Alice V help. To further the project limited-edition lithograph, for making the print—whit Chicago—but I am indebte purchased it, sight unseen, reality. The response was s< of 100 was mostly gone bef drawing on the stone. Equr was never really “offered”mouth. Clearly, Bob’s worl The Sordoni Art Galler Business Council who have exhibition programming. In patronage for the arts, we v mission without the help ol We thank all the owner their willingness to share tf would have been impossibl M. Stephen Dohery, edi graciously allowed me to re Robert L. Schultz that had ; Nancy L. Krueger hand to this exhibition. John Bee Finally, Bob and Denise tion their total support. I ar them. �ACKNOWLEDGMENTS i i the y i HIS catalogue results from an outpouring of faith in Robert L. Schultz. During the planning stages of the exhibition, I contacted a number of his longtime supporters and collectors for help with the costs of publish­ ing the catalogue. George and Nia Choles, J. Laurence Everard, Irving and Robert Goodman, Judd Hammack, Marti Koplin, Dirk Lohan, William L. Schultz, Dr. Willard E. White and Mary Alice Wimmer generously agreed to help. To further the project, Bob consented to create a limited-edition lithograph. Not only am I grateful to Bob for making the print—which was printed by Landfall Press, Chicago—but I am indebted as well to all the people who purchased it, sight unseen, in order to make this catalogue a reality. The response was so overwhelming that the edition of 100 was mostly gone before Bob had even completed drawing on the stone. Equally remarkable is that the print was never really “offered”—it sold primarily by word of mouth. Clearly, Bob’s work has touched many people. The Sordoni Art Gallery thanks the members of The Business Council who have provided additional support for exhibition programming. In an era of diminished government patronage for the arts, we would be unable to fulfill our mission without the help of these enlightened businesses. We thank all the owners for lending works. Without their willingness to share their drawings, this exhibition would have been impossible. M. Stephen Dohery, editor of American Artist, has graciously allowed me to reprint excerpts from my article on Robert L. Schultz that had appeared in that publication. Nancy L. Krueger handled the many details pertaining to this exhibition. John Beck designed the catalogue. Finally, Bob and Denise Schultz have given this exhibi­ tion their total support. I am privileged to have worked with them. —SIG 36-1'341^2 �ROBERT L. SC Drawings ido 19 Stanley I Grand LENDERS TO THE EXHIBITION The Arkansas Ans Center Foundation, Little Rock, Arkansas 11 Chuck Bauer, Madison, Wisconsin Chuck Beckwith, Madison, Wisconsin Michael Bedner, Santa Monica, California John A. Bonavita, Swarthmore, Pennsylvania Jalane and Richard Davidson, Chicago Mr. and Mrs. James T. Dyke, Little Rock, Arkansas Reginald Emshoff, Madison, Wisconsin J. Laurence Everard, Cross Plains, Wisconsin Kathleen and Irwin Garfield, Malibu, California Dr. Fred Gilbert, New York City Harold S. Goldman, Swarthmore, Pennsylvania Jon and Nancy Grand, Evanston, Illinois Stanley I Grand, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania Bonnie and Jay Griffin, Madison, Wisconsin Stuart Handler Family Collection, Evanston, Illinois Duane Hendrickson, Madison, Wisconsin Michael Kelly, Madison, Wisconsin Koplin Gallery, Los Angeles Dirk Lohan, Chicago Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin Kevin McGee, Portland, Oregon Mary and Stephen Mizroch, San Rafael, California John Modell, San Francisco Gary Moe, Portland, Oregon Kenneth Mohr, Madison, Wisconsin Thomas J. Pfister, Madison, Wisconsin Ellen and Irwin Rennert, Los Angeles Dr. Eugene H. Rogolsky, Los Angeles Mr. and Mrs. Howard A. Tullman, Chicago Hal Turton, Madison, Wisconsin Wilham and Joyce Wartmann, Edgerton, Wisconsin Dr. Willard E. White, Riverside, Illinois James and Mary Alice Wimmer, Madison, Wisconsin James A. Witalison, Madison, Wisconsin Two Private Collections T n a remarkable series of drawings sp I years, Robert L. Schultz has closely st JL Schultz has focused on the human for women equally well and sensitively—beca express feelings, create moods, and convey forty-one drawings in this exhibition tract evolution from graduate student to matun tions, his understandings, and—-concurren changed over the years, his quest has rema interview, Schultz observed: “Back then [1 hearing my professors’ voices in my head, be grand: men and women, alienation, Ion are still there, but in a more common way In retrospect we can see the changes.' pale, ethereal images with a ghostly insub: appear like visions, emerging from a shrot specificity of place, horizon, and backgroi cast no shadows. Paradoxically, despite th bodies, they seem disembodied. Subsequently, the drav/ings become int and enigmatic. Although narrative assums remains ambiguous and incomplete. Psycl physical conflict often permeate these wo of expanding and contracting muscles syn often contradictory nature of the psyche. and Friends the psychological forces beco less arresting as if the conflicting impulse; equilibrium. The overt sexual tension in L profound sense of loneliness or loss. Drar Except in a few instances, such as Woman introspective and uncommunicative. Sadr whelming aura of tragedy supplant ranco: i. Quoted in James Rhem, “Pencil Pusher,” Isthrr. �ROBERT L. SCHULTZ Drawings 1980-1995 Stanley I Grand series of drawings spanning the past fifteen years, Robert L. Schultz has closely studied the human figure. -IL Schultz has focused on the human form—he draws men and women equally well and sensitively—because of its unique ability to express feelings, create moods, and convey states of mind. The forty-one drawings in this exhibition trace Schultz’s growth and evolution from graduate student to mature artist. While his ques­ tions, his understandings, and—concurrently—his technique have changed over the years, his quest has remained constant. In a 1994 interview, Schultz observed: “Back then [the 1980s] I was still hearing my professors’ voices in my head. I thought the idea had to be grand: men and women, alienation, loneliness. Now those themes are still there, but in a more common way.”1 In retrospect we can see the changes. The earliest drawings are pale, ethereal images with a ghostly insubstantiality. Frequently they appear like visions, emerging from a shrouding mist. They lack specificity of place, horizon, and background. Like the dead, they cast no shadows. Paradoxically, despite their frequently massive bodies, they seem disembodied. Subsequently, the drawings become increasingly dramatic, surreal, and enigmatic. Although narrative assumes a greater importance, it remains ambiguous and incomplete. Psychological tension and physical conflict often permeate these works with the juxtaposition of expanding and contracting muscles symbolizing the complex, often contradictory nature of the psyche. In Monica and Self-Portrait and Friends the psychological forces become more understated and less arresting as if the conflicting impulses have attained an uneasy equilibrium. The overt sexual tension in Lovers is replaced by a profound sense of loneliness or loss. Drama becomes interior. Except in a few instances, such as Woman at Table, the figures are introspective and uncommunicative. Sadness, reverie, and an over­ whelming aura of tragedy supplant rancor. Simultaneously as the TT n a remarkable 1. Quoted in James Rhern, “Pencil Pusher,” Isthmus (April 22, 1994): 27. �mood becomes interior, the figures become more substantial: they cast shadows amid increasingly defined and complex bac "groun Recently Schultz has continued to strip away the layers of narrative and drama. Settings are quotidian and straightforward. Increasingly the models make eye contact with the viewer; nonethe­ less they remain private persons. Moreover, Schultz s models, such as Karl or Jack, are beginning to show signs of aging. While the “professors’ voices” have faded, the essence of their influence remains: the figurative tradition, conflict and tension, meticulous draftsmanship, symbolic representation, and psychologi­ cal insights. The University of Wisconsin, where Schultz completed his undergraduate and graduate studies, has long been associated with representational art. In the 1940s, the school hired John Steuart Curry as its first artist-in-residence. A prominent member along with Grant Wood and I'homas Hart Benton—of the “regionalist triumvirate,” Curry repeatedly drew on the theme of elemental struggle: floods, tornadoes, line storms, battling jacks, abolitionists, predators, and all manner of dynamic (indeed hyperbolic) conflict appear in his art. While the influence of Curry was indirect, it is, nonetheless, present. A more immediate influence was the “magic realism” of George Tooker, Jared French, Paul Cadmus, Robert Vickery, and especially John Wilde, with whom Schultz studied. Ironically, although known for his fantastic, surreal imagination, Wilde conveyed primarily to Schultz an understanding of the power of understatement, that “less is more." Neither a regionalist nor a magic realist, Schultz employs a classical vocabulary for contemporary ends, as a consideration of his subject matter, composition, and technique demonstrates. Schultz's preoccupation with drawing the human form clearly marks him as a classical artist working in the long tradition of Western art. The idealizing impulse found in both Antique and Renaissance art, however, is muted in Schultz’s work. Rather he depicts specific individuals—often family members, friends, or students—and his drawings remain, on one level, portraits. Nonetheless, they do depict a type: whether twenty or sixty years old, his models enjoy a studied healthiness, an aesthetic physicality'. They are the denizens of a progressive college town rather than a cross-section of a large metropolis. Schultz’s interest in this physical type results in part from his upbringing: his father, the erstwhile director of the local YMCA instilled a lifelong commitment to physical fitness in his children. Schultz enhances his figural compositions with a limited number of symbolic objects. Early on, Schultz’s circumscribed repertory of torn clothing, sheets, cloths, ropes, and masks appears. Through repeution chairs assume a symbolic meaning as does the performer’s costume whether it be leotards, striped shirts, or athletic gear. In ' mime’s props, the arte; < the floor, plants, plank assumed a metaphor a gorical subjects ha-.■■ b. Schultz is a c 1 ■ i. i compositions. A typical d monumental figure deposi Although balanced anc difficult poses that require rhythmic alternation of ter classical conlrapposto anin dominates with the figure, from the ground. Forms ar the arms pulled in close to prevailing mood of self-coi narrow, slightly claustroph immediacy, the figures are always private interiors, us rants, amusement palaces, i where crowds gather. Neit.: air softens the harsh light.' dreamlike lucidity. Schultz’s controlled, eli classical sensibility that tre dignity. It is devoid of cxpi sights. His shadows, for ex live process that results fre marks. 1 lis line frequently cates details. Over the year developed, his approach ha in his handling of light. Schultz’s need for emol mined his choice of mediui ring to concentrate on drawi and intimate qualities. Uni with verisimilitude, a grapl always reminds the viewer drawing purist he seems ah the disegno-colore wars th; contemporary art in its iroi and present-day estrangem In Robert Schultz’s dra arrested moments, superb < a quiet timeless realm. Like their great beauty while sin vulnerability and transience �itial: ■■ . kgroum: ;rs of jrward. :r; nonethe- dels, such e of their nsion, asychologicompleted mime s props, the anecdotal details—jumbled clothing scattered on the floor, plants, plank and tiled floors, and woven rugs—have also assumed a metaphorical quality. More recently, religious and alle­ gorical subjects have been explored. Schultz is a classicist not only in his choice of subject but in his compositions. A typical design consists of a highly modelled, monumental figure deposed along the central axis. Although balanced and symmetrical, the models often assume difficult poses that require complex and severe foreshortenings. The :r—along ionahst rhythmic alternation of tension and relaxation characteristic of classical contrapposto animates the figures. Clarity of form pre­ dominates with the figure, for the most part, clearly differentiated from the ground. Forms are usually geometrized and closed, with the arms pulled in close to the body, in order to underscore the prevailing mood of self-containment. The figures exist in shallow, nental olitionists, ) conflict narrow, slightly claustrophobic spaces. To enhance the feeling of immediacy, the figures are frequently cropped. The settings are always private interiors, usually the studio; they are never restau­ ct, it is, e “magic rants, amusement palaces, dance halls, clubs, or other public spaces where crowds gather. Neither atmospheric effects nor intervening <obert tudied. air softens the harsh light. The figures are seen—revealed—with a dreamlike lucidity. nation, the power Schultz’s controlled, elegant, virtuoso drawing style reflects a classical sensibility that treats solemn subjects with restrained dignity. It is devoid of expressive emotionalism or impulsive in­ oys a ation of his sights. His shadows, for example, grow and deepen in a slow addi­ tive process that results from the accumulation of innumerable small , Schultz’s ks him as a t. The cates details. Over the years, as Schultz’s technical facility has developed, his approach has become somewhat broader, especially ociated ahn Steuart e art, ecific -and his :y do els enjoy a denizens sf a large ?art from :al YMCA, hildren. ted number jertory of trough terformer’s gear. In ’. Like a marks. His line frequently has a surgical quality in the way it extri­ in his handling of light. Schultz’s need for emotional contact with the viewer has deter­ mined his choice of medium and style. He no longer paints, prefer­ ring to concentrate on drawing, which he appreciates for its reductive and intimate qualities. Unlike a painting, which can fool the eye with verisimilitude, a graphite drawing—especially a realistic one— always reminds the viewer that it is a deliberate work of art. As a drawing purist he seems almost like an anachronism, an epilogue in the disegno-colore wars that raged in centuries past. Yet his is a contemporary art in its ironic commingling of a classical sensibility and present-day estrangement. In Robert Schultz’s drawings, perplexing narratives, symbols, arrested moments, superb draftsmanship, and pensive moods evoke a quiet timeless realm. Like memento mori, his drawings attract with their great beauty while simultaneously reminding us of our own vulnerability and transience. �! - I Tim, 198c 16V2 inches x 15 inches' was still a graduate student, Executed while the artist Tim is a full length frontal portrait of the artist’s brother. A young Hercules, the figure stands at soldier­ like ease, displaying his massive, highly articulated biceps, on which pumped-up veins dance, f he artist S choice of a somewhat lower vantage point heightens the impression of monumcntality. With slightly asyinmeti 1 cal eyes and a nose that appears to have been brokenthe result, perhaps, of a sporting accident I ini s innocent, boyish face seems at odds with his exaggerated body armor. Well-worn sweat pants, rolled up to the knee, emphasize that his musculature is the result of countless hours at the gym. Schultz’s love of rendering fabric, which continues throughout his work, is seen in the "wet drapery" that clings to the figure’s powerful abdomen. As in most of his drawings, Schultz calls attention to prominent parts of the composition by means of tone. Typically, as in the eyes and nostrils, these parts are the darkest. Schultz’s tendency to geometricize the figure is manifest here. The shoulders, biceps and forearms form a hexagon set upon the rectangle of the lower body. Although symmetry reigns, balance does not. A, peculiar contradiction exists between the solidity and weighti­ ness of the upper body and the lower extremities which appear to fade away. One wonders how such ethereal legs can possibly support the upper body. Yet the viewer does not dwell on this question because Schultz subtly moves the eye upward by progressively darkening the figure along the vertical axis. The insubstantial feet, moreover, add a realistic quality to the drawing by emphasizing that the viewer cannot focus on everything simultaneously; the feet, in other words, have that sketchy quality of things seen peripherally. 1. Height precedes width throughout. �the :n- ted g Ln i to le m liar :h /er f ng i �Figure Behind Sheet, 1982 22 inches x 17 inches Completed in 1982, a year after Schultz earned his M.F.A. degree. Figure Behind Sheet, is one of Schultz s earliest psychologically charged drawings. I he manner in which this enigmatic drawing employs the sheet to , cover much of the figure calls to mind Raphaelle Pc.de S After the Bath in Kansas City and anticipates the masks in Lovers. Unlike the modest Peale, however, Schultz deliberately exposes, indeed concentrates on, the model’s denuded pudenda. The exposure-concealment polarity as well as the presence of a strong, but ambiguous, narrative element generate tension in the drawing. The meaning remains a conundrum that we are left to solve according to our own imaginations, just as we complete the contour line on the model’s lower left leg. The left foot, which was turned slightly outward in Tim, is here turned almost perpendicular to the right foot. The model stands in a full contrapposto; one leg is clearly weight bearing while the other is relaxed. Again, the play of opposites informs our reading of this drawing. The nude stands in a shallow space defined by strong light from the right that casts a distinct shadow on the floor and wall. The floor is differentiated from the wall by the ninety-degree bend in the shadow. The pictorial space, however, is not completely logical: the foreground sheet appears to blend into the background in the upper left quadrant. This flattening of the compo­ sition by allowing foreground objects to merge with the ground is a hallmark of Schultz’s style. �his :hultz’s narmer eet to ; Peale’s ie masks :hultz e as the lement mams a □ our ?ur line ward in ;ht foot, clearly , the iwmg. >y ladow from w. The al: the ’round compoivith the �Karl I, 1982 21 inches x 14% inches A novelist and well-known authority on running in Schultz’s hometown, Karl Harter has posed for Schultz on numerous occasions (see Cat. nos. 20, 31, and 32). In this drawing, he appears wearing Nike running shoes, nylon shorts and an athletic top. As in Tim, the viewer is drawn to the model’s face by the darkness of the eye. Similarly in both works the top of the head seems to vanish into thin air. Unlike Tim, this figure casts a shadow that helps define the wall on which he leans. The base line formed by the wall joining the floor emphasizes the shallowness of the space. Despite his well-conditioned body,the figure seems to exist in a state of precarious balance. He stands awkwardly on the edges of his shoes seeking the sup­ port of the proximate wall. His arms are crossed across his chest protectively and his gaze is wary. The drawing evidences Schultz’s growing interest in rendering complex poses and in closely observing cast shadows. Here he brings the back right leg forward of the left while simultaneously rotating the ankle outward. The shadow cast by the left leg onto the right thigh and calf furthers the illusion of three-dimensionality. �xin Schultz 32). In hoes, newer is eye. ,s to a ans. seems s supacross ?rest in ; cast rd of cvard. and �Pull, Push, 1982 13J/4 inches x 227/« inches Like characters from Dante’s Inferno or combatants carved in bas relief on the metopes of some long-ruined temple, these grapplers lock in an eternal, futile em­ brace. Struggling within the confines of a shallow, box­ like cell, they are anonymous, indeed headless, as they wrestle with, but do not face, each other. The passion of their entanglement is long gone; what remains is a ritual skirmish, expressed by the deliberate, symmetrical pattern formed by their bodies. Only the juxtaposition of the insistent clenched fist with the yielding open hand suggests that the conflict might be more psychological than physical. Naked from the waist up, the combatants wear tights similar to those favored by dancers, trapeze artists, or gymnasts. Here art transforms John Steuart Curry’s elemental clashes into dance. ��5 Lovers, 1983 151/2 inches x 22 inches Schultz’s debt to the tradition of “magic realism is clear in this bizarre, pessimistic, oneiric vision. Two lovers sit on a hard, shelflike bench that extends beyond the edges of the drawing. Like the lovers themselves, the bench is cold and unyielding. As in a dream, contradictions abound. The lovers are masked, suggesting duplicity or, at the least, a lack of forthrightness. Yet their nakedness proclaims that they have nothing to hide, that they are revealing the “naked truth.” Neither slack nor taut, the thin rope linking them suggests irresolution or an indeterminate stage in their relationship. Lovers marks an advance in the complexity of Schultz’s narratives. His most theatrical work to date, Lovers exploits fully the dramatic potential of oppo­ sites—male-female, frontal-rear, tension-relaxation, pattern-starkness, light-dark. The drawing also repre­ sents the end of a certain line of inquiry; hereafter, he will begin to move back toward more normative settings. Other advances include the initial appearance of a complex floor pattern, which recalls those in Renais­ sance paintings. Schultz s tiles, however, are drawn from the blue and white floor in his studio. Technically, Schultz s hatching has become more expressive and his response to light more developed: note the way that light appears to sweep across the floor. The poses have also gained in complexity, although his foreshortening of the man s legs seems somewhat unsure. �" w—* ’ - '-^ 7 P. 7.' . i 6. ■ Z —' , «- Z r, ,' ' - 0.-6 7 7, - t • = =r - r. \ zz r -r- -it ■£, o_ 3 7~ r i ■'■ T — o’ = ? S e- i- - § Tl-r--' �stasis, front and rear views, light and darK nair, active and passive poses, monumental scale and shallow spaces combine to produce a sense of classic balance. Yet the disturbing content is decidedly unclassical. Schultz employs gestures suggestively, as in the contrasting treatment of the two hands gripping the rope, to represent differing mental states. He also furthers the psychological intimacy by cropping the figures at the knee. We are no longer observers, as we were in Lovers-, now we are participants. But, as in many relationships, the parties’ needs are not the same. While the fair-haired figure crosses the line and reaches out for support, the other makes no effort to offer a helping hand. Befitting her passive state, she allows—but she neither reciprocates nor encour­ ages the other s touch. Instead, her gestures remain self-protective and closed like her contour. JL �'■ r. V V 7 • “5 't. �Hi | 7 Monica, 1985 24I4 inches x n3/« inches Monica is representative of Schultz s lonely, introspec­ tive figures that recall Edward Hopper’s images of estrangement and isolation. Leaning against a tiled wall, lost in her own thoughts, Monica waits in the hallway outside Schultz’s studio. The dialogue between the artist and his model seems strained. She has become an out­ sider, excluded from the artist’s workplace. In asym­ metrical defiance of academic contrapposto, her body becomes an outward sign of inner ambivalence. Neither tense nor relaxed, her limbs attain momentary equilib­ rium between action and inaction, decision and indeci­ sion. Her precarious balance contains an inkling of danger: the possibility of falling down the steep flight of stairs from which the light shines upward. Stylistically, Monica is the first drawing in this exhibition to demonstrate a “core of the shadow,” the darkening or intensification of the basic shadow area to indicate a change of plane. In Monica the dark core appears in the center of both legs where the highlights and shadows meet. More than simply a technical device, the core area is a metaphor for the conflict between light and dark, where opposing values clash instead of blend­ ing together gradually. �P9LJFREH FZTJ X LTn T TT TtT 'ospec- of led wall, allway the artist n out>ymbody Neither quilibindeci;of flight of 1-1 us r,” the area to ore [lights 1 device, een light f blend- J '! II �8 Self-Portrait and Friends, 1985 ij3/4 inches x 21% inches A quiet, melancholy mood envelops Schultz, Tom Hoffman (a former studio mate), and Chris Gargan. Schultz, on the left, looks down while the others appear to look in his direction. In order to emphasize that all three are artists, Schultz has exaggerated the scale of the clasped hands and elongated Gargan’s arm. The close cropping of the foreground figures heightens the sense of immediacy, intimacy, and discomfort; the viewer feels like an uninvited guest whose presence evokes silence and turned away eyes. Self-Portrait and Friends modifies a classic formula for depicting three scholars seated at table, which requires that the lateral figures be shown in profile and the central in full face. The books and antique statuary usually present on the table have been replaced by a piece of paper and a pencil. Gargan does not hold the pencil in a natural drawing manner; rather he seems about to raise his hand in order to take the measure of his friend. �Os' (i ■. s- .K ■/ A 1\ _ �- Anne, 1986 -jVi inches x 4V2 inches Regarding this deceptively simple drawing, Jerome Stem observed “The blonde tonality is built of thou sands of feather-touch strokes and the impression o a light-washed atmosphere emerges in the casua grace o the female model.”' The model’s “casual grace, how­ ever, results from a most classical, architectonic arrange­ ment of forms. With her head turned in profile, frontal torso, and aloofness, Anne could be a modern incarna­ tion of an ancient Greek goddess. Schultz’s fascination with design and pattern is everywhere apparent. The ground has been bisected into large, elegantly proportioned rectangular areas, dark below and light above. Negative space, whether the triangles formed beneath the arms or the shapes created on the back of the bench, has been carefully considered. Despite their apparent casualness, the limbs of the figure are consciously arranged: extending outward the trun­ cated arms (again recalling Greek statuary) form subtle diagonals that guide the eye upward while the angle of the raised knee parallels Anne’s right arm, a relationship furthered by the parallel cores of the shadows. Light and shadow patterns are now increasingly important to Schultz; indeed light itself has become one of his subjects. Shadows too have assumed an expanded role as independent design elements and no longer exist primarily for modelling purposes. § £2“SUnng m Mo^ome/Polychrome: sity Gallery and Museum, Z0W4F1°rida State Univer- �f o e > ���i li II II I seventy, she pauses in tne act 01 picking, up ~ u. u...—, striped shirt and turns a direct, slightly questioning gaze in our direction. No smile of recognition or welcoming eases the transition. Two candles are placed on the table, whose covering recalls the traditional cloths in paintings of the Last Supper. The candle on the right, which has been knocked over and cast from its holder, functions as a variant on the traditional extinguished candle that reminds us of mortality, both our own and that of loved ones. The striped shirt, which first appears peeking out from under a sweat shirt in Self-Portrait and Friends, is a symbol of the artist himself. The drawing s rigorous geometry, a simplified and i I'^il ! ? ■ l;: I I!??;;' I ' I I more powerful version of the intersecting vertical and horizontal axes in Monkey Bars, furthers the quiet, elegiac mood and serves as a foil to the slightly menac­ ing quality of the cast shadow on the far left. �e :d, aze ng ing *ed ut is d d JWl 1 �Arms, 1987 8 inches x j'/z inches each panel Although this is the exhibition’s sole triptych, Schultz has employed this format elsewhere to explore a theme dialectically. Here he interprets a locus of human inter­ action as a highly abstract, formal dance or mime performance. Stripped of overt emotionalism, the arms and hands come together to create an ambiguous sema­ phore language that hints at, but never explicitly reveals, its meaning. In the drawing on the left, the model bends his arm at the elbow and rests the back of the hand on his hip. To offset the weight and downward pull of an arm that reaches up and grasps his forearm, he supports his wrist with his right hand. The model in the drawing opposite •d. His arm dangles the mysterious hand , irities of active— Passive and vertical horizontal find a synthesis in the symmetrical, almost heraldic central panel. �, Schultz ricn inter­ ims . the arms aus senuily revcc ... is 11.S afftl i his hip. ■ .. s his v. nst I 'Tpesitidangles |"us hand ivets in the and �•3 Performer 1,1987 iS inches x 13 inches Performer I is 2 link in the long chain of commedia Celi’arte characters, Pierrots, jesters, sakamrarKjues. harlequins that winds through the art of A ai.e-au, Picasso and J. S. Curry among many others. Like Lear’s tool, the performer uses his art to tell truths that other­ wise would be unacceptable. The costume worn by the performer once belonged to Schultz’s grandfather, a professional circus acrobat. Schultz’s father also maintained a connection to the circus, as director of the Circus World Museum. Thus the checkered costume, and its variant the striped shirt, is aven- personal symbol that pays homage both to Schultz's forbearers and to his craft. In this, the first of a series of numbered draw ings ■ ihi same model, the performer raises both U"V' to Ins he id, which is covered by a skullcap. His ii\ A ...1 metamorphosing into a giant butter fly In a moment, he will open his 1 ’ 11 lh, eu.U rosclte huuou> UKj prep4re go ��Cr . ..... . i setting also evokes the American ideal of the indepen dent yeoman farmer, who nurtures both the land and old-fashioned values. The idealized nude has just experi­ enced an awakening; her attitude of receptive anticipa­ tion recalls Michelangelo’s Adam on the Sistine Ceiling. Indeed, with the apples, she can be seen as the embodi­ ment of a new Eve, the rebirth of an archetypal mother bathed in radiant morning light. In this context, the striped shirt and five apples appear to symbolize the artist and his siblings. This drawing is both a summary and an advance for the artist. Present are familiar design elements including the shallow, closed space; the balanced, symmetrical i Wi mposition, the value contrasts; the delight in pattern; and the masterly rendering of the figure and drapery. Schultz s understanding of light, however, has grown ilreZrrrT?fOUnd’InStead of illuminating the rXcted t f‘T fr°m a SPeciflc —, he us&ed order to2 ' t| 'n T Uunces off the sheet in to give the flesh an otherworldly glow. ■' I - .- >ai2EScV» I �j I ■ I i ? 1' w ����i , ... j. o figure Door pose Heraskin, Ji abun:ks, y reniin iymbolic ■ air to missing ag the ;htby 'Tilner■ the open - �■ A �rest on the udio. The tn. The frequently urer’s rests gently If-protectheir , this "real to the ealso earlier have ^figuration. earlier •cd vantage 'urnerous �i8 Figure on Sofa, 1989 22 inches x 19 inches The withdrawn model, propped into the corner oi a leather couch, idly fingers a striped shirt that trails from her extended hand to the floor. She is reluctant to le. go of the source of her musings. The setting lacks the harshness of the studio. The hardwood floor, tasteful rug, contemporary sofa, and heavy blanket with its stylized Native American pattern all suggest the interior of a stylish modern home. The scene is carefully observed down to the cast shadows of the eyebrows, hair and left nipple. Schultz’s virtuosity in rendering fabric and texture is particularly apparent here. An extravaganza of tactile abundance orbits the model: the nap of the rug, the densitv of the oak boards, the smooth buttery leather of the couch, the softness of the cotton pants, the heft and weight of the thick blanket, the tough scuffed sandals, and the sheen of the dangling shirt. <'-one is the former hyperbole. Now a bittersweet monu nt in the lite oi a real person, the artist’s wife 1 ni..<, piovides sufficient dramatic content. �orner of a hat trails from ctant to let go acks the >or, tasteful t with its est the interior to the cast >ple. Schultz’s is particularly abundance ensity of the the couch, the wight of the ■nd the sheen • bittersweet list’s wife ent. �f on Stairs [Thomas], ^9 22I6 inches x 14% inches this drawing with Monica, which was 7'XeTthrce years before, one sees a pronounced change in style. Although both works employ the same ting-in Montca the stairs descend to the left whereas they recede to the right-the handling of the space and figures is completely different. The difference might almost be characterized as a shift from planar to sculp rural or classic to baroque. In contrast to Thomas, Monica appears flat, linear, and self-contained within clear contours. On the other hand, Thomas s form is three dimensional, massive, and composed of a complex arrangement of solids and voids. The space of the setting is likewise more believable: the addition of the edge or corner of the right-hand wall creates an environment in which the spherical form of the figure can exist. Schultz has also expanded the tonal scale in the latter work. Whereas Monica is drawn primarily in middle values, Thomas employs a considerably fuller contrast range. Light is also used more dramatically in the later work. Not. only does the harsher luminosity highlight the figure- -and call attention to details, such as the under­ sides of the toes, that might otherwise be overlooked— but it also creates highly expressive cast shadows. Casually dressed with his rolled-up pants and open sh"T 1 homas could play the part of a vacationer at seaside resort. Yet his mood is not jovial. The stair Nd has become a stock imprisoning the hand of the N "'lv< young man. Avoiding eye contact—and judg)()w y '""""K ’‘way Irom an elevated viewer, ThoX^nod7 ,l,'!l,1,nk,,lwl‘lil-'Hna as he decides ,|, j |“ 1 “■. S,au's *'nd move toward the 'ding, lig|u. �iced .e same whereas e space :e might sculp­ is, ithin in is :omplex le setting :dge or ment in Schultz irk. ■alues. range. ' work. : the : underacted— vs. nd open erat The stair >f the d judg'er,Thoecides dthe �Karl II (Clothed and Nude'), 1989 20 23 inches x 18I/2 inches Schultz’s continuing preoccupation with °f opposites is seen in this double portrait of Karl Harter. The physical impossibility of the figure appearing clothed and nude simultaneously undermines the outward naturalness of the composition and tends to suggest an allegorical interpretation such as the Baroque conceit of Truth revealed by Time. Like T. S. Eliot’s Prufrock, Karl has time “To pre­ pare a face to meet the faces that you meet.” Clothed, he exudes a cocky confidence; undressed, he retreats inward. Along with his protective, self-defining cloth­ ing, his composure dropped to the floor. The expressive potential of discarded clothing lying on the floor, which Schultz explored earlier in Open Door and Figure on Sofa, continues to engage his inter­ est. Despite their inherent messiness, the crumpled pants, folded sock, and black Converse hightops are carefully positioned along a diagonal that sweeps into the center of the composition from the right. Schultz s appreciation of negative space has become increasingly sophisticated. Whereas previously shadows tended to be flat shapes, now they are rendered with more complexity. Especially notable is the presence of an aura or darkening, of the shadow beneath the biceps nud -C \vr L . '.§Ure and alon§ the right contour of the . I 1C ln^ t^e shadows an impression of depth, ■ amb:6"ous rei„iO„3hi; �interplay of irl Harter. iring s the tends to he Baroque “To preClothed, he rears iing cloth- ithing lying in Open >e his interimpled Hops are veeps into t has become Jsly shadows ered with presence of lth the biceps mtour of the SI°n of depth, 'd relationship aeck, right ��ig serves to reveal the )n the left, Sheila strikes • lips. She appears to be lending of instability ts a cosmopolitan, 1, she is rigid as she tist the wall. Her hypno­ se of night-feeding deer her refines the notion of ig the cast shadow of the s bare hand and wrist �11 Still Life with Pear, 1991 14 inches x 26% inches In this restless still life a horizontal nude, pear, and patterned blanket are arranged on a stark pine table. Too small for the figure, the table assumes the solemnity of an altar. The twisting, agitated figure covers his eyes from an intense, cutting light that streams in from the left. Is he about to share Iphigenia’s fate or is this an echo of the monsters spawned in Goya’s dream of reason? The difficult pose demonstrates Schultz’s mastery of foreshortening, and the intricately patterned cloth exhibits his love of traditional American designs and response to the sensuality of textures. The movement implied by the limbs receding into a shallow space is counteracted by a quiet, organizing geometrv: the diagonal of the arm that holds the pear parallels that of the raised leg and the angle of the front biceps and shoulder is echoed by the back of the elevated calf. ���gement of the all recall Per­ stands in a te tension in his r as he stands 1 its shoulder e Perf°rmance, “tin the swollen “Private sphere is �v * 1 u ��r 25 English Ivy, 199° 25*6 inches x 15 inches In Schultz’s works, unusual vantage points frequently create an intimacy that at times approaches voyeunsm The bird’s eve perspective in English Ivy, however, adds a spiritual quality to the drawing. The viewer assumes the role of a protective presence, a guardian, gazing down on a seminude figure who averts his face. As has been noted, Schultz often creates the illusion of depth by placing the darkest area in the composite>n, in this case the hair and head, closest to the picture plane. He will also, as in Monkey Bars, use this dark area as a pivot. Here the contour of the body moves in an eccentric trajectory around the resting head. Like engaging gears, this circular flow meshes with that of the ivy tendrils that fan out like spidery spokes from a bottle vase in order to focus our attention on the hand delicately touching the ivy. The ancient Greeks believed that ivy was sacred to Dionysos, the god of wine, husbandry', freedom, joy, peace, and the gentle arts of civilization. Through his association with the vine, which buds, blooms, fruits, and dies in an annual cycle, Dionysos came to represent the concept of death and rebirth. In English Ivy the posture of the young man, the striped shirt, and his touch of the plant evokes a pro­ found sense of loss. It is, perhaps, a quiet lamentation for a departed mother who loved plants. �points frequently oaches voyeurism. ;7t?y, however, adds he viewer assumes yardian, gazing erts his face. n creates the illusion i in the composition, st to the picture Jars, use this dark f the body moves in resting head. Like neshes with that of lidery spokes from ttention on the hand hat ivy was sacred to ndry, freedom, joy, nation.Through his suds, blooms, fruits, ysos came to represent the young man, the e plant evokes a pro­ 's, a quiet lamentation d plants. �1 ■ ) ;! I hands are open, his are clasped; she wears espadrilles, he is barefoot. Yet their intertwined legs suggest closeness, trust, and familiarity with each other’s bodies. ���t Fi �28 Woman in Black Dress, 1991 19 inches x 18 inches Woman in Black Dress, which features the model who also posed for Window, well illustrates Schultz’s design aesthetic. He has organized the composition by means of a strong diagonal which—emphasizing their signifi­ cance—only the head and hands are allowed to cross. He builds up the design by joining other diagonals into triangles that form the drawing’s major building blocks. His formal restraint—he resists the temptation to draw everything—and his commitment to simplification and clarification are seen in the three values (the white of the ground and the two subtly different tones of the dress) that effectively structure the drawing. Although the tonal range in the dress is limited, the effect is stunning: the icilected light coming through the crinkled silk positively glows. �I ��1 �Il I I I i 30 Benches [Lisa], 1992. 25 inches x n'/z inches I I I lil J Ji At times Schultz’s drawings appear like secularized and updated interpretations of traditional religious art. Here, on the eve of the millennium, a young woman assumes the classic pose of acceptance—arms crossed over the chest—associated with the Annunciation. She has already progressed through her surprise, confusion and fear; now, like an allegorical figure of Humility, she accepts her preordained role. Schultz uses a variety of formal devices to intensify meaning. He reinforces her gesture, for example, with a repetitive chiastic pattern that progresses upward from her shoes. He heightens the sense of immediacy by adopting a narrow, vertical format. The elevated vantage point affords the viewer a divine perspective and serves further as a substitute for the impregnating ray of light. Eliminating the usual symbols associated with the event the archangel Gabriel, open book, and lily— increases the power of the drawing by making it less literal and more universal. Here again Schultz demon­ strates his belief that “less is more.” ��i I 31 Facing the Wall, 19919 inches x 1114 inches Like a tired boxer, a man of middle age-seen from the rear—appears weary, even bowed, as he supports him­ self by grasping the backs of two carefully placed chairs. In time, we imagine, canes or walking sticks will replace the chairs as the riot of veins, confined now to the extremities, slowly transforms and ages the skin. An aptly titled work, Facing the Wall oscillates between the literal and the symbolic, between time present and the past. Not only does the title describe what the figure is in fact doing but, more expansively, it suggests the imperative of coming to terms with a final insurmountable obstacle. The drawing’s relationship to the past, to the history of art, transforms Karl Harter, the individual depicted, into everyman. For example, the triangular motif con­ sisting of a central, vertical figure flanked on both sides by animals, typically lions, is one of the oldest recurring designs in Western art. Entering the visual vocabulary almost three millennia ago as an Asian Mistress of Animals, the hierarchial form was later favored in paintings of saints with donors or the Madonna of Mercy. Here chairs (the most anthropomorphic of objects with their arms, legs, backs, and seats) replace the kneeling humans and crouching beasts. Other conscious references to the past serve to universalize this work. The ogival form created by the contour lines that sweep through the chair backs and converge at a dark apex recalls the arches and windows in Gothic cathedrals. The presence of a Hogarthian S-shaped “line of beauty” down the center of the back evokes a subsequent age. The two triangular shapes, one on each side of the figure, summarize the drawing’s poignancy. On the left the negative space is solid and stable; on the right it is diminished and compressed, sputtering like a weakening flame. ��■ 32 Guarded Space, 1992 23- inches x 17 inches ■ ii r The setting recalls that of Benches, except that the position of the corner is reversed, and well-worn lino­ leum squares have replaced the small vitreous tiles on the floor. Two men sit silently together, each in his own Guarded Space. Their silence is of the uncomfortable type, exacerbated by the younger man’s defensiveness toward his possessions. Both men are well known to the artist: the younger, Steven Schuh, posed for English Ivy and, along with his wife Jane, Partners. Karl, as has been noted, is a favorite model. Schultz demonstrates his exceptional ability to capture a variety of different textures, materials, and weights in this work. ,,5 ��33 Jack, 1992 24 inches x 12I/2 inches Jack Mitchell, a longtime friend from the artist’s weight­ lifting days at the YMCA, strikes an aggressive, arrogant, you-want-to-make-something-of-it pose. Nevertheless, a certain vulnerability appears in his face. Like most of Schultz’s models, he wears the casual uniform of sneak­ ers and jeans. The cuts and tears on the left pants leg or the frayed fabric on the front pocket reflect both current fashion of course, but also serve as a modern-day memento mori. The omega scars seen on both arms and above his left breast were cut or burnt into his body during a fraternity initiation ritual. What appears to be a small tattoo of a circle set in a broken pentagon is actually, according to the artist, a stylized vaccination scar. ����Folded Arms, 1993 15 inches x 11 inches I I1 II IF 111I I Rendering human hair convincingly presents a tremen­ dous challenge to an artist. Early in the history of Western art, Archaic artists solved the problem by representing hair schematically by means of pattern: one thinks of the kouroi’s “popcorn” hair for instance. If the culture values figural naturalism, artists will respond by changing from a conceptual to a perceptual approach in their interpretation of hair. Over the years, Schultz’s ability to draw hair has become increasingly skillful. In the earliest works, such as Tim or Karl I, the hair along with rhe top of the head simply disappears. Subsequently, in Monica and others, Schultz imparted a sense of mass to the hair, but it remains inanimate. In this study of Lisa’s back and hair with its lifelike sheen, weight, and resilience, along with a certain unruliness and undulating sponta­ neity—Schultz has clearly mastered the challenge. ��I ( I ( ( 36 Interval, 1993 24 inches x 16 inches A nude, solitary Demse stands on one leg while the other rests atop her discarded jeans dropped on a nearby chair. The material responds to the weight of her foot. On the floor, a striped shirt lies in a rumpled heap. She looks out like a figure in a Little Dutch Master. The high sill, similar to that in Window, allows her to see, but not be seen by, the outside world. Although Schultz often depicts figures looking beyond the drawing’s edge, he shows them less frequently peering from an actual window. The setting suggests a sparsely furnished, contempo­ rary domestic interior. Her restrained taste is confirmed by her jewelry: each object has been carefully selected with an eye toward harmony. The earring harmonizes with the chair as nicely as the simple golden bracelet does with the wedding ring. Even the jeans appear to form themselves into a rising chord on the clef-like bars of the chair. The word interval, whether used musically or temporally, suggests a pause, rest or break; a transitional period when one action has ended and the next is unbegun. Neither wholly inside nor outside, she enjoys an interval made up of both worlds. ��I I I Ill II ■I ' 37 Push, Pull, 1993 8’/s inches x 27'A inches In terms of subject and composition this drawing is a rethinking of one of Schultz’s better-known images (Cat. no. 4). Now stripped of their tights and fully nude, the figures resume or rather continue their match. Suggesting an intensification of their contest, the central triangle formed by their bodies and the floor is no longer equilateral. Gone too is the ethereal, silverpointlike quality of the drawing. Now more substantial figures, with dramatic contrasting values, link arms, push, and pull. ��i I I I I 38 Woman in Black Shirt, 1994 20 inches x 13 inches Seated on a high stool that raises her above the horizon, Nina gazes down on the viewer. She dares him to stare at her body. Unlike Sheila, she is confident in her nakedness and relishes the confrontation. The drawing has a somewhat quirky feeling to it. Not only do the hands concealed in the black shirt suggest a mystery, but we also wonder why she stepped through the shirt rather than simply removing it. i ��$9 Repose, 1994 <j3/< inches x 25% inches The most overtly religious work in this exhibition Repose is a modern interpretation of the Death of the Virgin, a popular and much-repeated subject in Chris­ tian art. According to a tradition recounted in the thirteenth-century Golden Legend, which appeared during a period of widespread Manolatry, the Virgin was not dead, but only sleeping, during the three days prior to Her resurrection. In the Renaissance, artists represented the Dormition of the Virgin by showing Her lying on a couch, bed, or bier as if asleep. Not infrequently she appears as a young woman symboliz­ ing Her exemption from the corruption of aging. In Repose, the artist’s wife is stretched out on a couch with her head resting on a pillow. She is covered by a blanket decorated with symbols. The snake alludes to the Fall as well as to the belief that Mary was the new Eve, whose coming redeemed the error of the old. The crosses, of course, allude to the Crucifixion but also to the Virgin’s Seven Sorrows. Finally, the double meander that forms a maze symbolizes the earthly journey whose ultimate destination is salvation. (Mazes once were a feature in certain pilgrimage churches; one can still see the medieval maze in the flooring at Chartres Cathe­ dral.) The emphasis on the number three, seen in the tripartite composition of the couch and the trio of inked jewels in the earring, suggests both the Trinity and the duration of Mary’s Dormition. �■- 4 — ,v,^ __ ___ jk.:_ 4-; . . ■ J _ m' __ ... :.7 .- ^r .,; . ___ - jU- [vT'(,", r ' ;,i'.__ _________ T- ... - -- i. T U/.L.,;,:L.v'. _____ _ ', -_ •? ' ' �" d ■■ ■ i ___ �$ ��i his back on the sembles a fragaounced contrapis, and legs. But md form is offset of an artist ike Picasso’s IOS. �CHECKLISTOFTHEEXHIBmON t. ... „ s,„f pmeJ“ M r 7»«> 1^80 eJiJ.”... >•< ci.«k »a Chuck Beckwith 2 Ft&ure Behind Sheet, 1982 22 x 17 Collection of Jon and Nancy Grand J Karli, 1982 21 x 14'71 Stuart Handler Family Collection 4 Pull, Push, 1982 13’Zi x 227/s Collection of Madison Art Center Purchase through gift of Verex Corporation and the Rudolph and Louise Langer Fund j Lovers, 1983 15 !4 x 22 Collection of Duane Hendrickson 6 Crossover, 1984 12 x 22 Collection of Dirk Lohan 7 Monica, 1985 24% x 11% Collection of Stanley I Grand 8 Self-Portrait and Friends, 1985 13’4 x 21% Collection of Jalane and Richard Davidson 9 Anne, 1986 7/2 x 41/2 Collection of Jon and Nancy Grand Monkey liars, 1986 1414 X u‘/z Collection of J. Laurence Evcrard 11 Woman at Table, 1986 to r 1J Collection of Dr. Fred Gilbert 12 Arms, 1987 8 x 3 V4 each panel Collection of James A. Witalison 22 Still Life with Pear, 1991 14 x 26% Collection of Michael Kelly and Hal Tu 13 Performer I, 1987 18 x 13 Collection of Mr. and Mrs. Howard A. Tullman ^3 Waiting, 1989 14 Shirt and Apples, 1987 12V2 x 16 Collection of James and Mary Alice Wimmer 24 Dresser, 199° 20 x IJ14 Private Collection 15 Danae, 1988 12 x 22V2 Collection of Dr. Willard E. White 23 English Ivy, 1990 2j’/z x 15 Collection of Mary and Stephen Mizroi 16 Open Door, 1988 17 x 12% Collection of William and Joyce Wartmann 26 Partners, 1990 17 Figures on a Sofa, 1988—1989 27 Window, 1990 22 x 11 18 x 22/2 Collection of The Arkansas Arts Center Foun­ ijMs x 13VS Collection of Gary Moe and Kevin Met 20 x 24 Collection of Dr. Willard E. White Collection of Michael Bedner dation. Purchase 18 Figure on Sofa, 1989 22 x 19 Collection of Kathleen and Irwin Garfield 28 Woman in Black Dress, 1991 19 x 18 Private Collection 29 Folded Arms, 1991 19 Figure on Stairs [Thomas], 1989 22*6 x 14% Collection of Mr. and Mrs. James T. Dyke 20 Karl II (Clothed and Nude), 19S9 23 x 18/2 Collection of John A. Bonavita and Harold S. Goldman 21 Sheila (Clothed and Nude), 1989 23 x 1816 Collection of John A. Bonavita aimd Harold S. Goldman 10 x 8 Collection of Michael Kelly and Hal Tt 30 Benches [Z-tsa], 1992 2$ X I2'/2 Collection of John Modell 31 Facing the Wall, 1992 19 x 11I6 Collection of Chuck Bauer and Chuck Guarded Sp. 'ace, 1992 x 17 C Election of Di 'r‘ Eugene H. Rogolsky �ns, 198" 3>i each panel Uection of James A. Witalison ■former 1,198” x 13 Uection of Mr. and Mrs. Howard A. lull-nan _• s . ' :'e a itb Pear, 1991 14 X 26'k Collection of Michael Kelly and 1 lai Tu 2; 441989 IS «x 13Vs Collection of Gary Moe and Kevin McGee rt and Apples, 1987 Dresser, i coo 4 x 16 Uection of James and Mary Adce Wim.mcr Private Collection nae, 1988 x 2244 Uection of Dr. Willard E. White E^lis/’Zvy, 1990 2 $44 x 15 Collection of Mary and Stephen Mizroch er, Door, 1988 x 12% Uection of William and J -yea Wartmanr. 26 .Farmers, 1990 ures or. a Sofa, 1988-1989 x 2244 Uection of The Arkansas Arts Center Foun- 2- Wbw/ow, 1990 22 X II Collection of Dr. Willard E. White Collection of Michael Bedner X !9 7. 28 Woman in Black Dress, 1991 19 x 18 Private Collection ■ ri. . : . ure on Stairs [Thomas], 1989 4 x 14% Uection of Mr. and Mrs. James T. Dy ke rl II (Clothed and Nude ■. 1989 x i844 flection of John A. Bona > ita and Harold S. ildman tila (Clothed and Nude), 1989 x 18'4 Election of John A. Bonavita and Harold S. ildman 34 Darrell, 1993 6% x $% Collection of Michael Kelly md Reginald and Hal Turton 35 Folded Arms, 1993 15 x it Collection of Dr. Fred Gilbert 36 Interval, 1993 24 x 16 Courtesy of Koplin Gallery 37 Push, Pull, 1993 8’/s x 27% Collection of Thomas J. Pfister 38 Woman in Black Shirt, 1994 20 x 13 Courtesy of Koplin Gallery ion. Purchase ure on Sofa, 1989 vjuiieccion Emshoff 29 Folded Arms, 1991 iox« Co ection of Michael Kelly and Hal Turton 3- Benches [Lisa], 1992 25 x 12% Collection of John Model! 31 Fauns’the Wall, t<pj2 19 * Ji'/a Collection of Chuck Bauer and Chuck Beckwith 32 'warded Space, l<)')2 23 x t7 Collection of Dr. Eugene 11. Rogolsky 39 Repose, 1994 9% x 25% Courtesy of Koplin Gallery 40 Woman on Tile Floor, 1994 1244 x 21% Collection of Bonnie and Jay Griffin 41 Torso in Black Tee Shirt, 1995 13 x ii'/s Collection of Ellen and Irwin Rennert �ROBERT L. SCHULTZ 1986 Contemporary 1 York C^erA.. Rockford and Belon Col Born: 1953 Resides: Oregon, Wisconsin SOLO EXHIBITIONS 1996 Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes University, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania Printworks, Chicago '995 Koplin Gallery, Santa Monica, California '994 Chosy Gallery, Madison, Wisconsin Grace '993 Koplin Gallery, Santa Monica, California >992 Grace Chosy Gallery, Madison, Wisconsin 1991 Roger Ramsay Gallery, Chicago '99° Koplin Gallery, Santa Monica, California 1989 Roger Ramsay Gallery, Chicago 1988 Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts, Letters, Madison 1986 Roger Ramsay Gallery, Chicago '984 Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin '983 • Harry Nohr Gallery, University of Wisconsin-Platteville 1982 Seuferer Chosy Gallery, Madison, Wisconsin '993 Wisconsin Triennial, Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin Drawings, Koplin Gallery, Santa Monica, California Drawing on the Figure, Carlsten Art Gallery, University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point Chicago International Art Exposition (with the Roger Ramsay Gallery exhibition) 1992 Drawings, Koplin Gallery, Santa Monica, California Chicago International Art Exposition (with the Roger Ramsay Gallery exhibition) 1991 Wisconsin ’91, Carlsten Art Gallery, University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point Chicago International Art Exposition (with the Roger Ramsay Gallery exhibition) Drawings, Koplin Gallery, Santa Monica, California Only Drawings, Art Institute of Southern California, Laguna Beach 1990 Chicago International Art Exposition (with the Roger Ramsay Gallery exhibition) The Figure, The Arkansas Arts Center, Little Rock Monochrome/Polychrome: Contemporary Realist Draw­ ing, Florida State University Museum, Tallahassee 1989 Chicago International Art Exposition (with the Roger Ramsay Gallery exhibition) 21 Years of Permanent Collection, Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin John Wilde and a Few of His Students: All Good Apples, Fanny Garver Gallery, Madison, Wisconsin 1988 Chicago International Art Exposition (with the Roger SELECTED GROUP EXHIBITIONS '995 Realism ’95: Vision and Poetry, Fletcher Gallery, Santa Fe, New Mexico 1994 Parallax Views: Selections from the Koplin Gallery of Santa Monica, Contemporary Realist Gallery, San Francisco Ramsay Gallery exhibition) 1987 Realism Today: American Drawings from the Rita Rich Collection, National Academy of Design, New York. Other venues: Smith College Museum of Art, North­ ampton, Massachusetts; The Arkansas Ans Center, Little Rock; The Butler Institute of American Art, Youngstown, Ohio Wisconsin Triennial, Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin Chicago International Art Exposition (with the Roger Ramsay Gallery exhibition) I >-U«ni Gallery, New Ym cousin 1985 81st Chic,r;... The Art Instituu Chicago 'die Jacob and Bessie Levy Priz Chicago Intern.nonal Art Exposition (with the Roger Ramsay Gallery exhibition) Group Drawing Exhibition, David Findlay Jr. Fine An New York Midwest Realist, Paine Art Center, Oshkosh, Wisconsi Other venues: Burpee Art Center, Rockford, Illinois; University Art Museum, Illinois State University, Normal Contemporary Realist, Gerold Wunderlich & Co., Nc York 1984 Studio 420 Exhibition, Harry Nohr Gallery, Universit Wisconsin-Platteville Two x Two, Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin Wisconsin Biennial, Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin 1983 Beloit and Vicinity Exhibition, Wright Museum of An Beloit College, Beloit, Wisconsin (awarded Best Show) 1982 Beloit and Vicinity Exhibition, Wright Museum of Ar Beloit College, Beloit, Wisconsin (awarded Best Show) Small Works, Seuferer Chosy Gallery, Madison, Wiscoi Old Faces—New Friends, Madison Art Center, Madi: Wisconsin Stockton National, Haggin Museum, Stockton, Calif* Wisconsin Biennial, Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin (purchase award) 1981 Wisconsin Drawing Exhibition, Carlsten Art Gallery University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point '98° Selected Works, Memorial Union Art Exhibition, Lt sity of Wisconsin-Madison SELECTED PUBLIC COLLECTK The Arkansas Arts Center Foundation, Little Rock Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin University of Wisconsin-Platteville �1986 Contemporary Realist, Gerold Wunderlich & Co New York Character Revealed, Schmidt-Bingham Gallery, New York Rockford and Vicinity Exhibition, Wright Museum of Art, Beloit College, Beloit, Wisconsin Center, Madison, Wisconsin a Monica, California a Art Gallery, University sition (with the Roger 1) a Monica, California •sition (with the Roger >) 1985 Slst Chicago and Vicinity Exhibition, The Arc Institute of Chicago (awarded the Jacob and Bessie Levy Prize) Chicago International Art Exposition (with the Roger Ramsay Gallery exhibition) Group Drawing Exhibition, David Findlay Jr. Fine Art New York Midwest Realist, Paine Art Center, Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Other venues: Burpee Art Center, Rockford, Illinois; University An Museum, Illinois State University, Normal Contemporary Realist, Gerold Wunderlich & Co., New York I9S j lery, University of sition (with the Roger >) a Monica, California f Southern California, 'tion (with the Roger iter, Little Rock temporary Realist Draw,ty Museum, Tallahassee ition (with the Roger I in, Madison Art Center, Studio 420 Exhibition, Harn- Nohr Gallery, University of Wisconsin-Platteville Two x Two, Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin Wisconsin Biennial, Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin 1983 Beloit and Vicinity Exhibition, Wright Museum of Art, Beloit College, Beloit, Wisconsin (awarded Best of Show) 1982 Beloit and Vicinity Exhibition, Wright Museum of Art, Beloit College, Beloit, Wisconsin (awarded Best of Show) Small Works, Seuferer Chosy Gallery, Madison, Wisconsin Old Faces—New Friends, Madison Art Center, Madison Wisconsin Stockton National, Haggin Museum, Stockton, California Wisconsin Biennial, Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin (purchase award) udents: All Good Apples, idison, Wisconsin 1981 Wisconsin Drawing Exhibition, Carlsten Art Gallery, University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point isition (with the Roger a) 1980 Selected Works, Memorial Union Art Exhibition, Univer­ sity of Wisconsin-Madison rings from the Rita Rich my of Design, New York, ge Museum of Art, Northle Arkansas Arts Center, titute of American Art, SELECTED PUBLIC COLLECTIONS The Arkansas Arts Center Foundation, Little Rock Art Center, Madison, Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia sition (with the Roger Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin University of Wisconsin-Platteville l) SELECTED LITERATURE The Arkansas Arts Center. The Figure: Selections from The Arkansas Arts Center (Little Rock: The Arkansas Arts Center, 1991), exhibition catalogue. The Art Institute of Chicago. 81st Exhibition of Artists of Chicago and Vicinity (Chicago: The Art Institute of Chicago, 1985), exhibition catalogue. Artner, Alan. “Gallery Review of One Person Exhibition at Roger Ramsay Gallery,” Chicago Tribune (October 1989). Auer, James. Art of Our State,” Milwaukee Journal (August 4, 1991). . Jolts of the New in Madison,” Milwaukee Journal (March 25, 1982). Brachen, March. “After the Art,” Capital Times [Madi­ son, WI] (November 2, 1983). Carlsten An Gallery. Drawing on the Figure (Stevens Point: Carlsten Art Gallery, University of Wiscon­ sin-Stevens Point, 1993), exhibition catalogue. Chicago International Art Exposition. Exhibition Catalogue (Chicago: Chicago International Art --r-------- , 1989): ,..u Exposition, illus., p. 361. Florida State University Mi , luseum. Monochrome/Polychrome: Contemporary Realist Drawings (Tallahas­ see: Florida State University Museum, 1990), exhibition catalogue. Grand, Stanley I. “Variations on a Scheme,” American Artist (December 1991). Reprinted in Drawing Highlights (American Artist Collector’s Edition, November 1994). Kimmelman, Michael. “Realism Today,” The New York Times (January 10, 1988). Lindemann, J., and J. Shimon. “Drawing on the Figure,” Art Muscle [Milwaukee, WI] (June/July 1993). Madison Art Center. Wisconsin Triennial (Madison: Madison Art Center, 1993), exhibition catalogue. ---------- . Wisconsin Triennial (Madison: Madison Art Center, 1987), exhibition catalogue. National Academy of Design. Realism Today: American Drawings from the Rita Rich Collection (New York: National Academy of Design, 1987), exhibition catalogue. Pasch, Ina. “Life Drawings,” Wisconsin State Journal (March 29, 1992). Rhem, James. “Pencil Pusher,” Isthmus [Madison, WI] (April 27, 1994). ______ . “Sawdust, Sweat and Graphite,” Isthmus [Madi­ son, WI] (April 17, 1982). Rogers, Katherine. “Sexism and the Human Figure,” Wisconsin State Journal (September 17, 1989). Sebastian, Jerry. “Drawing on the Past,” Wisconsin State Journal (August 23, 1987). Simms, Patricia. “Artist in Profile,” Airwaves [Madison, WI](August 1984). Williams, Wilson. “Robert Schultz—Drawings, Los Angeles Times (June 1990). Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts, Letters. Robert . Schultz” (Madison: Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts, Letters, 1988), exhibition checklist. I �r ADVISORY commission members Freddie Bittenbender Christopher N. Breiseth, Ph.D. n Joseph T. Butkiewicz Marion M. Conyngham Molly Cornell Virginia C. Davis, Chair Stanley I Grand, Ph.D. Robert J. Heaman, Ph.D. Mary Jane Henry Keith A. Hunter, Esq. J. Michael Lennon, Ph.D. Melanie Maslow Lumia Theo Lumia Ken Marquis Constance R. McCole Hank O’Neal Arnold Rifkin Kim Ross Charles A. Shaffer, Esq. William Shull Helen Farr Sloan Andrew J. Sordoni, III Sanford B. Sternlieb, M.D. Mindi Thalenfeld Joel Zitofsky STAFF Director Stanley I Grand, Ph.D. Co-ordinator Nancy L. Krueger Preparator Earl W. Lehman Gallery Attendants Donna Bytheway Tom Harrington Sarah Karlavage Jennifer Plumbo Deborah Tibel ll �IM y » r ■ ; GAnoaore �’W ■' ■■■■■'■ HH - ■ ■ - ' <;A': •.■/ ?■'.w ■ Illi •••11 L ■ sillf Will: ■■■ ■ -•-•■■. ••. •; ii ■ < '■■ ■■' fig . ■If - i S* I - t ® "111 \ ■. . ■ 1?'.1 I ■ <■ ' • . ■ ■' ’ : ■■■■■ ' $ B£ 'I A < . II 31 S: � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1996 March 17 Robert L. Schultz Drawings 1980-1995 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Robert L. Schultz Stanley I.Grand Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1996 March 17 - April 21 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource In a remarkable series of drawings spanning the past fifteen years, Robert L Schultz has closely studied the human figure. Schultz had focused on the human form---he draws men and women equally well and sensitively---because of its unique ability to express feelings, create moods, and convey states of mind. Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition program Subject The topic of the resource drawing drawings graphite nude nudes Robert L. Schultz Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource SAG https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/01bd80b9012af064b5aa98420c86316a.pdf ffc7c70ae3f81c83dfa37e515554afa2 PDF Text Text ������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1997 January 12 Louisa Matthiasdottir Paintings 1930's - 1990's Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Louisa Matthias dottir Steven Harvey Steven Harvey Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1997 January 12 - February 23 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource Over the last fifty years, Lousia Matthiasdottir has developed an original and eloquent voice as painter. Perhaps because she works in the traditional genres of landscape, still life and figure painting, and possibly because of her own reticence, it has been too easy to overlook the importance of her contribution. Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition program Subject The topic of the resource painting paintings Louisa Matthiasdottir Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Salander-O'Reilly Galleries Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Louisa Matthiasdottir, Steven Harvey and Kendall Campus Art Gallery https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/5d8d71bdf7625c7201311bd7bb0b0bb8.pdf 66dc0c033bc4bf06a9165d72cda31bc8 PDF Text Text ���������������������������������������������������� https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/b1740d281cdf292d065346c36b92d2e2.pdf 43e774ee555f675211dce6b73419525c PDF Text Text THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON SORD GA ND237 U6A4 1997 �THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON ��T THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON Essays by Stanley I Grand Fred Licht E.S. FARLEY LIBRARY WU.KES UNIVERSITY WILKES-BARRE, PA ortona Sordoni Art Gallery Wilkes University Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania March 2-April 13,1997 �THE TUSCAN OF RICHARD STANLEY I GRAND Wilk&s University ©Copyright 1997 Sordoni Art Gallery All rights reserved 1500 copies were printed by Llewellyn & McKane Inc. Catalogue design by John Beck Color photographs by Neil McGreevy Cover photograph by Richard Lipton Set in Palatino with Avant Garde display ISBN 0-942945-09-3 A n old man dressed in a di I ' op a long, winding inclir broad and fertile valley. Behir castle, the Fortezza, which at the highest point in Cortona. San Cristoforo en route to the the rocky ridge on which the t Severini's mosaic Stations of ll met morning he can see the d hills, brown from the summer which Hannibal's invading tr gionaries' blood in 217 b.c., sh Apennines. In the middle dist demarcated fields, olive trees ing fruit, umbrella pines and 1 whitewashed walls and ocher buildings appear like georneh landscape. Above, fair weathi an azure sky, while below the �! THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON STANLEY I GRAND Wilkes University /\ n old man dressed in a dusty black suit walks slowly ! \ up a long, winding incline to a spot overlooking a broad and fertile valley. Behind him stands a medieval castle, the Fortezza, which at 2130 feet above sea level is the highest point in Cortona. Climbing the step-like via San Cristoforo en route to the top of Monte Sant' Egidio, the rocky ridge on which the city clings, he passes Gino Severini's mosaic Stations of the Cross. Now, on this sum­ mer morning he can see the distant panorama of rolling hills, brown from the summer heat. Lake Trasimeno, which Hannibal's invading troops turned red with Le­ gionaries' blood in 217 B.c., shimmers at the foot of the Apennines. In the middle distance he sees carefully demarcated fields, olive trees with their darkening, ripen­ ing fruit, umbrella pines and the stately cypresses. The whitewashed walls and ocher tile roofs of the Tuscan farm buildings appear like geometric punctuations in the landscape. Above, fair weather cumulus clouds drift by in an azure sky, while below the roads radiate outward from the ancient town walls—reminders that Cortona was once a proud Etruscan citadel. He ambles over to where Rich­ ard Lipton paints on a small masonite panel, looks over the artist's shoulder and then back at the landscape. Wordlessly, he shakes his head and walks away. Since his initial visit to Cortona in 1982, Richard Upton has returned every year, excepting only 1984 and 1994, to paint the surrounding countryside. He arrives with a stack of identical 8x10 inch gessoed panels. While in Cortona, he stays in the spartan visitors' quarters of a convent run by nuns. A strong element of ritual informs this long-lived series, which Upton acknowledges indirectly by retelling the story of Arshile Gorky compulsively scrubbing his floor before commencing to paint. The ritualistic, repeti­ tive components of Upton's ongoing series of paintings— the annual return to the same locale; the small, unchang­ ing format; the acceptance, even embracing, of a single subject—have assumed the unmistakable quality of a spiritual exercise. The paintings, linked together like 91 1 3 ■' �6 • THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON 7 rosary beads, become a mantra for meditation. The careful delineation of boundaries is an essential component of this spiritual quest. He has observed that "relationships have to have boundaries but they also have to change .. . to evolve over time,"1 since he believes that truth itself changes—or put another way, as Heraclitus might have change is the only real truth. The very act of setting bound­ aries causes them to change while simultaneously opening new possibilities. To explore the constantly mutating, protean permutations requires a prolonged relationship and commitment like that which Upton has made to painting the countryside of Cortona. But his commitment is really inward. Appropriately, working in a land where civilizations overlay each other like palimpsests, he sees himself akin to an excavator, an archaeologist, who slowly removes the obfuscating surface in order to reveal hidden meaning,s beneath the calm cultivated surface. Excavation, whether archaeological, psychological or spiritual, entails a sense of danger as the layers are removed and primary, atavistic forces are revealed. In a country noted for its adherence to tlie Catholic faith, Upton is in search of the original deities, the lares, who went underground like the protagonists in Anne Rice's novels or, better, in the short stories of 11.1’. Lovecraft. As Upton's understanding of place has deepened, the paintings have undergone a change from works that clearly fit into the idealized, classic Italian landscape tradition [No. 1] to those more concerned with investigat­ ing the morphology of chaos [No. 23]. Describing the evolution of his Italian paintings, Upton has observed that initially they were concerned with "observing, analyzing, 1. All quotations are from a conversation between the artist and author on June 14,1995. looking. At first they were perceptually ’ . quickly [the paintings] came to be more . . tjnj less about seeing." Still he never allows what he knows to p, : , over what he sees; indeed, he continues to v.» k ptchi -air in front of the motif. Always fascinated with edge ,, bound­ aries and relationships, he views the optical and concep­ tual approaches as linked: "A constant dialectic exists in my paintings between the mind and the eye. Nonetheless, if I have to trust one when I'm working, 1 trust the eye because it's an informed eye." Hie tension between repre­ sentation and abstraction, in other words, is essenti.il to understanding Upton's Cortona landscape series. Unlike a Frank Stella painting, what you see is not what you get. I he paradigm shift from a detached, scientific protocol ("observing, analyzing, looking") to a subjective, intuitive and emotional approach is reflected in the formal charac­ teristics of the work: the change in his palette, the substi­ tution of abstract, allover compositions for representational paintings, the increasingly agitated brushwork and tactile surfaces, and the disorienting spatial manipulations. But, whatever the shifts in method, the commitment to investi­ gate the meaning of landscape has remained the same. The earliest paintings in this exhibition, executed during his 1982 and 1983 visits, reflect the Italian land­ scape tradition as evolved over centuries. This manner, which has had a strong affinity since the Renaissance with the pastoral ideal as formulated by such classical authors as Varro, Columella, Horace, and Virgil, portrays a con­ cept of nature carefully husbanded and ordered for the benefit of man. Indeed, the present day view from the top of Monte Sant' Egidio conforms closely with one de­ scribed by the Epicurean poet Lucretius: "fields... crops, and joyous vineyards, and a gray-green strip of olives to run in between and mark divisions,... adorned and • THE TUSCA’ i - interspersed with pl-.,mi ,.,nd j them all around with .- ■■ , 1, 83-7 [No. 2J, we have a ;.., of •’ ped (Upton leaves hi'. painting-. i-aJi? p an impersonal number that record . ear creation and position within the . i i?; gentle transitions, brushwork and lot a descriptively to delineate the boundari treated rationally, with a single control The painting is atmospheric with the s interposed between the eye and distan geometry orders the painting, imposin; structure on the composition. 1 listorically, the classic Italian land: represented a marked and decided bre; •ng model. In the medieval landscape, reminds us in his pioneering study Lan symbolic and religious meaning encodi Landscape consisted of arranging these rather than depicting light and space. 1 theocentric view coincided with the ris cities during the late middle ages and t ecclesiastical and feudal economies. Sig the earliest modern landscapes, Ambro Effects of Good Government in the Countri occurs in an urban, political setting—th or town hall in Siena, a short drive fron Upton's initial acceptance of a ratio) his ultimate substitution of a subjective like a gradual descent into darkness, a c ney into the subconscious. As the pictoi 2. Lucretius, Titus Lucretius Cams on the Nature oft Jackson (Oxford; Oxford University Press, 191 �a ' ' 7 . At first they were perceptually based. But very [the paintings] came to be more about finding and ut seeing." he never allows what he knows to predominate tat he sees; indeed, he continues to work plein-air of the motif. Always fascinated with edges, boundd relationships, he views the optical and concepiroaches as linked: "A constant dialectic exists in itings between the mind and the eye. Nonetheless, to trust one when I'm working, I trust the eye it's an informed eye." The tension between repren and abstraction, in other words, is essential to inding Upton's Cortona landscape series. Unlike a ella painting, what you see is not what you get. paradigm shift from a detached, scientific protocol dng, analyzing, looking") to a subjective, intuitive itional approach is reflected in the formal characof the work: the change in his palette, the substiabstract, allover compositions for representational s, the increasingly agitated brushwork and tactile , and the disorienting spatial manipulations. But, r the shifts in method, the commitment to investimeaning of landscape has remained the same, earliest paintings in this exhibition, executed is 1982 and 1983 visits, reflect the Italian landidition as evolved over centuries. This manner, is had a strong affinity since the Renaissance with )ral ideal as formulated by such classical authors Columella, Horace, and Virgil, portrays a con­ ature carefully husbanded and ordered for the f man. Indeed, the present day view from the top : Sant' Egidio conforms closely with one de>y the Epicurean poet Lucretius: "fields .. ■ crops, us vineyards, and a gray-green strip of olives to :tween and mark divisions,... adorned and - • THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON interspersed with pleasant fruits, and fenced by planting them all around with fruitful trees."2 In a painting such as 83-7 [No. 2], we have a sense of a specific place observed. (Upton leaves his paintings untitled, preferring to assign an impersonal number that records each panel's year of creation and position within the series.) Natural recession, gentle transitions, brushwork and local color are used descriptively to delineate the boundaries of fields. Space is treated rationally, with a single controlling perspective. The painting is atmospheric with the suggestion of air interposed between the eye and distant fields. A rigorous geometry orders the painting, imposing a grid-like, linear structure on the composition. Historically, the classic Italian landscape tradition represented a marked and decided break with the preced­ ing model. In the medieval landscape, as Kenneth Clark reminds us in his pioneering study Landscape into Art, symbolic and religious meaning encode each object. Landscape consisted of arranging these symbolic objects rather than depicting light and space. The break with this theocentric view coincided with the rise of mercantile cities during the late middle ages and the shift away from ecclesiastical and feudal economies. Significantly, one of the earliest modem landscapes, Ambrogio Lorenzetti's The Effects of Good Government in the Country (1338-1339), occurs in an urban, political setting—the Palazzo Pubblico or town hall in Siena, a short drive from Cortona. Upton's initial acceptance of a rational tradition and his ultimate substitution of a subjective, chaotic one seems like a gradual descent into darkness, a closing in, a jour­ ney into the subconscious. As the pictorial and emotional 2. Lucretius, Titus Lucretius Carus on the Nature of Things, trans. Thomas Jackson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1929): 198-199. balance between earth and sky gives way [No. 10], the latter is first constricted [No. 13] and then completely eliminated from the paintings. Upton has observed that the Italian paintings "began with sky and land but the horizon line continually rose as the land ascended into the sky; it's seeing the universe metaphorically—as heaven and earth—and creating a relationship between the two." The struggle to retain an equilibrium between the emo­ tional aspects of earth and sky continues until 1988; thereafter, he relinquishes ether in favor of matter. (Inter­ estingly, in his paintings and drawings from Ireland, where he has been working recently, sky predominates.) In 1989, darker chthonian forces appear to take over [No. 15]. Upton fights this tendency by holding on to a semblance of structure. Much as the ancients imposed order on the landscape with their network of roads, he employs an organizing grid derived from the fence rows and highways that spread outward from the aerie that is Cortona. Nonetheless the paintings increasingly assume pinwheel compositions that spin or gyrate around a dark point in the composition, like a small airplane auguring into the ground |No. 16|. Boundaries shift and crack up, inducing vertigo, bringing to mind William Butler Yeats's oft quoted lament that "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world." Dionysian ecstacy struggles against Apollonian lucidity, as a riot of brushwork and color seeks to overwhelm the linear structure. In works such as 95-16 [No. 49], modulations in color value and shadow together create a competing pattern that moves the eye dizzyingly around the composition. The artist's subversion of the rational Italian or South­ ern landscape might be seen as an embrace of the alter­ nate, Northern tradition where ominous, threatening mists frequently hang in the thick branches of the dark piney forests. This wild, romantic, fantastic tradition— �8 • THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON with its grotesque elements, barriers to entry, distortions, abrupt angles and mystery—is the antithesis of classicism. And this, perhaps, is at the core of what is so disconcert­ ing about Upton's treatment of the Cortona countryside. Man is no longer the measure of all things; the light of reason has been veiled—if not extinguished. Yet the paintings' questioning of Enlightenment rationality, their lost confidence in progress and in science are what make them speak so clearly to our time. Upton's pilgrimages to Cortona have deep roots and are part of an American tradition that reaches back to the Colonial era. Initially artists like Benjamin West and John Singleton Copley went to Italy to become fluent in the Grand Manner. Visits to Rome and Florence—facilitating access to their wealth of antique sculpture and High Renaissance-Baroque paintings—were a necessary compo­ nent in the education of successful history painters. As Classicism increasingly gave way to Romanticism during the nineteenth century, artists and writers such as Nathaniel Hawthorne—one thinks of "The Marble Faun"—found in Italy's ruins and long civilization new meanings and expressive elements lacking in their young homeland. As Modernism in turn superseded Romanticism, the timeless, pastoral, Arcadian landscape gave way to one more reflective of modern life. Paris and its environs replaced Italy as the preferred European destination for artists, whether European or American, and Italy fell out of favor. Upton's return to Italy reflects a characteristic habit of going his own way. In sum, then, Upton has taken an essentially humanis­ tic and rational tradition, turned it upside down, shaken it until the parts fall out and lie scattered on the floor. Not only does Upton confound expectations by his handling of the subject, but he does so as well in a number of other areas including scale, surface, brushwork, color, and pictorial space. 9 • THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON The scale of Upton's paintings may initially seem puzzling, even provocative. Combined with his rich, paint, they seem closer to the jeweler's workshop than ' the painter's landscape tradition. The ridges of paint in the later works [No. 341 remind us of cloisonne or enamel work. I lis paintings almost disappoint us initially; they seem too precious because we expect our landscapes to possess a certain scale or monumentality appropriate to nature's scope, sweep, and range. Upton, however, is well aware that hr. det i .ion to paint on a small scale willfully rejects a view prevalent during the heyday of the Abstract Expressionists. One recalls Robert Motherwell's mordant, dismissive remark: "Little pictures are for midgets or for tourists—souvenirs."1 Yet the twofold triumph of American painting and foreign policy that characterized the years immediately after the end of World War 11 no longer exists, and indeed has not for decades. By choice of scale Upton seeks to subvert the heroic view and replace it with one that is more intimate, human, and private. The public arena has not attracted him for many years; the small motif is his strategy for remaining private. Noting that many artists are "ashamed to do something beautiful, meditative or quiet," he be­ lieves that "one of the ways to be private is to be small. Look at my garden: 1 prefer it to my house because it's smaller and more intimate, but very complicated, a dia­ graming of edges, colors." Upton's confrontation with the meaning of scale goes back to his student days in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Then, like most ambitious painters, he worked large. However, he was forced to confront the issue when his 3. Robert Motherwell, "A Letter from Robert Motherwell to Frank O'Hara Dated August 18, 1965," in Robert Motherwell (Nev/ York: Museum of Modem Art, 1965): 67. father showed up .it the end of the summer and, after a fruitless struggle to force the paintings into the family station wagon, demanded to know why his . on punite 1 such big paintings. Subsequently, during a painting sabbatical in the Delaware Water Gap, Upton again faced this question, but now did so within the parameters of the nascent ecology movement. In the 1960s, largeness for its own sake became suspect as environmental values were juxtaposed to those of "greedy capitalism," to use a formulation horn the period. What had been viewed as heroic, as representative of a certain mani­ fest destiny, increasingly became seen as simply wasteful and exploit.itive. Co-existing and allied with the ecology movement was a certain widely shared interest in a "return to the land." A simpler lifestyle, with less emphasis on materialism, attracted large numbers of young people during these years. Richard Upton came of age as an artist in this era, and his work retains traces of the ethos we associate with the emergent counter-culture of the period. One concept from that period that has remained an important benchmark is "question authority." A rallying cry in the 1960s, this phrase reflected an attitude toward religion, music, personal grooming, clothing, politics, gender, race, and the work ethic. One consequence of this widespread questioning of authority was that the critical hegemony of Clement Greenberg's formalist aesthetic came under attack. Pop artists like Andy Warhol em­ ployed irony and kitsch to dethrone the high seriousness of the Abstract Expressionists. Others, like Richard Upton, questioned the assumptions that seriousness required large scale and that quality was most likely to be found in abstraction. In this context many artists began to re­ explore the expressive potentialities in figurative work generally and, specifically, in landscapes. In addition to scale, Upton's brushwork and palette likewise subvert conventional notions of landscape. We �9 • of Upton's paintings may initially seem ;n provocative. Combined with his rich, juicy em closer to the jeweler's workshop than to landscape tradition. The ridges of paint in cs [No. 34] remind us of cloisonne or enamel ntings almost disappoint us initially; they ious because we expect our landscapes to ain scale or monumentality appropriate to ?, sweep, and range. wever, is well aware that his decision to paint le willfully rejects a view prevalent during the Abstract Expressionists. One recalls rwell's mordant, dismissive remark: "Little >r midgets or for tourists—souvenirs."3 Yet iumph of American painting and foreign iracterized the years immediately after the War II no longer exists, and indeed has not y choice of scale Upton seeks to subvert the id replace it with one that is more intimate, rivate. The public arena has not attracted years; the small motif is his strategy for rate. Noting that many artists are "ashamed ig beautiful, meditative or quiet," he bee of the ways to be private is to be small, rden: I prefer it to my house because it's ore intimate, but very complicated, a dia­ ges, colors." nfrontation with the meaning of scale goes dent days in Provincetown, Massachusetts. ;t ambitious painters, he worked large. ,'as forced to confront the issue when his ell, "A Letter from Robert Motherwell to Frank O Hara , 1965," in Robert Motherwell (New York: Museum of 5): 67. THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON father showed up at the end of the summer and, after a fruitless struggle to force the paintings into the family station wagon, demanded to know why his son painted such big paintings. Subsequently, during a painting sabbatical in the Delaware Water Gap, Upton again faced this question, but now did so within the parameters of the nascent ecology movement. In the 1960s, largeness for its own sake became suspect as environmental values were juxtaposed to those of "greedy capitalism," to use a formulation from the period. What had been viewed as heroic, as representative of a certain mani­ fest destiny, increasingly became seen as simply wasteful and exploitative. Co-existing and allied with the ecology movement was a certain widely shared interest in a "return to the land." A simpler lifestyle, with less emphasis on materialism, attracted large numbers of young people during these years. Richard Upton came of age as an artist in this era, and his work retains traces of the ethos we associate with the emergent counter-culture of the period. One concept from that period that has remained an important benchmark is "question authority." A rallying cry in the 1960s, this phrase reflected an attitude toward religion, music, personal grooming, clothing, politics, gender, race, and the work ethic. One consequence of this widespread questioning of authority was that the critical hegemony of Clement Greenberg's formalist aesthetic came under attack. Pop artists like Andy Warhol em­ ployed irony and kitsch to dethrone the high seriousness of the Abstract Expressionists. Others, like Richard Upton, questioned the assumptions that seriousness required large scale and that quality was most likely to be found in abstraction. In this context many artists began to re­ explore the expressive potentialities in figurative work generally and, specifically, in landscapes. In addition to scale, Upton's brushwork and palette likewise subvert conventional notions of landscape. We have an oxymoron here: small, elbow-paintings. A virtual encyclopedia of painter's marks, Upton's paintings reflect his fascination with their variety, complexity, and expres­ sive potential. He seems to sculpt his surfaces with an almost musical vocabulary of short straight strokes, curved quarter moons or commas, jarring angles, long defining dashes, brushy zig-zags, agitated squiggles, and incised lines. At times, as in 91-32 [No. 311, Upton smears his paint on with a palette knife, in homage to the skillful stucco work he's admired on the walls of Italian houses, but to me the technique is more evocative of the pastry chef's blade than the mason's trowel. Indeed, throughout 1991, Upton seemed preoccupied with experiments in contrasting thick and thin paint. Rising and falling, his surfaces become simulacra of the topography itself, and his compositions include the artistic management of the shadows cast by the raised edges of paint. His love of surface, tactile values, and bright colors compels him to produce small, portable possessions with the flash and seductive qualities of antique gems. The fat, thickly applied, juicy paint appeals directly to our magpie eye; but the clash of saturated, complementary colors— especially red and green—adds a discordant note to our conception of what a classic landscape should be. The abundant use of red, after all, is not neutral since, again quoting Motherwell, "The 'pure' red of which certain abstractionists speak does not exist. ... Any red is rooted in blood, glass, wine, hunters' caps, and a thousand other concrete phenomena. Otherwise we should have no feeling toward red or its relations, and it would be useless as an artistic element."4 For this reason, the mood is unusu­ ally agitated, the hues obviously unnatural, although 4. Robert Motherwell, “Beyond the Aesthetic," Design 47, no. 8 (April 1946): • 15. �• THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON 11 • THE TUSC AN LANDSCAf ' 1 R CH< ■>I ■ 12 Upton does maintain that his palette changes with each visit in response to seasonal and rainfall variations. Upton's palette changes, however, do not merely reflect meteorological phenomena. Rather they reflect emotional tempests as well. The shift, in 1993, from a predominantly red/green palette to one characterized by an exuberant yellow represents a coming to terms with his loss over the death of his mother earlier in the year [Nos. 36 & 42]. As Brian H. Peterson, Curator of Exhibitions at the James A. Michener Art Museum, has written: fL !I II One day he [Upton] ran into a nun (in the convent where he stays) who needed help digging a flower bed, so he grabbl'd a pick and shovel and set about the task. When he had finished, to his surprise the sister returned with a box full of marigolds, his mother's favorite flower. He remembered how each year his mother had carefully collected and saved marigold seeds for the next year's planting. This experience had the effect of freeing the creative energy that had been frozen by grief, and he pro­ duced a series of paintings dominated by the marigold colors: orange, yellow and green. Throughout the summer, while lie made the paintings, he continued to tend the garden. Finally, Upton's pictorial space, with its use of mul­ tiple vanishing points, directly contradicts the model developed by Poussin and other masters of the classic landscape tradition. Instead of receding parallel planes linked by gentle diagonals within a linear perspective framework, Upton substitutes a Chinese-like, inverted perspective where forms appear stacked one on top of the other. Rather than being defined according to the laws of 5. In wall panels that accompanied Richard Upton: Ten Years of Italian Land­ scapes, which appeared at the James A. Michener Art Museum between December 20,1993, and March 27,1994. ________ mathematical perspective where objects closer tothi appear larger than those more distant, the rei.v ; the lorms is modified for compositional impei.m-. only does this way of organizing pictorial space unci . tniiv.the rational, mathematical basis of recession, but it also serves t<> activate, while simultaneously flattening, the composition. This characteristic clearly differentiates the landscapes of late modernism from those of earlier eras. Fundamentally, the rejection of traditional pictorial space, represents a way of thinking more than a way of drawing. (This is not to say that Upton rejects drawing. In fact, just the opposite is true: "drawing is fundamental for me not in a preparatory way or as a foundation for a painting, but rather because it's skeletal and revealing anil offers truths about things.") Sim e perspective deals with how we see and how we organize information, his compositions reflect a subtle set of assumptions and not just a way of arranging forms on a page. Multiple vanishing points therefore express a view of simultaneity in contrast to the stasis characteristic of linear perspective. By elimi­ nating converging orthogonals and a vanishing point in front of the artist, Upton brings an expanding, diverging and more emotive approach to his paintings. Even in the earlier, more representational paintings, such as 83-7 [No. 2], Upton incorporates this concept by transforming a single, floating cloud into a bar in order to track its prog­ ress across the sky. Like the cloud, the artist and the viewer are always moving and Upton expresses this state of perpetual flux by recording movement over time. This dialectic between representation and conceptual­ ization, between the ideal and the visible, is certainly long­ standing: one recalls Plato's critique of painting as an imperfect approximation of an imperfect manifestation of an ideal form. Freed from the demands of mimesis, Upton thinks of the painting sui generis: "My feeling about these painting-, is i. that ' ahi m T painiing . paintings that .it's ft's ii<. the representation ol he pain ih.iiv. M-T: require th-it it It”. A !ik<- the prototype that would presented again." Perhaps paradoxically, by con; on the painting's ''Being" or, as Bill Berkson obst the real of the paint,'' Upton is able to capture of the place (Cortona] -in [its] various aspects."'' How Upton looks or sees is an integral part c working method. In conversation he has dt -.cribi he waits for some aspect of the landscape to strip example the curve of a hill, the play of shadows on “r the cleft of a ravine. Sitting in front of the land seeks to empty ipty his mind of conscious thoughts thought.1 a: a fstate of receptiveness to the particularity of the ritihiiistically, he begins by laying down dowi , Almost rituaiistically, strokes in a random manner, then responding building upon what he's set down. Like an actor chorus, statement and response, each mark partii an organically developing dialogue with every o mark. I bis surrealist, Jungian approach is Upton way into his unconscious mind, and the resultan represents, on one level, his struggle to impose o the accidental, the random, and the chaotic. At ti 91-3 [No. 26], a rational grid emerges and order i stored; other times, as in 93-10 [No. 38], Upton's seem closer to Aesculapian nests of frenzied snal Regardless of the final outcome, this approach to ensures that the surface never becomes a mere d< tion of virtuoso brushwork, of painterly facility, < from the underlying content. 6. Bill Berksor. correspondence- to Richard Upton dated 22 Februa Copy in possession of the author. �1 ? 11 I perspective where objects closer to the viewer r than those more distant, the relative scale of nodified for compositional imperatives. Not ; way of organizing pictorial space undermine mathematical basis of recession, but it also vate, while simultaneously flattening, the This characteristic clearly differentiates the f late modernism from those of earlier eras, ntallv, the rejection of traditional pictorial ?nts a way of thinking more than a way of is is not to say that Upton rejects drawing. In ipposite is true: "drawing is fundamental for reparatory way or as a foundation for a rather because it's skeletal and revealing and ibout things.") Since perspective deals with nd how we organize information, his compoa subtle set of assumptions and not just a ;ing forms on a page. Multiple vanishing re express a view of simultaneity in contrast laracteristic of linear perspective. By elimiging orthogonals and a vanishing point in tist, Upton brings an expanding,, diverging rtive approach to his paintings. Even in the epresentational paintings., such as 83-7 [No. irporates this concept by transforming a g cloud into a bar in order to track its prog: sky. Like the cloud, the artist and the /ays moving and Upton expresses this state ux by recording movement over time, die between representation and conoeptualm the ideal and the visible, is certainly longrecalls Plato's critique of painting as an roximation of an imperfect manifestation of Freed from the demands of mimesis, Upton jainting sui generis: "My feeling about these • THE TUSCAN LANDSCAPES OF RICHARD UPTON paintings is that it's about the painting Bring. It's not about the representation ot something outside the painting since that would require that it look like the prototype which is presented again. Ferhaps paradoxically, by concentrating on the painting s Being' or. as Bill Berkson observed, on the real’ of the paint,' Upton is able to capture "the look of the place [Cortona]—in [its] various aspects."6 How Upton looks or sees is an integral part of his ■working method. In conversation he has described how he waits for some aspect of the landscape to strike him, for example the curve of a hill, the play of shadows on a hillside, or the cleft ot a ravine. Sitting in front of the landscape, he seeks to empty his mind of conscious thoughts and attain a state of receptiveness to the particularity of the subject. Almost ritualistically, he begins by laying down a number of strokes in a random manner, then responding to and building upon what he's set down. Like an actor and chorus, statement and response, each mark participates in an organically developing dialogue with every other mark. This surrealist. Jungian approach is Upton's path­ way into his unconscious mind, and the resultant painting represents, on one level, his struggle to impose order on the accidental, the random, and the chaotic. At times, as in 91-3 [No. 26], a rational grid emerges and order is reitored: other times, as in 93-10 [No. 38], Upton's surfaces seem closer to Aesculapian nests of frenzied snakes. Regardless of the final outcome, this approach to painting ensures that the surface never becomes a mere demonstra­ tion of virtuoso brushwork, of painterly facility, divorced from the underlying content. ' •j.’T^ipord-'s’.cc to Richard Upton dated 22 February 1994. Cop}- in possession of the author. Upton's many rejections and manipulations of scale, brushwork, color, and pictorial space seem almost man­ nerist. Like the great seicento Italian Mannerists and their sophisticated patrons he knows the rules of the language of art. And he, like them, delights in playing with the rules. Yet his intent is anything but mannerist; rather he seeks to revitalize an art that had become a "closed system that perpetuated itself." By going from a closed to an open system, he seeks to emulate Pontormo, whose "drawings are so vital they contradict the idea of mannerism." Ultimately Upton is concerned with a lesson learned long ago from Hans Hofmann, whose legacy he knew from Provincetown. For Upton, Hofmann's push-and-pull has more to do with understanding the relationship between the formal and the expressive rather than with the interaction of hues creating pictorial space. (Consider­ ing Upton's Anglo-Italian parentage, it is interesting that this opposition of the expressive and the formal is also the defining difference between the picturesque, irregular, colorful English and the logical, symmetrical, architectonic Italian gardens.) He believes in unchanging essences existing in the midst of constant change; this quest for essences, for the immutable, has led him to the conviction that the only truth is the inner truth. In his paintings the affirmative dialectic—between the rational/irrational, surface/subsurface, thick/thin, red/green, order/disorder, Northern/Southern, boundaries/freedom, revealed/ concealed, perceptual/conceptual, sky/land, ancient/ modem, pagan/Christian, and representation/abstraction— provides the framework for belief in the absence of ulti­ mate proof. By means of abstraction, he transforms the seen, the visual or the physical into an inwardly experi­ enced affirmation, a personal truth, a modem redemption. H r �13 • RICHARD UPTON'S CORTONA LANDSCAPES RICHARD UPTON'S CORTONA LANDSCAPES Fred Licht CoBeaone Peggy Guggenheim, Venice In the early 1430s, Fra Angelico moved from Florence to I Cortona. Looking down toward Lake Trasimeno from the vantage point of his monastery he decided to capture the magnificent view in a painting. Thus the first topo­ graphically recognizable landscape was created and a new epoch, the epoch of landscape painting was born. The view captured by Fra Angelico served as background for a scene of the Visitation, a subject emblematic of man's ability to recognize and worship forces that are greater than he. In 1982, Richard Upton, having moved to Cortona under very different circumstances, became subject to a similar "Visitation," He too, expressed his discovery in terms of landscape. it is easy enough to say "landscape." It is not quite so easy to define the premises, the opportunities, the difficulties and the satisfactions of this very peculiar subject matter that we today accept as a matter of course although it was actually one of the last conquests of western painting. Figure and still-life paintings contain their own di­ mensional limitations. Figures and still-life elements such as apples or flowers have a clearly visible silhouette that defines their shape and character. By transferring that silhouette to paper or canvas, the artist automatically captures their appearance and a good part of their charac­ teristic essence. The outline of a human figure or an apple also gives the artist another fundamental characteristic of all objects: its center. With periphery and center fully in evidence, the artist can continue his composition, invent­ ing harmonious and expressive relationships between his figures or his apples, which he then adjusts to the format of the surface on which he has chosen to paint his pictureLandscape, on the other hand, is characterized by endless extent. It has no self-contained limits; it has no fixed center; consequently, it does not submit to a frame. Figure and still-life painting, by having external limitations, are akin to the page or canvas on which they' are portray ec, which also has clear-cut co-ordinates, a center, ant periphery. To reconcile limitless, centerless landsc limited canvas whose center is immediately perce the eye is one of the most complicated undertakin known to art. Unlike Fra Angelico, his predecessor in Cortor Upton had the advantage of having had a full exp of twentieth-century abstract painting. Abstractioi germane to landscape in that it, too, has no object! perceivable dimensions or co-ordinates. The artist furnish them in accordance to his intuition, and it just fortuitous happenstance that during the fortie fifties (when some resemblance between abstracts the real world was still needed by the public and < advanced critics) abstract painting was often disci terms of landscape. Another peculiarity of landscape painting so c that it is usually forgotten is constituted by the ne< reconcile the near and the far. For the true landsca painter, the soil underfoot and the distant horizon equal importance. Yet they belong to two complet, different modes of perception. The earth on which treads is palpably concrete. It can be assimilated tl touch, smell, taste and—if only one has a sufficien ear—hearing as well as sight. The horizon is pure evanescent and fugitive. After Fra Angelico's epochal deed of describin praising a highly particularized landscape vista, 1< scape gradually developed in two very divergent tions. (Warning: like all simplifications, this divisi two major lines of development must be taken wii great many grains of salt. In view of the present e; tion, it serves only as a sketchy background to the sources on which Upton draws.) Both traditions g to tire fifteenth century'. In Italy, Fra Angelico's cor of landscape as something that is comfortingly’ be: �13 igure and still-life paintings contain their own di sional limitations. Figures and still-life elements such pies or flowers have a clearly visible silhouette that tes their shape and character. By transferring that uette to paper or canvas, the artist automatically ires their appearance and a good part of their characac essence. The outline of a human figure or an apple gives the artist another fundamental characteristic of ejects: its center. With periphery and center fully in ence, the artist can continue his composition, inventlarmonious and expressive relationships between his res or his apples, which he then adjusts to the format e surface on which he has chosen to paint his picture, iscape, on the other hand, is characterized by endless at. It has no self-contained limits; it has no fixed er; consequently, it does not submit to a frame. Figure still-life painting, by having external limitations, are to the page or canvas on which they are portrayed, • RICHARD UPTON’S CORTONA LANDSCAPES which also has clear-cut co-ordinates, a center, and a periphery. To reconcile limitless, centerless landscape to a limited canvas whose center is immediately perceived by the eye is one of the most complicated undertakings known to art. Unlike Fra Angelico, his predecessor in Cortona, Upton had the advantage of having had a full experience of twentieth-century abstract painting. Abstraction is germane to landscape in that it, too, has no objectively perceivable dimensions or co-ordinates. The artist must furnish them in accordance to his intuition, and it is not just fortuitous happenstance that during the forties and fifties (when some resemblance between abstraction and the real world was still needed by the public and even by advanced critics) abstract painting was often discussed in terms of landscape. Another peculiarity of landscape painting so obvious that it is usually forgotten is constituted by the need to reconcile the near and the far. For the true landscape painter, the soil underfoot and the distant horizon are of equal importance. Yet they belong to two completely different modes of perception. The earth on which one treads is palpably concrete. It can be assimilated through touch, smell, taste and—if only one has a sufficiently fine ear—hearing as well as sight. The horizon is pure illusion, evanescent and fugitive. After Fra Angelico's epochal deed of describing and praising a highly particularized landscape vista, land­ scape gradually developed in two very divergent tradi­ tions. (Warning: like all simplifications, this division into two major lines of development must be taken with a great many grains of salt. In view of the present exhibi­ tion, it serves only as a sketchy background to the cultural sources on which Upton draws.) Both traditions go back to the fifteenth century. In Italy, Fra Angelico's conception of landscape as something that is comfortingly beautiful, sheltering, and essentially humane continues to predomi­ nate. Even after the Fall from Innocence, God maintains His promise to Adam that he and all his descendants will find bliss in their environment. Though no longer a Garden of Eden, the Earth still reverberates with the memory of Paradise. Even Baldovinetti, who endows his landscapes with a seemingly infinitely distant vanishing point, never allows one to feel lost or menaced by the immense and splendid vistas he sets before us. Human co-ordinates and human reactions dominate. From its beginnings, Italian landscape represents the world at large as man's oyster. Later, with Bellini, Titian, Bassano in the sixteenth century, the lyrical, sheltering character of landscape is developed to its highest peak. In the seventeenth century, Annibale Carracci and Domenichino enlarge upon this principle in their highly structured, welcoming landscapes and go beyond the Venetians' emotionally lyric response to endow landscape with monumental grandeur. Land­ scape is seen as an analogue to the clearly understandable architectural structure of the universe. Poussin and Claude, basing themselves on their Italian predecessors, perfect this view and introduce it into the mainstream of Euro­ pean painting where it continues to develop in the most surprisingly fertile manner from Watteau to Delacroix, from Turner to Corot to Courbet and Cezanne. In the Netherlands and in the German speaking territories, a very different response to nature begins to develop in the works of van Eyck and Patinir, coming to full expressive maturity in Rubens, Rembrandt, Ruisdael, Friedrich, Constable, and Nolde. This tradition is based on the perception of landscape as existentially alien to man­ kind. A tragic note prevails. Man is an intruder in the world, under constant threat of exile, forever threatened by the immensity of unbridled space. The restless mobility and the darker side of nature are stressed in contrast to the majestically stable, luminous views of the southern tradi- I �14 • RICHARD UPTON'S CORTONA LANDSCAPES 15 tion. If one looks for artists who act as hyphens between these disparate traditions one can do no better than cite Antonello da Messina in Italy and Konrad Witz in Swit­ zerland who start from opposite directions but are ca­ pable, each in his own highly idiosyncratic way, of recon­ ciling cultural opposites. American landscape painting of the nineteenth cen­ tury grows to maturity in constant dialogue between the two major traditions even though at first the Classical vein (Cole, Bingham) tends to dominate. With Eakins, a more objective, independent view of landscape makes its entrance. Dispassionate distance from both earlier tradi­ tions makes itself felt. Neither northern pathos nor south­ ern lyricism is tolerated by Eakins. The same can be said, though with totally different aesthetic results, of French Impressionism. But American landscape painting does not tell the whole story of American attitudes and reactions towards landscape. For under Cole's classicizing tendencies, Fitz Hugh Lane's prettifying of landscape and Eakins's steely setting down of visible realities, there hovers a very different experience, unlike anything to be found in landscape description in any other national culture. Only one must look for it in American literature, in Hawthorne and Melville rather than in American painting of the same epoch. This strange new note is unlike the southern tradition in that it does not admit of any logical structure that makes one feel protected. It is unlike the northern tradi­ tion in that it does not threaten to overwhelm and annihi­ late the human mind by the sheer vastness of its hostile space. Instead, the experience of the quintessential Ameri­ can landscape is one of an immense indifference that eludes all human faculties. It is landscape before the act of Creation. Willa Gather comes closest to it in the opening chapter of My Antonia (the narrator traveling at night through the Nebraska plains speaks): There seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.... I had the feeling that the world was left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man's jurisdiction. Clearly, this is a landscape that can scarcely be trans­ lated into painting because it lies beyond human interpre­ tation. It is no wonder, then, that the finest, the truest, and the most overwhelming descriptions of such an American experience of landscape were rendered not by brush on canvas but by the camera on film. The great photogra­ phers of the thirties who photographed views of the dustbowl or of other abandoned stretches of America are alone in having produced visual evidence of the majesti­ cally alien quality of American landscape. Only later abstraction of a tragic bent (Rothko's last paintings come to mind) could express a similar experience of "vastation." How then does Upton's landscape painting relate to the landscape painting of the past and of the present? How does he conform to or rebel against its traditions? How does he expand its repertory and its possibilities? Paul Tucker, in his magisterial analysis of Upton's paintings, has described with great skill the endless modulations of Upton's subtly concealed compositional motifs. Reading Tucker's text, it becomes self-evident that Upton's sensibility and his approach to expressing threedimensional experience by two-dimensional means proves the artist's full commitment to the achievements of the modernist avant-garde from Cezanne to Abstract Expressionism. His loyalty to a highly disciplined and sober vision and his respect for the realities of the painter's means (i.e., a flat surface, pigments of a given viscosity, brushes of varying resilience) fulfill the most fundamental aesthetic exigencies of our time. • RICHARD UPTCN'S CC Some of our artists have of a frequently supercilious (as happens in certain mani ism etc.). Others, and Uptor ways of using their deep kn for the past as an integral p; is by this means, I believe, tl legitimize the practice of lar thoroughly contemporary ki doing so. William Congdon, Remenick has, each in a spe worked in the same directio artists bent on using the full past to serve contemporary wrought by modem abstrac For their understanding of a assures utmost liberty of inv simultaneously imposes an ( bent on avoiding frivolous li work, for instance. If I may t from music criticism then I v tessitura that can also be four work of the fifties: it has an i calligraphic, and textural me itself to ornamental function continuity of surface that len finished work without sacrif each individual stroke. Both ist predecessors are keenly a expressive values inherent ir to Rembrandt, Rubens, Fragc Manet, Cezanne, and Picassc how to use this awareness of tion of brushwork to serve ft Upton's Cortona landsca modem synthesis of the maj( �LANDSCAPES ■lung to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, ■e was a road, I could not make it out in ■e was nothing but land: not a country at ■ of which countries are made.... I had ■id was left behind, that we had got over ■ outside man's jurisdiction. andscape that can scarcely be trans?cause it lies beyond human interpre;r, then, that the finest, the truest, and ing descriptions of such an American ipe were rendered not by brush on nera on film. The great photogravho photographed views of the abandoned stretches of America are uced visual evidence of the majestiAmerican landscape. Only later c bent (Rothko's last paintings come jss a similar experience of "vastation." Jpton's landscape painting relate to ig of the past and of the present? tn to or rebel against its traditions? i its repertory and its possibilities? is magisterial analysis of Upton's bed with great skill the endless m's subtly concealed compositional <er's text, it becomes self-evident that nd his approach to expressing threence by two-dimensional means .11 commitment to the achievements of -garde from Cezanne to Abstract loyalty to a highly disciplined and respect for the realities of the painter's rface, pigments of a given viscosity, esilience) fulfill the most fundamental of our time. Some of our artists have put these means at the service of a frequently supercilious criticism of earlier forms of art (as happens in certain manifestations of Pop Art, Minimal­ ism etc.). Others, and Upton is among them, have found ways of using their deep knowledge of and their respect for the past as an integral part of their creative methods. It is by this means, I believe, that Upton has managed to legitimize the practice of landscape painting in a new and thoroughly contemporary key. Not that he is alone in doing so. William Congdon, for instance, or Seymour Remenick has, each in a specifically individual manner, worked in the same direction. For Upton and for the other artists bent on using the fullness of their knowledge of the past to serve contemporary purposes, the revolution wrought by modem abstraction has been of infinite value. For their understanding of abstraction is a double one: it assures utmost liberty of invention and expression while it simultaneously imposes an extremely rigorous discipline bent on avoiding frivolous license. Take Upton's brush­ work, for instance. If I may be permitted to use a term from music criticism then I would say that it has the tessitura that can also be found in Philip Guston's best work of the fifties: it has an independent, nondescriptive, calligraphic, and textural meaning without ever limiting itself to ornamental function. It also creates an organic continuity of surface that lends powerful unity to the finished work without sacrificing the expressive nature of each individual stroke. Both Upton and his great modern­ ist predecessors are keenly aware of the whole range of expressive values inherent in brush work from Masaccio to Rembrandt, Rubens, Fragonard and all the way to Manet, Cezanne, and Picasso. At the same time they know how to use this awareness of a constantly growing tradi­ tion of brushwork to serve their own individual needs. Upton's Cortona landscape can be thought of as a modem synthesis of the major western landscape tradi- tions. Tucker's description of Upton's exquisitely hidden compositional devices clearly indicates the artist's alle­ giance to the Poussin-Cezanne tradition of classical landscape translated into post-Cubist, post-Abstraction logic. The compositional structure, however, is abetted by a more ambiguous handling of his brushwork. The will­ fully calligraphic, expressive nature of these pastose strokes carefully informs Upton's structural vision—each stroke is essential to the entire edifice. At the same time, the ur­ gency with which he sets them down, has an emotional charge that moves in quite a different direction that catches the fermenting, ever-changing, elusive character of the landscape's soil and space. Most astonishing of all is how Upton turns the—at first sight absurdly small—scale of his paintings to his purpose of bringing all past experience of landscape painting to bear on his reinterpretation of the craft. While the cannily structured composition suggests monumentality, the daringly small format signals "fragment." Ruisdael's and Friedrich's landscapes—with their tragic vision of a world so large that it eludes and dizzies the human facul­ ties of comprehension—create an undertone that binds the Cortona landscapes together. By subtly compounding the enduring, logical structure of what he sees with the intuited vastness that lies beyond the confines of the painting's field, Upton manages to express the contradictory nature of landscape and its ability to console us at the same time that it overwhelms and engulfs us. The small size has yet another mystifying effect: one can­ not help wondering at the sight of these "variations on a theme" whether a secret common denominator connects all these individual views into one grand scheme which we are allowed to intuit without actually seeing it. Just as in real landscape, with its changing light, the restless nature of our sight allows us to observe only fragments which indicate something greater than the parts we are able to perceive. I .5 J �16 . RICHARD UPTON'S CORTONA LANDSCAPES In the end it is the mysteriously undefinable nature of a painting that determines the character and worth of an artist's work. The unanswerable questions raised by Upton's paintings are as important in this regard as anything that can be logically affirmed. Here are some of the enigmas that have delighted and vexed me. But each one of us is bound to draw up a very different list of his own: 1. There is an immediate sensation of light in Upton's landscapes. Sometimes concentrated, sometimes diffuse, intense or muted. But there is never a hint of a light source, no legible shadows that indicate where the light is coming from. This gives his landscapes a breathtaking suspense. Light, the most fugitive element of a landscape, is here endowed with a timeless, immobile quality. 2. For all of Upton's love of Cortona, the city, though an integral part of the Tuscan landscape, never appears in his paintings and yet seems to exert a spell over the paintings. 3. In all "loaded brush" paintings, we are invited to enjoy the skill and the exuberance of the brush's adven­ tures from close up. The painting as a whole falls into place only when we step back to a distance from the picture that is clearly indicated by the artist. In Upton's case even when we stand at a distance the sensation is one of extreme proximity to his landscape, while at close range we retain a definite impression of the totality of his landscape space. The primitive and potent magic of "pars pro toto" reigns over these paintings. Fragment metamornhoses into totality. Durer's Rhsenstuck unleashes a similar sensation. In calling on Diirer, I do not imply any compari­ son whatever. I merely mean to illustrate the same phe­ nomenon in the work of a totally different kind of artist. I i 1 4. Some paintings—and they are frequently the most serenely modest, deeply moving ones—summon up inner memories of music. For my own part, I cannot look at Upton's Cortona landscapes without hearing the last phrases of Mahler's Das Lied von der Erde: "Ewig. Ewig." 1 Untitled/Cortona, 1982 (P82-9) �1 "loaded brush" paintings, we are invited to kill and the exuberance of the brush's advenclose up. The painting as a whole falls into when we step back to a distance from the t is clearly indicated by the artist. In Upton's when we stand at a distance the sensation is eme proximity' to his landscape, while at close etain a definite impression of the totalitv of his space. The primitive and potent magic of "pars igns over these paintings. Fragment metamorj totality. Diirer's Rasenstuck unleashes a similar In calling on Diirer, I do not imply any compari•■er. I merely mean to illustrate the same phen the work of a totally7 different kind of artist. ie paintings—and they are frequently the most lodest, deeply moving ones—summon up inner of music. For my own part, I cannot look at jrtona landscapes without hearing the last Mahler's Das Lied von der Erde: "Ewig. Ewig." I Unfitled/Cortona, 1982 (P82-9) ��I ■ I I ■ 3 Untitled/Cortona, 1983 (P83-13) ��) I 8 Untitled/Cortona, 1985 (P85-18) �10 Untitled/Cortona, 1986 (P86-15) 12 UntrttcJ 967 �> - „ x.wifey... & I i 12 Untltled/Cortona, 1987 (P87-8) ���^/Coftona, ]99o �* �21 Untitled/Cortona, 1990 (P90-13) 23 untitlCJ ■ ^/CortOnQ> 199q "*0-25 ��26 Untitled/Cortona, 1991 (P91-3) ��(P9^/Cort°nQ, 1992 ��36 Untitled/Cortona, 1993 (P93-3) ’J^ed/Cor* (P93-i0j �38 Untitled/Cortona, 1993 (P93-10) �RS ■ I £5 ■- ' ’. I ■ 42 UntiJed/Coftona. i993 f.P93-24j ���47 Untitled/Cortona, 1995 (P95-8) �CHECKLIST ( Note: All the paintings in the e Number 24 [P90-30], which is oi Framed size of each is 16 x 18 j 1. Untitled/Cortona 1982< [P82-9] 2. Untitled/Cortona 1983< [P83-7] 3. Untitled/Cortona 1983< [P83-13] 4. Untitled/Cortona 1985 [P85-7] 5. Untitled/Cortona 1985< [P85-9] 6. Untitled/Cortona 1985 [P85-11] 49 Untitled/Cortona, 1995 (P95-16) 7. Untitled/Cortona 1985 [P85-14] �CHECKLIST OF THE EXHIBITION Note: All the paintings in the exhibition are oil on masonite, t with the sole exception of Catalogue Number 24 [P90-30], which is on canvas. Each painting is 8 x c 10 inches, height precedes width. Framed size of each is 16 x 18 inches. This symbol (<) , ) marks paintings included in this catalogue. T 3 1. Untitled/Cortona 1982< [P82-9] 8. Untitled/Cortona 1985< [P85-18] 2. Untitled/Cortona 1983< [P83-7] 15. Untitled/Cortona 1989< [P89-24] 22. Untitled/Cortona 1990 [P90-17] 9. Untitled/Cortona 1985 [P85-19] 16. Untitled/Cortona 1990< [P90-4] 23. Untitled/Cortona 3. Untitled/Cortona 1983< [P83-13] 10. Untitled/Cortona 1986< [P86-15] 17. Untitled/Cortona 24. Untitled/Cortona 1990 [P90-30] 4. Untitled/Cortona 11. Untitled/Cortona 1987 [P87-7] 18. Untitled/Cortona 1990 [P90-6] 25. Untitled/Cortona 1991 [P91-1] 5. Untitled/Cortona 1985< [P85-9] 12. Untitled/Cortona 1987< [P87-8] 19. Untitled/Cortona 1990 [P90-9] 26. Untitled/Cortona 1991< [P91-3] 6. Untitled/Cortona 1985 [P85-11] 13. Untitled/Cortona 1988< [P88-1] 20. Untitled/Cortona 1990 [P90-11] 27. Untitled/Cortona 1991 [P91-5] 7. Untitled/Cortona 1985 [P85-14] 14. Untitled/Cortona 1988< [P88-19] 21. Untitled/Cortona 1990< [P90-13] 28. Untitled/Cortona 1991 [P91-14] 1985 [P85-7] 1990 [P90-5] 1990< [P90-25] �. EXHIBITION CHECKLIST RICHARD UPTON r Bom: Hartford, Connecticut, 1931 Resides: Saratoga Springs, New York 29. Untitled/Cortona 1991 [P91-15] 36. Untitled/Cortona 1993< [P93-3] 43. Untitled/Cortona 1995 [P95-2] 30. Untitled/Cortona 1991 [P91-31] 37. Untitled/Cortona 1993 [P93-5] 44. Untitled/Cortona 1995 [P95-3] RECENT EXHIBITIONS 31. Untitled/Cortona 1991< [P91-32] 38. Untitled/Cortona 1993< [P93-10] 45. Untitled/Cortona 1995< [P95-6] 1997 Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes University, Wilkes-Barre. P< nia, "The Tuscan Landscapes of Richard Upton" 32. Untitled/Cortona 1992 [P92-10] 39. Untitled/Cortona 1993 [P93-12] 46. Untitled/Cortona 1995< [P95-7] 1996 National Academy of Design, New York City, "Collect!-: Update: Recent Acquisitions" 33. Untitled/Cortona 1992< [P92-13] 40. Untitled/Cortona 1993 [P93-16] 47. Untitled/Cortona 1995< [P95-8] 1995 Condeso/Lawler Gallery, New York City, "Richard Upt Paintings'' 34. Untitled/Cortona 1992< [P92-15] 41. Untitled/Cortona 1993 [P93-22] 48. Untitled/Cortona 1995 [P95-14] 1994 Philadelphia Art Alliance, Philadelphia "The Artist in Ireland: Images of North Mayo" 35. Untitled/Cortona 1993 [P93-1] 42. Untitled/Cortona 1993< [P93-24] 49. Untitled/Cortona 1995< [P95-16] 1993 James A. Michener Art Museum, Dovlestown. Pennsyh Richard Upton: Ten Years of Italian landscapes �r RICHARD UPTON Bom: Hartford, Connecticut, 1931 Resides: Saratoga Springs, New York RECENT EXHIBITIONS 1997 Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes University, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylva­ nia, "The Tuscan Landscapes of Richard Upton" 1992 New Britain Museum of American Art, New Britain, Connecti­ cut, "The Italian Landscapes: Richard Upton at Cortona" 1996 National Academy of Design, New York City, "Collection Update: Recent Acquisitions" 1991 Everson Museum of Art, Syracuse, New York, "Tuscany Redis­ covered: The Chronicles of Richard Upton" 1995 Condeso/Lawler Gallery, New York City, "Richard Upton: New Paintings" Krannert Art Museum, Champaign, Illinois, "Richard Upton: Italian Landscapes" 1994 Philadelphia Art Alliance, Philadelphia, "The Artist in Rural Ireland: Images of North Mayo" 1993 James A. Michener Art Museum, Doylestown, Pennsylvania, Richard Upton: Ten Years of Italian Landscapes" 1990 The Grey Art Gallery and Study Center, New York University, New York City, "Paysage Demoralise: Landscape at the End of the Century" 1989 Georgia Museum of Art, Athens, Georgia, "City on a Hill: Twenty Years of Artists at Cortona" �45 44 • . RICHARD UPTON RICHARD UPTON r SELECTED LITERATURE American Cultural Center. "Jeunes graveurs Americains. Exhibition brochure, Paris, 1971. Boyers, Robert. "The Attack on Value in 20th Century Art." History of European Ideas 11 (1989). Brenson, Michael. "Review/Art: Defining Nature by Its Battle Scars." The New York Times (June 1,1990). Candell, Victor. "Thoughts about Richard Upton." Exhibition brochure, Krannert Gallery, Purdue University, West Lafayette, Indiana, 1967. Chayat, Sherry. "Art: Landscape Artist Avoids Cliche in His Tuscan Chronicles." Syracuse Herald American (June 2,1991). —. "Richard Upton/Museum of American Art." Art News (November 1992). Corcoran Gallery of Art. "Delaware Water Gap." Exhibition checklist, 1975. Donohoe, Victoria. "The Arts: Richard Upton's Italian Land­ scapes Displayed at Michener." The Philadelphia Inquirer (January 9,1994). Galerie Mansart. "L'estampe contemporaine a la Bibliotheque Nationale." Exhibition checklist, Paris, 1975. Gaugh, Harry F. "Richard Upton: New Work, New Prints." Exhibi­ tion brochure, Denison University, Granville, Ohio, 1971. Harding, Ann. "Landscapes for our Time: Upton Revives an Ancient Art." Saratogian (August 1991). Shapiro, David. Richard Upton: New Drawings. In Exhibition catalogue, Forthcoming. Indiana Museum of Art. '25' A Tribute to Henry Radford Hope. Exhibition catalogue, Indiana Museum of Art, Indiana University, Bloomington, 1966. Silver, Kenneth E. "Richard Upton at the Michen seum." Art in America (October 1994). Sokolowski, Tom. "Paysage Demoralise: Landsc; of the Century." Exhibition brochure, Grey A York University, 1990. Kalamazoo Institute of Art. "Drawings by American Print­ makers Invitational." Exhibition brochure, Kalamazoo, Michigan, 1972. Sozanski, Edward J. "The Arts: Richard Upton: T Italian Landscapes." The Philadelphia Inquirer 1994). Levy, Joel Corcos, and George F. Kuebler. "Richard Upton/The Salamovka Series." Exhibition catalogue, Oklahoma Art Center, Oklahoma City, 1974. —. "Art: Portrait of the Artist after a Stay in Philadelphia Inquirer (October 2,1994). Minnesota Museum of Arts. "American Drawings USA." Exhibition brochure, Minneapolis, 1969. Moore College of Art. "American Drawings." Exhibition bro­ chure, Philadelphia, 1968. Moser, Joann. Atelier 17: A 50th Anniversary Retrospective Exhibi­ tion. Exhibition catalogue, Elvehjem Art Center, University of Wisconsin, Madison, 1977. Musee Denon, "Sept graveurs un sculpteur de medailles." Exhibition brochure, Chalon-sur-Saone, France, 1973. Nelson Gallery and Atkins Museums. Centennial Art Exhibition of Landgrant Colleges. Exhibition catalogue, Kansas City, Missouri, 1961. I I Tucker, Paul H. Richard Upton and the Rhetoric of I York, 1991. Zimmer, William. "Art," The New York Times (Ma �45 . RICHARD UPTON SELECTED PUBLIC COLLECTIONS for our Time: Upton Revives an (August 1991). A Tribute to Henry Radford Hope. liana Museum of Art, Indiana , 1966. Drawings by American Printribition brochure, Kalamazoo, e F. Kuebler. "Richard Upton/The nition catalogue, Oklahoma Art 974. "American Drawings USA." ineapolis, 1969. lean Drawings." Exhibition bro1. th Anniversary Retrospective Exhibii, Elvehjem Art Center, University 977. ■s un sculpteur de medailles." ilon-sur-Saone, France, 1973. luseums. Centennial Art Exhibition of ition catalogue, Kansas City, Shapiro, David. Richard Upton: Nero Drawings, Ireland and Italy Exhibition catalogue, Forthcoming. y' Silver, Kenneth E. "Richard Upton at the Michener Art Mu­ seum." Art in America (October 1994). Sokolowski, Tom. "Paysage Demoralise: Landscape at the End of the Century." Exhibition brochure, Grey Art Gallery, New York University, 1990. Sozanski, Edward J. "The Arts: Richard Upton: Ten Years of Italian Landscapes." The Philadelphia Inquirer (March 11, 1994). ------- . "Art: Portrait of the Artist after a Stay in Ireland." The Philadelphia Inquirer (October 2,1994). Tucker, Paul H. Richard Upton and the Rhetoric of Landscape. New York, 1991. Bibliotheque Nationale, Cabinet des Estampes, Paris Butler Institute of American Art, Youngstown, Ohio Library of Congress, The Pennell Fund, Washington Montreal Museum of Fine Art, Montreal Munson Williams Proctor Institute Museum of Art, Utica, New York Museum of American Art, The Richard Florsheim Art Fund, New Britain, Connecticut The Museum of Modem Art, New York City National Museum of American Art, The Smithsonian Institution, Washington Rose Art Museum, Brandeis University, Waltham, Massachusetts Zimmer, William. "Art," The New York Times (May 17,1992). HONORS AND AWARDS Academician, National Academy of Design, 1995 Ballinglen Arts Foundation, 1995,1994 Richard A. Florsheim Foundation, 1991 Artists for Environment Foundation/NEA, 1972-1973 irtfolios by Richard Upton," Exhibitrt Center, Wesleyan University, it, 1969. Fulbright Grant, Paris, 1964r-1965 �UNDERWRITERS Diversified Records Services, Inc. Franklin First Savings Bank Friends of the Sordoni Art Gallery Maslow Lumia Bartorillo Advertising Pennsylvania Council on the Arts John Sloan Memorial Foundation, Inc. Andrew J. Sordoni, III Wilkes University SPONSORS acknowledgments The Business Council CBI-Creative Business Interiors This exhibition has been made possible by the gene ous support of numerous individuals and organization First and foremost, we are grateful to Richard Uptoi for his total commitment to this project. He has taken a: active role in this exhibition and given unsparingly of f time. Not only has he met with Nancy Krueger and me several occasions to show and discuss his work, but he has also assisted in financing the project by creating an original lithograph, which was printed by master print Eileen Foti at the Rutgers University Center for Innovative Print and Paper under the direction of Judith K. Brodsk We thank Fred Licht, Curator at the Collezione Peg) Guggenheim, Venice, who managed to find time in his impossibly busy schedule to write an incisive essay for this catalogue. Nancy Krueger handled many of the details involve with mounting the exhibition. She assisted in selecting the work and designing the installation. My essay has benefited greatly from thoughtful, critical readings by Wilkes University Dean Robert J. Heaman and Robert Boyers, Editor of Salmagundi. Briar Eastern Insurance Group Friedman Electric Supply Co., Inc. Mr. and Mrs. David C. Flail Marquis Art and Frame Matheson Transfer Co. Nabisco, Inc. G. R. Noto Electrical Construction Panzitta Enterprises, Inc. Pennsylvania Millers Mutual Insurance Co. Rosenn, Jenkins and Greenwald, L.L.P. Trion Industries Inc. i r r/ ! r I i I f �'S juncil isiness Interiors ce Group ic Supply Co., Inc. avid C. Hall 1 Frame fer Co. rical Construction rises, Inc. illers Mutual Insurance Co. and Greenwald, L.L.P. Inc. acknowledgments This exhibition has been made possible by the gener­ ous support of numerous individuals and organizations. First and foremost, we are grateful to Richard Upton for his total commitment to this project. He has taken an active role in this exhibition and given unsparingly of his time. Not only has he met with Nancy Krueger and me on several occasions to show and discuss his work, but he has also assisted in financing the project by creating an original lithograph, which was printed by master printer Eileen Foti at the Rutgers University Center for Innovative Print and Paper under the direction of Judith K. Brodsky. We thank Fred Licht, Curator at the Collezione Peggy Guggenheim, Venice, who managed to find time in his impossibly busy schedule to write an incisive essay for this catalogue. Nancy Krueger handled many of the details involved with mounting the exhibition. She assisted in selecting the work and designing the installation. My essay has benefited greatly from thoughtful, critical readings by Wilkes University Dean Robert J. Heaman and Robert Boyers, Editor of Salmagundi. Brian R. Sacolic, Reference and Database Librarian at Wilkes, helped by conducting bibliographic searches. The artist wishes to thank Patti Pugh Henderer for her help in making this exhibition a reality. Alvin Goodin, who has been a long-time supporter of the artist, has graciously made a matching grant to help underwrite the exhibition. The Pennsylvania Council on the Arts provided support for this and two other exhibi­ tions. Additional support came from the members of The Business Council and the Friends of the Sordoni Art Gallery. Dean Phyllis Roth of Skidmore College has not only supported the work of Richard Upton through faculty research grants but also kindly provided me with lodging at The Surrey during my visits to Saratoga Springs. Finally, I wish to thank Helen Farr Sloan, whose support of the Sordoni Art Gallery has been unstinting and constant. Her scholarship and love of art have set a standard against which I, and my predecessors at the Gallery, have measured our own efforts. —SIG �I Sanford B. Stemlieb, M.D. Mindi Thalenfeld Thomas H. van Arsdale Joel Zitofsky ■ ��� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1997 March 2 The Tuscan Landscapes of Richard Upton Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Richard Upton Stanley l. Grand Fred Licht Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1997 March 2 - April 13 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource Richard Upton would, for years, return to the Tuscan landscape to depict it at it's rawest, in paint. Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition program Subject The topic of the resource painting paintings Tuscany Tuscan landscape Richard Upton Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource SAG https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/5279a31059f098309260b6b7c0a3abf2.pdf 9906b2984aa4703932756844fdbe9007 PDF Text Text ������������������������������������������� https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/3c2b0fcc64c7b077fee66dec1c18a346.pdf fa768150765986c517442739140b115f PDF Text Text * rt* i * r • ■ <ii * ri” f! W ■ f! jp if H N6537 L35A4 1997 i I �GARY LANG �P A INTI’ E.S. FARLEY LIBR; WILKES UNIVERS WILKES-BARRE, �GARY LANG PAINTINGS AND OBJECTS 1975-1997 Essays by Stanley I Grand Susan C. Larsen Appreciation by James Turrell E.S. FARLEY LIBRARY WILKES UNIVERSITY WILKES-BARRE, PA May II—August 10, 1997 Sordoni Art Gallery Wilkes University Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania �Text Copyright © 1997 Sordoni Art Gallery Illustrations Copyright © 1997 Gary Lang Photograph of Gary Lang, page 2, Copyright © 1995 Sebastiano Piras, New York ARY L A N G :s a treas V 1 religious conviction that s; with as much a detailed and layere, All rights reserved 2000 copies were printed by Llewellyn & McKane Inc., Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania Catalogue design by John Beck Color photographs by Ken Showell Cover photographs by Bill Orcutt and Ilonka Van Dcr Putten Set in the Adobe issue of Monotype Centaur, a typeface designed in 1915 by Bruce Rogers. ISBN 0-942945-10-7 Cover painting Mirroring Heart (Banding), 1993—97 acrylic on canvas I 13 X I J 3 inches I Mail on I rent singular and sweeping vision of wl nents in the world of visual thougl �A RY L A N G is a treasured friend. His personal history includes a 10 Pins, New York religious conviction that speaks to his chosen vision. He makes paintings with as much a detailed and layered history of where he has been as they are the singular and sweeping vision of where he has arrived. The works explore conti­ nents in the world of visual thought. They are to be entered. James Turrell J i X J 0 I L'. �WOVEN INFORMATION Stanley I Grand Wilkes University A MONG THE ARTISTS who received recognition in the 1980s, Gary Lang is a _/k special case. Never gaining superstar status during the years when fame came quickly and departed even more so, Lang has earned the respect of his peers and the esteem of a knowledgeable group of collectors and critics. This mid-career survey seeks to understand the nature of his accomplishment by establishing a chronology and contextualization of his works, by providing an interpretation of his philosophy and a decoding of his methodology, and by locating him within the context of the great modernist colorists from Cezanne to Josef Albers. Despite, or rather precisely because of Lang’s initially startling palette and the often radical appearance of his paintings, he is best understood as a classic painter, a true scion of the modernist tradition in which he has both respectfully dwelt and advanced. After receiving his M.F.A. from Yale in 1975, Lang moved to Barcelona, where he spent two years on a Fulbright scholarship. In the northeastern Spanish city so closely identified with Antoni Gaudi, Lang's work underwent a change. Perhaps not coincidentally, much of Lang’s work from this period combines humor (Gaudi s Casa Mild [1905—07] is the quintessential comic-book apartment house) and ascension (Gaudi s Sagrada Familia [begun 1884] comes to mind). Earlier, as a graduate student, he had made "paintings about frontality and ascension that looked like Don Judd sculptures done in a Day-Glo and glitter palette.”1 Now, fascinated with and inspired by the bright, animated, and colorful bits of paper that he encountered constandy and collected avidly, Lang began to move away from a formalist, fluorescing minimalism toward collage. The earliest work in this exhibition, Barcelona Painting [Figure I], is an icon in which paper scrap information has been translated into a painted collage. Employing a vertical format, the painting reads like a scroll or totem pole, with each course provid­ ing a different level of information. According to Lang, he “was accumulating and assembling cultural refuse and recycling it into energized totems, spiritual batteries, with intensely charged force-fields.’’ Reading the painting in an ascending manner, one sees, in the lower quarter, a noncanonical Mickey Mouse, with a nose reminiscent of WC. Fields's red proboscis, striding into the picture from the left along a lightning bolt. Not only does the �to *•«*- Multoond pbnets m sctoed ™Xto»«„C »a . b«oq«« c««to, emp^of so.pt dangles to a Aat ™to » „*optobk insoiption. Suoontog »d Itong Ae " £fc. „ to pactod panels: on Ae ,op seven puallel to on Ae left arcs of blue and whice orbiung a yellow mass; and on Ae ngbt, a plaid-Lke design of intersecting lines. The ensuing layer of information contains brightly colored intersectmg blades of yellow, blue, and red that reference a scrap of paper Lang brought back from a visit to Morocco. The abstracted Arabic script recalls its place of origin. To the left is an upside-down fragment of an old-fashioned, romantic postcard decorated with hearts and flowers that once proclaimed that separation tears the heart asunder. To the right is a miniature still-life arrangement consisting of a pair of cherries, a lemon, and a strawberry. Although these fruits evoke the slot machines wheels of chance, they were in fret appropriated from a tea bag marketed by a German firm under the Fixbute label. The next stratum juxtaposes a classical goddess with contemporary action superheroes. On the right, set in a yellow triangle, is a figure descended from the Venus de Milo. The adaptation, however, is clearly more commercial than aesthetic; we are looking at the logo for Venus noodles, beans, or some such product. Beneath, red letters appear to spell out Jazz. The triangle cuts into flat stripes of alternating blue and white. To the left, a daringly foreshortened Captain America, the Marvel Comics hero, swings away from a pair of nefarious villains, one of whom wears a patch over his right eye. The outcome of his escape remains uncertain: as the embodiment of America soars past a balcony, another figure, dressed in green, reaches up to grab him. Softening the upward and outward momentum created in the lower panels, an image of a brighdy colored tropical fish swims through progressively lightening layers of brown pigment. This image, derived from a postage stamp, is pasted atop a horizon­ tal cartoon panel, a pop descendent of the isocephalic classical frieze. Above and to the left, a white, biomorphrc form—an orchid or hand perhaps—in a field of pink is followed by the mottled trunk of an upside down birch tree that springs from loopy, almost Burchfield-like grass. In the upper tight corner, the Hindu god Siva (Shiva), in blue, wearing a red headdress and a flower lei, raises a flute to his ftps and serenades the o ject of his ardor, who holds a lei as well. Covering her legs and thighs, a long, blue to to. to sp toto pnktod tend S Ifc to C4k to Abog „ J„lr f„t. a lush hwn „here\ duJt md to 1P A" 5t"‘tng‘*' “‘fa °f ^P»»»l scene of tod. A. M.to0"I*'”''''” “k Wh°“ ’ ’“A ”f ™ ^sy. »»- culture, however, serve- as in ironic -miid. to the Les:of r. cal seriousness while nonetheless affirming commitment to the* seminal work. Allepry: Ttx Th:r. ef a Sv.!to Angus Fletcher no: simplest terms, allegory says one thing and means another.’ • Conti as a “mode: it is a fundamental process of encoding our speech."' F: Dantes Commeiba or John Bunvan’s 7lr Ptlgri-<■/ the ail;-. tv t. journey or quest in which the protagonist confronts choices, advetsi In Bamlcria Painting, allegory takes the- form of an encoded quest in v incarnated as an intoxicated mouse, travels between flames and void lightning bolt of inspiration in pursuit of a new vision. Art. the pat has the power to intoxicate, to induce ecstaev 'kslasis, to stand out < one into another realm. In this case the journey winds through the i culture and high art, nature and religion, love—whether sentiments tual—and conflict. The simultaneity of the cycle of creation—destn by the presence of Siva, who—along with Brahma the Creator' an Preserver)—forms the Hindu Trimurti. In this case, however. Siva ap Trimurti Destroyer but as a generative or procreative force w ith die the linga and Siva’s patronage of the arts, especially dancing. This p in the juxtaposition of the threatened Captain America with the th: boro Man." who aggressively intrudes into die top panel In Auinn and destruction weave together like an electrical diarge oscillating I and negative poles in a storage battery. Like a Shakespearean fool, i undermine the distinction between the serious and the banal: none expresses a gravity of intention that is found throughout Lang's wo Although Lang loved Barcelona, his work was as out of pla> been in New Haven. When he showed his paintings at the Institute can Studies "people didn’t know what to make of them . . . becausi Barcelona it was still burlap and bull’s blood and earth. Tapivs.Thi Lang’s return to America in 1976 initiated a decade-long p After settling in New York, where he painted until 1979. he move, be closer to his father who was very ill. In order to support htmseL time in an electric supply warehouse. At night, often too tired to p his pent-up energies into Ileapens Figures 2a & 2b , objects of wew rubber. These disturbing, spiky objects evoke a nether world-—exp including Nancy Grossman. Robert Mapplediorpe. and Nan Goli dildos, and blackjacks; a sadomasochistic world where the line her pleasure has blurred. Bur they also work as shamanistic fetishes lik power figures from Zaire, Concerning these works. Lang has note between their creation and their appearance; "Although they have look, the process of weaving and wrapping is calming and quiet I because that is what they are. I think of all my w ork as an invasive �PAINTINGS AND OBJECTS 1975-1997 ! the curvature of a celestial —designed no doubt by R. ricolored planets are scattered - script, dangles from a spiky rounding and framing the parallel lines; on the left, arcs t, a plaid-like design of ins brightly colored intersectf paper Lang brought back alls its place of origin. To the antic postcard decorated with tars the heart asunder. To the air of cherries, a lemon, and a wheels of chance, they were a firm under the Fixbute label, th contemporary’ action re descended from the Venus n-ial than aesthetic; we are h product Beneath, red tripes of alternating blue and tea, the Marvel Comics hero, n wears a patch over his right mbodiment of America les up to grab him. :ated in the lower panels, an •ogressively lightening layers mp, is pasted atop a horizonssical frieze. Above and to the as—in a field of pink is ee that springs from loopy; : Hindu god Siva (Shiva', in e to his lips and serenades the egs and thighs, a long, blue land. Above them is a duck and peacock (a this idyllic, pastoral scene of an male, whose ancestors ultures, this brassy, cacoteation, destruction, and the es from popular and mass culture, however, serves as an ironic antidote to the pretensions of high art and allegori­ cal seriousness while nonetheless affirming his commitment to these values. In his seminal work, Allegory: The Theory of a Symbolic Mode, Angus Fletcher noted that “In the simplest terms, allegory says one thing and means another.”2 Continuing, he writes that as a "mode: it is a fundamental process of encoding our speech.”3 Frequently, as in Dantes Ccromedu or John Bunyans The Pilgrim’s Progress, the allegory takes the form of a journey or quest in which the protagonist confronts choices, adversities, and hardships. In Binr/ww Painting, allegory takes the form of an encoded quest in which the artist, incarnated as an intoxicated mouse, travels between flames and void along the narrow lightning bolt of inspiration in pursuit of a new vision. Art, the painter seems to say, has the power to intoxicate, to induce ecstacy (ekstasis, to stand out of place), to move one into another realm. In this case the journey winds through the realms of popular culture and high art, nature and religion, love—whether sentimental, erotic, or spiri­ tual—and conflict. The simultaneity of the cycle of creation—destruction is suggested by the presence of Siva, who—along with Brahma (the Creator) and Vishnu (the Preserver)—forms the Hindu Trimurti. In this case, however, Siva appears not as the Trimurti Destroyer but as a generative or procreative force, with the flute recalling both the linga and Siva’s patronage of the arts, especially dancing. This polarity also appears in the juxtaposition of the threatened Captain America with the threatening "Marl­ boro Man,” who aggressively intrudes into the top panel. In Barcelona Painting creativity and destruction weave together like an electrical charge oscillating between the positive and negative poles in a storage battery. Like a Shakespearean fool, irony serves to undermine the distinction between the serious and the banal; nonetheless, the painting expresses a gravity of intention that is found throughout Lang's work. Although Lang loved Barcelona, his work was as out of place there as it had been in New Haven. When he showed his paintings at the Institute of North Ameri­ can Studies “people didn’t know what to make of them . .. because at that time in Barcelona it was still burlap and bull’s blood and earth. Tapies. That was it.” Lang's return to America in 1976 initiated a decade-long period of struggle. After settling in New York, where he painted until 1979, he moved to Los Angeles to be closer to his father who was very ill. In order to support himself Lang worked full time in an electric supply warehouse. At night, often too tired to paint, he channeled his pent-up energies into Weapons [Figures 2a & 2b], objects of woven aluminum and rubber. These disturbing, spiky objects evoke a nether world—explored by other artists including Nancy Grossman, Robert Mapplethorpe, and Nan Goldin—of leather, dildos, and blackjacks; a sadomasochistic world where the line between violence and pleasure has blurred. But they also work as shamanistic fetishes like the nail-studded power figures from Zaire. Concerning these works, Lang has noted the contradiction between their creation and their appearance: “Although they have a menacing, brutal look, rhe process of weaving and wrapping is calming and quiet. I called them Weapons because that is what they are. I think of all my work as an invasive vehicle chat attacks • 9 �, , i and shatters e i J>ne" Despite his critical success with the Weapons, Lang felt the „P w ^e^g, but you have to keep i »k«p fom pi«s x-rfra** , less sinister Quality as in Um [Figure 5a], These in turn led “bi““ to larger XiJlooking objects whTch I called Bullets’ [Figure 5b], Indeed, throughout the early 1980s, Lang worked in a variety of different modes simultaneous y as he alter­ nated between works that combmed images, such as the stap ed aggraphages Figure 61 and paintings such as Dried in Sound [Figure 3] or Isn’t It Wonderful [Figure 4], J’ In 1984 Lang’s father died, and his marriage began to unravel. He responded co t these events with a frantic creative outburst. Looking back he recalls that between 1985 and 1988 he created “more paintings than at any time in my life—I was paint­ ing all night and all day. The paintings were going in a variety of directions.” Returning to°New York in 1985, Lang supported himself as a maitre d’ at the Limelight, a popular Manhattan club. As keeper of the velvet rope, he became one of those judges, like Osiris, who determined who could gain entry to the modern mystery religion known as the downtown club scene. Nor was he able to escape its often self-destructive lifestyle. The violence done to individuals’ self-images (as well as the physical threats that came from the excluded—Lang recalls numerous occasions when he found himself on the wrong end of a handgun) is summarized in Night Life [Figure 8]. One of Lang’s most ambitious paintings to date, Night Life combines bursts of staccato pattern and amplified imagery to create a simultaneously joyful and menacing vision. Emerging from an active field of rectangles and squares is a sinister cyclopean figure with a “head” composed of one Rubik’s cube set into another. The “eye,” a red pixie derived from the White Rock logo, bends over a still pool and gazes at her reflection like Narcissus (whom Leon Battista Alberti, in Della Pittura [1435-1436], called the first artist). Surrounding the pixie are animation lines, a device that Keith Haring also adopted from the world of comics. Beneath the head, nine revolver barrels imperil the viewer. You stare, disbelievingly, at the stubby pistol fanning across your chest in the slo-mo, stop-action sequence of a nightmare before it comes to rest directly opposite your heart: Hells Kitchen Futurism. Although the revolver recalls images as diverse as Andy Warhols Triple Elvis, 1962, or the famous Army recruiting poster that proclaims Uncle Sam Wants You,” the source is actually a paper target, used by various police departments, that depicts a pistol-packing, Dick Tracy-type thug. By rendering e gunmans clothing in red, white, and blue, Lang seems to be implying a more ominous reading of the assailant as a renegade Captain America. In Night Life, we see the entire range of Lang’s subsequent formal vocabulary-: the IT (/T/o/s,anJor chan“ tF1§ure W “d dots sides of the Rubik’s cube-. I, ■■ > . ■ experimentsot Josef Albers O >m- . mind- . Despite the raw voltage UF i’k■, dem, J from the A— rary civilization. Lang began to fed c.v the tnie, expressive ’ pvwet .f th; p.cn coming from the grounds. In large parr this wa> a eon .equni:...< awareness that ‘‘the emphasis in my process was not on rendering the image, but < energizing the surface." Phis led to .tn alternate, more direct “method for ord r cliaos,” one in which “the colots themselves b came the subject matter." Frame the need to think about pictorial subject man; t and returning to his reductive, malist roots, he found that by focusing exclusively on painting lines of color, ht infuse his paintings with "more energy, more life, and mote content because. it eliminate imager); the surface itself must speak for you." Foo Lion [Figure 9] is a key work in Lang's transition from paintings that incorporated imagery to those that deal primarily with “energizing surfaces ’ B allowing the object, that is the lion, to act as the image. Lang was able to conct on the surface, which he activated with a spiky aura and a painted skin. In retrc realizes that "it wasn’t the form 1 was seeking out. but rather a surface to paint, thus synthesized and summarized several strands of development explored prei in painted objects such as ( hi i Figure 5a j. the hand-held Weapon. Figures 2a ai and paintings such as A'gfr Life! Figure 8].Thereafter, having abandoned overt: matter and committed himself to the painting of lines, Lang found his artistic No longer "concerned with making a painting,” Lang rediscovered the "pure F of direct painting” in the process of “weaving colors." Begun in 1987, the "plaid paintings" were an early manifestation of thi direction. (Their antecedents, as we Iiave seen, go back as early as fiinzlcm Patni Although misinterpreted initially '"(-olleagues thought I was making crosses c paintings, but I was never interested in, or excited by. the grid";, Lang viewed I metaphorically as "an accumulation ot intersections or crossroads." Describins creation of Plant Printing' Figure 12!. Lang said "Using a very thin paint. I’d m; one brushstroke from the top to the bottom of the rectangular canvas. Then I the canvas ninety degrees and paint another line from top to bottom. contmui tills way until the canvas was finished." In these works, it "wasn’t what I was p; even what the painting looked like, but rather the way I painted.’ Subsequently, Lang ceased painting the lines freehand and employed t; make his lines. Tape, which he had used previously to construct objects such a or Um, now was used to delineate hard-edge lines of color in works such as A [Figure 17 . The resulting paintings tended to be “aggressive because an abru] edge is created when vou pull the tape oft?' Unlike the "tender" gesture of “d dragging a bead of paint down a canvas," tape produces a “different sensibiilt) thing about it—the crisp hard edge, the sound of the tape ripping off—is sh. and angular. It’s like steel." But the tape also allowed for a thicker, denser appl �PAINTINGS AND OBJECTS 1975-1997 .ang felt the i have to keep >ed objects larger ghout the is he alter­ nes [Figure re 4]. responded to between I was paintis.” Returning jght, a hose judges, religion ;lf-destructive cal threats found re 8]. :s bursts of ad menacing cyclopean “eve,” a red at her 15-1436], hat Keith 'olver barrels toss your o rest direcdy s images as poster that ;ed by various Sy rendering i more cabulary: the s (Praym Isn’t If Uects, is interesting, m fa along the sides of the Rubiks cubes. If one disregards Lang’s neo-pointillist color sprinkles, the experiments of Josef Albers come to mind unbidden. Despite the raw voltage of the images derived from the detritus of contempo­ rary civilization, Lang began to feel that the true, expressive “power of the painting was coming from the grounds. In large part this was a consequence of a growing selfawareness that “the emphasis in my process was not on rendering the image, but on energizing the surface." This led to an alternate, more direct "method for ordering the chaos,” one in which “the colors themselves became the subject matter.” Transcending the need to think about pictorial subject matter and returning to his reductive, mini­ malist roots, he found that by focusing exclusively on painting lines of color, he could infuse his paintings with “more energy, more life, and more content because, if you eliminate imagery, the surface itself must speak for you.” Foo Lion [Figure 9] is a key work in Langs transition from paintings that incorporated imagery to those that deal primarily with “energizing surfaces.” By allowing the object, that is the lion, to act as the image, Lang was able to concentrate on the surface, which he activated with a spiky aura and a painted skin. In retrospect he realizes that “it wasn’t the form I was seeking out, but rather a surface to paint.” Feo Lion thus synthesized and summarized several strands of development explored previously in painted objects such as Um [Figure 5a], the hand-held Weapons [Figures 2a and 2b], and paintings such as Night Life [Figure 8]. Thereafter, having abandoned overt subject matter and committed himself to the painting of lines, Lang found his artistic voice. No longer “concerned with making a painting,” Lang rediscovered the “pure pleasure of direct painting” in the process of “weaving colors.” Begun in 1987, the "plaid paintings” were an early manifestation of this new direction. (Their antecedents, as we have seen, go back as early as Barcelona Fainting, j Although misinterpreted initially (“Colleagues thought I was making crosses or grid paintings, but I was never interested in, or excited by, the grid”), Lang viewed them metaphorically as “an accumulation of intersections or crossroads.” Describing the creation of Plaid Painting [Figure 12], Lang said “Using a very thin paint, I'd make just one brushstroke from the top to the bottom of the rectangular canvas. Then I'd rotate the canvas ninety' degrees and paint another line from top to bottom, continuing in this way' until the canvas was finished.” In these works, it wasnt what I was painting or even what the painting looked like, but rather the way I painted. Subsequently, Lang ceased painting the lines freehand and employed tape to make his lines. Tape, which he had used previously' to construct objects such as Weapon or Um, now was used to delineate hard-edge lines of color in works such as RnthsTmths [Figure 17]. The resulting paintings tended to be “aggressive because an abrupt hard edge is created when you pull the tape off’ Unlike the tender gesture of delicately dragging a bead of paint down a canvas," tape produces a “different sensibility. Every­ thing about it—the crisp hard edge, the sound of the tape ripping off—is sharp, curt, and angular. It’s like steel." But the tape also allowed for a thicker, denser application of • II �J £ L 12 . GARY LANG , ..Ynll trowel in pigment in a way that you couldn’t paint it on; if you tned to C° tit In that thickly, it would just fall down." (Langs fascination with tape came to fiiUfruition kiThe Hague project, where he constructed the image entirely of woven colored tape?^d ±e „pure pIeasure„ of coincided with several other changes in his life. After completing Nightlife. he quit the dub scene. In 1990, he met Ruth Pastine, a painter, whom he subsequently marned. With this positive influence in his life, calmness displaced the frantic, frenetic energy that had informed his work. He has stated, "When I met Ruth something happened: the work began to change—to become more open, adventurous, and intimate.” At about this same time he began painting mirrors and circles, two avenues of discovery that he has continued to pursue throughout the 1990s. The first Mirror had a most unlikely genesis. Lang recalls "taking a shower and looking into a convex mirror that I kept in the stall. Up close I could see every pore tn my face, but when I held the mirror at a distance, I saw a luminous, 3-D square.” The quality and depth of the light reminded him of a cloudburst experienced in the Caribbean: “the way rain just sort of floats through the air, instead of falling straight down and pounding off the pavement as it does in the city. The Mirrors, which are soft and ethereal, are like clouds of droplets blowing in the breeze and reflecting the entire color spectrum.”This sense of sparkling, watery prisms drifting across a field describes the effect of the Mirrors [Figures 16 and 20], where colors shift and metamorphose, as they dance across the surface of the painting, first embracing then abandoning, the radiant, contradictory light. By blurring distinctions between viewer, object, and artist, the mirror serves as a vehicle for meditation or self-discover}': “I think of the mirror as I’m looking at you and I’m seeing myself since so much of what we see is a projection of ourselves." This concept of the mirror as pathway to knowledge has a long pedigree in Western art and mythology. Like the apple in the Garden of Eden, it can represent forbidden knowl­ edge: Ovid (Metamorphoses 3:347—349) recounts how the blind seerTiresias warned Liriope that her son Narcissus would live to a ripe old age only if he never came to know himself Unfortunately, Narcissus gazed upon his own reflection in the mirror surface of a still pool and thus sealed his fate. In classical times, the mirror was an attribute of Venus. In Renaissance and Baroque art, the mirror was often associated ™“ J?™™ of vanitF' A" outstanding example is Velazquez’s Ifrim and Cupid (1648-1651, the Rokeby Venus” now in the National Gallery, London/ tn which a sensual, recumbent nude stares into a mirror held by a putto.The presence of a mirror HOldM t0 yoiS™ " SeVCral aUe8°ricaI fiSures deluding Prudence, Truth, and Time. Pa,mtmg\th0Se Kmnders that death is ever stalking, a beautiful conceit contmues m °f “ old exam L°f ^Tookers various Mtrrors. for P Uy, and without exhausting the topic, the Speculum sine macula, the flawless mirror, which Solomon had. ■ : . inhi I .: ■ . one of die signifiers of Marx ’> vituv and ; imn. The second avenue et Ji ci I;.. ■ o ; r? u-:>•'i iiyr.-.l richly encoded as the Mtm 't. 1 or Ling, it provides j me-ins >f r.ir.c random potential into a profoundly simple geometric f rm./. 1 ■: th; years, Lang has confined himself to painting two geometric shapes: sqm again of Albers] and circle i V > in reminds o> tint i. hotto knew tha a, handdrawn circle was both “enough and to. > much" of a gift I, >r Pope F’ circle, moreover, is simultaneously ' 1 ' self-reft rential recalling Laie’s yt houseman in Los Angeles, his wrapped works, and his multitude of pan (2j reflective of certain contempor.ny modes , the Lugrf paintings of Jas] Kenneth Noland for example ; and o evocative of the art-lustoric.il tr: other works, ir has an obvious relationship with Giovanni di Paolo's Th Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise. 1445, tn the Metre tpolitan Musri Indeed the tondo, as the Italians call the circular format, has a di associations that can only be hinted ar in a short essay. Concentnc nngs an earlier model of the heavens, as charted bv th'’ astronomer Ptolemy,. of hell, as followed by I >ante and his guide Virgil. Liter, in the Renavsa and the sphere (a circle in three-dimensions) were considered perfect sh ing Marsilio Ficino’s Neo-Platonic conception of the universe as an hie consisting of the Cosmic Mmd (mens mundana:, Cosmic Soul 'anima m (spiritus mundanus), and matter 'malenaj arrayed in descending concentric ing to Erwin Panofsky “An uninterrupted current of supernatural enerj above to below ;uid reverts from below to above, thus forming a rinuitu quote Ficino’s favourite expression"’ 1 bis same movement of energy Gary Lang tondo.’f he circle is also an ancient symbol of the cycles, wh seasons, or fate. In Baroque allegorical representations, Human Life on Fortuna’s Wheel, reminding all that periods of ascension are soon those of decline. The circle symbolizing change is key to understanding Lang's t< format is "a metaphor for what I’ve learned from nature I love weather ability and changing nature, which is as close to the truth as I've ever g that “I have most of the images and films of tornados." he adds “I find as well as terrifying. Moving in .1 line, ascending and descending centni tornado changes everything in its path. It's an important metaphor. In little imagination to view the conical form of the brightly painted, aqu Bullet Figure 5b;, with its spiraling nngs, as an inverted tornado. From Painting and the Heap tr, this image of the destroyer as creator has been ; Lang’s artistic vocabulary. But the tondi, recalling rainbows, also carry . of benevolence Genests 9:I2—16. The Hebrew qeset, which is used m C mean (rain)bow, appears elsewhere in the Bible as the common word f< �PAINTINGS AND OBJECTS 1975-1997 • i: if you tried to h tape came to rely of woven ed with several ne. In 1990, he positive had informed vork began to his same time has continued a shower and e ever}' pore in ) square.” The d in the Hing straight which are soft ting the entire . field describes amorphose, as lolling, the irror serves as a iking at you irseIves."This Western art and iden knowlas warned ■er came to n the mirror or was an i associated us and Cupid a) in which a ce of a mirror h, and Time, ig, a beautiful Tone. This s Mirren, for a, the flawless mirror, which Solomon had evoked in his praise of wisdom (Wisdilorn 7:26), became one of the significrs of Mary's virginity and purity. The second avenue of discovery, the concentric circle [Figures 13 and 23], is as richly encoded as the Mirrors. For Lang, it provides a means of “weaving the maximum random potential into a profoundly simple geometric format” (For the past several years, Lang has confined himself to painting two geometric shapes: squares [one thinks again of Albers] and circles [Vasari reminds us that Giotto knew that a perfect, handdrawn circle was both “enough and too much” of a gift for Pope Benedict].)5 The circle, moreover, is simultaneously (I) self-referential (recalling Lang’s years as a ware­ houseman in Los Angeles, his wrapped works, and his multitude of painted objects); (2) reflective of certain contemporary modes (the Target paintings of Jasper Johns or Kenneth Noland for example); and (3) evocative of the art-historical tradition (among other works, it has an obvious relationship with Giovanni di Paolos The Creation andThe Expulsion ofAdam and Evefrom Paradise, c. 1445, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art). Indeed the tondo, as the Italians call the circular format, has a deep pool of associations that can only be hinted at in a short essay. Concentric rings represent both an earlier model of the heavens, as charted by the astronomer Ptolemy, and a road map of hell, as followed by Dante and his guide Virgil. Later, in the Renaissance, the circle and the sphere (a circle in three-dimensions) were considered perfect shapes, symboliz­ ing Marsilio Ficino’s Neo-Platonic conception of the universe as an hierarchical orb consisting of the Cosmic Mind (mens mundana), Cosmic Soul (anima mundana), spirit (spiritus mundanus), and matter (materia') arrayed in descending concentric levels. Accord­ ing to Erwin Panofsky “An uninterrupted current of supernatural energy flows from above to below and reverts from below to above, thus forming a circuitus spiritualis, to quote Ficino’s favourite expression.’’6 This same movement of energy occurs in a Gary’ Lang tondo. The circle is also an ancient symbol of the cycles, whether of life, the seasons, or fate. In Baroque allegorical representations, Human Life always stands on Fortuna’s Wheel, reminding all that periods of ascension are soon followed by those of decline. The circle symbolizing change is key to understanding Lang’s tondi because the format is “a metaphor for what I've learned from nature. I love weather, its unpredict­ ability and changing nature, which is as close to the truth as I’ve ever gotten. Noting that “I have most of the images and films of tornados,” he adds I find them beautiful as well as terrifying. Moving in a line, ascending and descending centrifugally, the tornado changes everything in its path. It’s an important metaphor. Indeed, it takes little imagination to view the conical form of the brightly painted, aqua and cense Bullet [Figure 5b], with its spiraling rings, as an inverted tornado. From the Barcelona Painting and the Weapons, this image of the destroyer as creator has been a constant in Lang's artistic vocabulary. But the tondi, recalling rainbows, also carry' a mixed promise of benevolence ^Genesis 9:12—16. The Hebrew tjeset, which is used in Genesis 9:13 to mean (rain)bow, appears elsewhere in the Bible as the common word for hnv, the 13 �I lang f. 14 B ^Z?taSllJming-b»k«™»«"f token. L^stoon quoted f • GARY earlier, that all his work is a weapon, seems particularly apt in this context.) Since 1990 when Lang painted the first of his concentric Circles on the wooden end-piece of an “old discarded wire-cable” spool he has developed a complex mathematical system for ordering and selecting his palette. In the Circles [Figures 13 and 23] he weaves together a fixed palette and a mutatmg palette according to a working drawing or "navigational chart.” After completing his navigational chart, which is a series of ratios between the fixed and mutating palettes, Lang works quickly and intuitively to select his fixed palette from hundreds of containers of mixed colors. He then picks his single mutating color. * Having chosen the initial colors of the fixed “random” palette, Lang starts a tondo at the outer edge by painting a concentric circle with the first color selected. (Previously, Lang had underpainted the canvas with large alternating rings.) Next he uses the second color and continues painting concentric circles until all the colors have been used. Then he paints a circle in his mutating color before selecting the next group of colors in his fixed palette (he never repeats a color). Once he has finished painting the second group of fixed colors, he alters the mutating color by mixing in an addi­ tional color or colors. Every' time his working drawing calls for a concentric circle in a mutating color, he changes the hue by adding or subtracting colors. Thus if the mutating color starts out as an orange or pink, it might move first toward black and then toward white or red or blue until he decides to turn it in another direction. This process continues until the final circle, in the center of the tondo, has been painted. Staring at the Grand Circle [Figure 23], one feels almost mesmerized (recall that Dr. Mesmer used a small disk to hypnotize his patients). The push-and-pull movement caused by the color shifts in this overwhelming painting—its diameter is more than twice the height of the average individual—virtually sucks you in like a vortex or whirlpool: “it defies you, dresses you down to your essentia] self, and refigures you. Its easy to get lost in this pictorial space, and some individuals become almost nauseous while looking at the painting. The goal is to reorient oneself via disorientation." One only feels this onentation-disonentation in the presence of the painting; reproductions never convey the impact of Langs paintings: “When people say they don’t get anything om my shdes, I understand; it’s not the slides, it’s the paint, the surface, that records ” the human touch. The power of a painting is unleashed when you're in its presence.” ThnX^' thLaraS7 t.°Uch’IS what Lang’s paintings: the “touch is alive.” youon a nnm 1 L i» J ?3T? 1Sr?e SurfaCe “ what’S C° ,wr p'c“p'"1 appm"s' to hi. numeric code, Ung oncentnc circle intuitively, responding both to the interaction of the colors and t a their u, • - J.... • fled improvisation," which Lang compares to jazz. t» a margntvanon ties of intuition and ch in:. experiences. Colors are the means Lw a Web Lang investigates the unfavm verbal, Lang, a self-descnbed "color addict d that “I’m with colors because I feel connected to them." Nonetheless while at made a special point of avoiding L-’t .'Il er' "a real color scientist theories: “I did not read that b. kA f CeLr bt-tausc: 1 iii tualize my knowledge about colors." Still, had Lang read Albers's b< found ample support for hr own experiments Lang u d. ung mtum was doing scientifically, and the results are the same. as Lang his obliquely: "In the end. Albers used color to get you to float and vib walking a line between spirit and science, and m this w,w we are LnJosef /Mbers had argued that “preferences and dislikes—as it color—usually result from prejudices, from lack of experience and I than accepting a limited palette, Albers advocated a bn >ad embracer matic scale: “ I herefore, w. try to recognize our preferences and < -tn colors dominate in our work; what colors, on the other hand. are re of no appeal. Usually a special effort in using disliked colors ends v love with them.'"* Moreover, a point that refers specifically to Lang's Albers had recognized that "independent of hatmony rules, any Co with any other color, presupposing that their quantities an appropr "People would say these colors don’t go together, hut in Life everyth together.” .The appropriate quantities are determined by two factor how often, distinguish 2 kinds of quantity: I of size—extension m recurrence—extension in number.” Like l_any, Albert recognized preference for harmony, we accept dissonance to be as desirable as i Besides a balance through color harmonv. which is comparable to s equilibrium possible between color tensions, related to a more dym Albers also observed dial painting lines was an excellent way to ere. color exists for color's sake .. . and not merely as accompaniment t> By combining colors exclusively in stripes—that is, in stretched, na: of the same length, varying only in width, and touching each other are led co overlook their rather equal shapes and to consider them ■, Lang’s aim. however, is not to investigate color combinations. Rath "essential information by means of an emotional cede. Ultimately, Lang believes that his art is "a spiritual conduit guishes between rebgion and spirit: "At one time, spirit and relit;:. ■: spint and religion are not the same anymore. There is a spirit, a Irvi the wellspring source of my work.' He defines this living spirit a> �PAINTINGS AND OBJECTS 1975-1997 i of the erful instrun, quoted O on the wooden nplex mathres 13 and 23] vorking which is a klv and d colors. He ing starts a r selected. is.) Next he he colors have he next group led painting in an additric circle in a > if the 1 black and lection. This m painted, d (recall that lull movement more than □rtex or lures you. It’s st nauseous ation." One reproductions t get anything that records ; presence." h is alive." at's talking to al apparatus. ide. Lang he interaction of the colors and to their modification by the underpainting. The result of this "codi­ fied improvisation,” which Lang compares co jazz, is a maximization of the potentiali­ ties of intuition and chance, with the goal of creating new color configurations and experiences. Colors are the means by which Lang investigates the unknown. Although highly verbal, Lang, a self-described "color addict,” has observed that "I’m more confident with colors because I feel connected to them.” Nonetheless while at Yale, Lang had made a special point of avoiding Josef Albers (“a real color scientist") and his color theories: “I did not read that book [Interaction oj Color] because I didn't want to intellec tualize my knowledge about colors.” Still, had Lang read Albers's book, he would have found ample support for his own experiments. Ling is doing intuitively what Albers was doing scientifically, and the results are the same, as Lang has acknowledged obliquely: "In the end, Albers used color to get you to float and vibrate. ...Ik- was walking a line between spirit and science, and in this way we arc linked." Josef Albers had argued that "preferences and dislikes—as in Ide so with color—usually result from prejudices, from lack of experience and insight " Rather than accepting a limited palette, Albers advocated a broad embracenient of the chro­ matic scale: “Therefore, we try to recognize our preferences and our aversions—what colors dominate in our work; what colors, on the other hand, are rejected, disliked, or of no appeal. Usually a special effort in using disliked colors ends with our falling m love with them.”'' Moreover, a point that refers specifically to Lang’s wav of working. Albers had recognized that "independent of harmony rules, .any color 'g<x .' or 'works' with any other color, presupposing that their quantities are appropriate." ' Lang: “People would say these colors don’t go together, but in life everything is thrown together.")The appropriate quantities are determined by two factors: "how mi:, h and how often, distinguish 2 kinds of quantity: I of size—extension m area—and I of recurrence—extension in number.”"’ Like Lang, Albers recognized that "By giving up preference for harmony, we accept dissonance to be as desirable as consonance.... Besides a balance through color harmony, which is comparable to symmetry, there is equilibrium possible between color tensions, related to a more dynamic asymmetry. Albers also observed that painting lines was an excellent way to create works in which color exists for colors sake ... and not merely as accompaniment to form, to shape.... By' combining colors exclusively in stripes—that is, in stretched, narrow rectangles, all of die same length, varying only' in width, and touching each other in full length—we are led to overlook their rather equal shapes and to consider them almost shapeless. Ling’s aim, however, is not to investigate color combinations. Rather it is to transmit "essential information by means of an emotional code.’ Ultimately. Lang believes that lais arr is "a spiritual conduit," but he distin­ guishes between religion and spirit: "At one time, spirit and religion were unified: but spirit and religion are not the same anymore. There is a spirit, a living spirit, and that’s ' wellspring " r source of my work. He defines this living spirit as the essential feeling the ■ 15 �s h 16 C. miTone eke’s. Ultimately, you’re trying to connect your feeling for with others’." ^'feeling and enthusiasm for life are apparent in his sense of generosity Maybe d>7£ential spirit of the work is abundance." Indeed one of the aphonsms that Lang likes to repeat is "All that is not given is lost." the final likes to In repeat is analysis, what Lang gives the viewer is a paradigm for organizing chaos for infusing meaning into randomness. Indeed, it is this drive that separates the twice-wise hominid (homo sapiens sapiens} from other species. That is what we do. Like the scientist (Lang’s interwoven colors and wrapped objects, ascending in a spiral motion, do not seem altogether foreign from the Watson-Crick model of DNA), priest, writer, philosopher, administrator, or any other individual, Lang seeks to make sense out of and understand the series of random acts against which we live our brief lives. “What am I really doing in these paintings? It occurred to me while working in my studio that I could ‘start somewhere and go nowhere.’ I was struck by this and immediately wrote it down. In the same moment, I realized that the truth is you ‘start nowhere and go somewhere.'Where does anything begin? It begins where it begins. Change is the constant. There is nothing to hold on to. If you can embrace this, you can live. That is the essence of my work.” NOTES 1. All quotations are from a conversation with the author on December 18,1996. 2. Angus Fletcher, Allegory: The Theory of a Symbolic Mode (Ithaca: Cornell Paperbacks, 1970): 2. 3. Ibid., p. 3. 4. The piece measured 134 X 134 inches and was created directly on the wall. 5. Giorgio Vasari, Lives of the Artists, ed. and trans by E. L. Seely (New York: Noonday Press, 1957): 8. 6. Erwin Panofsky, Studies in Iconology: Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Renaissance (New York: Harper & Row, Icon Editions, 1972): 132. 7. Josef Albers, Interaction of Color, paperbound ed. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1971): 48. 8. Ibid., p. 17. 9. Ibid., p. 44. 10. Ibid., p. 43. 11. Ibid., p. 42. 12. Ibid., pp. 47-49. TRACKING THE HEART'S OWN Susan C. Larsen Chief Curator, Farnsworth Art Museum, Rockland. M: <\NE OF THE RARE PLEASURES of a life lived in the a: following the progress of a major painter from early stages of development to a state of completeness and fulfil the artistic evolution of Gary Lang, from 1975 to today, 1 of the dynamics of visual consciousness, expressed and hv< ing paintings. The earliest works in this exhibition were, b; exposure to Lang’s odd and ferocious energy which seern© one with the hot yet coolly urbane, exultant yet desperate i transitional era of the late 1970s and early 1980s. The work already' had an uncanny' syntax, moving plane, changing its pictorial Language in some visually mul then devoted to jagged, multicolored planes of painted an elements of modernist abstraction while responding to th show of torn and fragmented ads and messages with their hybrids of high and low culture. The work embodied and breakdown of a contemporary world at once familiar, ten outset, Lang showed no interest in pleasant "arrangement “texts” bur was driven to create a visual equivalent of late ness stalking the scary’ edges of urban life. By the early 1980s, Lang already had a following; and collectors who were bold enough to handle the raucc paintings and sculptures brought into otherwise elegantly pop and smartly conceptual art. His work was more acce exposure to European art, to the visually shattered works Dadaists, like Schwitters and utopian Constructivists like provocative collisions of style and content. Electric in their color, spilling over their edges wit disquieting and even troubling presence wherever they we sculpture played a very public role in an optimistic momt culture which briefly' challenged New York for artistic pre generation of of young artists finally able to debunk old ster �g for life. > transcend 1 your spirit ■itlr others'.” : "Maybe that Lang janizing >arates the do. Like spiral >NA), s to make our brief orking in is and you ‘start begins, this, you TRACKING THE HEART’S OWN INTUITION Susan C. Larsen Chief Curator, Farnsworth Art Museum, Rockland, Maine /-XNIi of THE RARE PLEASURES of a life lived in the artistic community is that of X_z following the progress of a major painter from early promise through l.e, m.uin ■ stages of development to a state of completeness and fulfillment. Viewed in retn. ,p . t. the artistic evolution of Gary Lang, from 1975 to today, has been a brave inv.r.tigatic>n of the dynamics of visual consciousness, expressed and. lived through hr. very deni and ing paintings.The earliest works in this exhibition were, by some coincident >. my first exposure to Lang’s odd and ferocious energy which seemed so extravagant and ■ at one with the hot yet coolly urbane, exultant yet desperate mood ol I •>:. An ge I . m th. transitional era of the late 1970s and early 1980s. The work already had an uncanny' syntax, moving and shifting from pl in ■ t- plane, changing its pictorial language in some visually multiculnir.il dan ■ . Lane v..< ■ then devoted to jagged, multicolored planes of painted and pasted color. I !>■ nv.'di <1 elements of modernist abstraction while responding to the dizzying Lo ■ An. !<■ show of torn and fragmented ads and messages with their undomesticated < ,w:i hybrids of high and low culture. The work embodied arid described a virtu >1 n. ” u ■ breakdown of a contemporary world at once familiar, terrifying, and strange. At thoutset, Lang showed no interest in pleasant "arrangements" or even in fashionable "texts” but was driven to create a visual equivalent of lare twentieth-centurv ■ a, i i. ness stalking the scary edges of urban life. By the early 1980s, Lang already had a following among Los Angel o enttes and collectors who were bold enough to handle the raucous, impolite energy hi paintings and sculptures brought into otherwise elegantly cool collections of I. A. nr. > pop and smartly conceptual art. His work was more accessible to those with a wide exposure to European art, to the visually’ shattered works of early twentieth-century Dadaists, like Schwitters and utopian Constructivists like Rodchenko, who cultivau 1 provocative collisions of style and content. Electric in their color, spilling over their edges with incident, introducing a disquieting and even troubling presence wherever drey went, Lings painting , and sculpture played a very public role in an optimistic moment in California postmodern culture which briefly challenged New York for artistic preeminence. He was part of a generation of young artists finally able to debunk old stereotypes of cultural regional- �flf, IS * G A , K U S°» 1970 »•■”" “ *• W1"“7 S“io P“F“ " N™ Y"k '," H“X^W« » te 1971 » tf» Calfe™ tatae of Arts V.to who he eomptedhn B.A..in 1973 tn the company of Mow sXts Ross Bleckner, Eric Fischl, and David Salle. Many of Langs peers from Cal Arts pursued careers in New York immediately and with great success and cntical acclaim. They were fueled by the conceptual approach to artistic practice taught by John Baldessari and others on the innovative and effective Cal Arts faculty. In a characteristically introspective spirit, Lang opted to go to Yale University in 1973, where he finished an M.EA. in 1975. It would be difficult to find a more vivid contrast of pedagogy and philosophy than these two programs, Cal Arts and Yale. Hng was aware of but determined to avoid entanglement in the elegant and systematic theories of color in painting introduced by Josef Albers during the 1950s and earned on through several subsequent generations of Yale faculty and students. He was also unconvinced by the linguistically and sociologically driven theoretical issues then featured throughout Yale’s humanities curriculum, ideas that soon found adherents in many universities in America. A Fulbright Grant allowed Lang to spend more than a year in Spain where he preferred Barcelona with its familiar sunny climate, wonderful yet highly focused museums, and the wildly colorful architecture of Antonio Gaudi. There is scant evidence of the formal and elegant character of historical Spain in Lang’s 1975 Barcelona Painting [Figure I], featuring a smiling Mickey Mouse surveying a mountainous landscape while other compartments of this jarring, ungraceful, thickly-painted work speak volumes about Lang’s delight in her beaches, marinas, and warm sun. Living in the present moment, unrepentandy independent of art-historical heroes, rejecting clever ironies, Lang had already begun to find his starting point as an artist. Returning to Los Angeles, Lang carried with him both a new sophistication and a greater willingness to look and listen to the L.A. urban environment, which spoke m many dialects and reflected a wide range of moods. Living in a loft in a downtotvn industrial warehouse, Lang created an odd paradise filled with tropical p ants, exotic birds, a favorite dog, postcards and letters providing reminiscences of his seen nr ,tWas a g^tle place with a warmth and easy graciousness not often seen or cultivated in artists’ working environments. streets t^Ga™^ d°main just “ arm’s Iength from che A305 of the sculpt he trOubUng but deeply memorable group of painted or multiple wooden teTrh30^ ' Handmadc- featuring metal spikes -Pie !i^e^nned in tb5 of bullets [Figure 5b] or asmgs, they expressed almost perfectly the tension. genuine physical danger, and undeniable creativity of Lus Angei e in the was well known that local gangs often created crude .capons and used ■: other—and occasionally on unrelated p; ;-:rs<_v. Few people frequenting the poke and fas'uonable gallery acene d among the young boomer generation of Los .Angeles had ever contempt or even touching, such objects. Lang’s weapons had an appealing sensual degree of tactility, and innovative colors and patterns. Some were so iarg< dominated an entire gallery with their kaleidoscopic imager.' and invask Wild patterns suggesting moments of spiritual and physical intoxication of Lang’s sculpture and many of his paintings. Mary viewers found then but disturbing. One remembers hearing whispered comments, uncomfcr personal experiences of urban violence recounted with false bravado, ant universal speculation about the intent of the artist. How could one put together the serious, good-humored persona artist with his aggressive painted sculpture that alternatively seduced anc audience? In retrospect, Lang’s “weapons" of the 1980s seem touching?, and evocative of a time merely predicting the eventual course of human most elemental way. In truth, Lang was perhaps more concerned and co many in his artistic audience by the life he witnessed daily on the streets Longing for harmonv and a state of general and personal well-being, he repose in the neo-pastoral environment of his studio. In his “weapons." and abstracted a crude sculptural medium ot human exchange.Talismanic ar: they have a vividness and theatricality that would linger productively in Gary Lang both sensed the short-lived nature of the urban artist going on in I_A. and knew that his own evolution required him to mov City, which he did in 1985. Paintings such as Isn't It Wonderful "Figure 4 secretly fond he was of the then old-fashioned language of modernist al redolent of the distinctly American palette of Morgan Russell, Stuart E Henry Bruce. Jazzv shifts from strict flat mangles of primary color to a rive passages of grass green evidence a seriously playful spirit that has cl I ang’s work from the outset. Perhaps no one enjoys breaking rules moi who has effectively internalized them. The wild complexity of Lang's delirious syntax finds its apothe; [Figure 8], a major painting of 1987. In it, Lang provides a vast panor; through New York’s extravagant zones ot entertainment, pleasure, and were spinning down toward entropy in that memorable year of the stoc debacle. Because he was working part-time in a prominent nightclub. L row seat at Manhattan's club scene, which he saw as increasingly thread decadent, hi Ag.fr Eiti. a row of fists laid cross-wise at the work's center directly at the viewer. A not of pattern makes the work spin oft at odd segments it into distinctly colored and configured zones. At its heart, i �II PAINTINGS AND OBJECTS 1975-1997 i traveling tribe who worked g active in Europe, where the >us and rewarding. oastal lite as he took oft from studio Program in New York ad the California Institute of in the company of fellow ay of Lane’s peers from Cal great success and critical artistic practice taught by : Cal Arts faculty’. ted to go to Yale University in difficult to find a more vivid grams, Cal Arts and Yale. t in the elegant and systematic luring the 1950s and carried • and students. He was also n theoretical issues then hat soon found adherents in ran a year in Spain where he ierful yet highly focused a Gaudi. There is scant I Spain in Lang’s 1975 Barcelona veying a mountainous ■aceful, thickly-painted work las, and warm sun. Living in istoncal heroes, rejecting clever t as an artist. i both a new sophistication rban environment, which ods. Living in a loft in a iradise filled with tropical iroviding reminiscences of his easy' graciousness nor often length from the chaos of the y memorable group of painted ndmade, featuring metal spikes ge of bullets [Figure 5b] >st perfectly the tension, 19 ■■ genuine physical danger, and undeniable creativity of Los Angeles in the early 1980s. It was well knowai that local gangs often created crude weapons and used them on each other—and occasionally on unrelated passers-by. Few people frequenting the polite and fashionable gallery scene then flourishing among the young boomer generation of Los Angeles had ever contemplated owning, or even touching, such objects. Lang’s weapons had an appealing sensuality, a high degree of tactility, and innovative colors and patterns. Some were so large that they dominated an entire gallery with their kaleidoscopic imagery and invasive physicality. Wild patterns suggesting moments of spiritual and physical intoxication covered some of Lang's sculpture and many of his paintings. Many viewers found them provocative but disturbing. One remembers hearing whispered comments, uncomfortable laughter, personal experiences of urban violence recounted with false bravado, and almost universal speculation about the intent of the artist. How could one put together the serious, good-humored personality of this artist with his aggressive painted sculpture that alternatively seduced and troubled his audience? In retrospect, Lang's “weapons” of the 1980s seem touchingly homemade and evocative of a time merely predicting the eventual course of human events in the most elemental way. In truth, Lang was perhaps more concerned and consumed than many in his artistic audience by the life he witnessed daily on the streets of L.A. Longing for harmony and a state of general and personal well-being, he tned to achieve repose in the neo-pastoral environment of his studio. In his “weapons,’’ Lang elevated and abstracted a crude sculptural medium of human exchange. Talismanic and still powerful, they have a vividness and theatricality that would linger productively in his painting. Gary Lang both sensed the short-lived nature of the urban artistic renaissance going on in L.A. and knew that his own evolution required him to move to New York City, which he did in 1985. Paintings such as Isn't It J4f>riderful [Figure 4] show how secretly fond he was of the then old-fashioned language of modernist abstraction. It is redolent of the distinedy American palette of Morgan Russell, Stuart Davis, or Patrick Henry Bruce. Jazzy shifts from strict flat triangles of primary color to almost descrip­ tive passages of grass green evidence a seriously playful spirit that has characterized Lang’s work from the outset. Perhaps no one enjoys breaking rules more than a person who has effectively internalized them. The wild complexity of Lang’s delirious syntax finds its apotheosis in Night Life [Figure 8], a major painting of 1987. In it, Lang provides a vast panoramic tour through New York’s extravagant zones of entertainment, pleasure, and excess which were spinning down toward entropy in that memorable year of the stock market debacle. Because he was working part-time in a prominent nightclub, Lang had a front row seat at Manhattan’s club scene, which he saw as increasingly threadbare and decadent. In Night Life, a row of fists laid cross-wise at the works center, point pistols direcdv at the viewer. A not of pattern makes the work spin off at odd angles and �»IS”.™?" °< nons and’ PC^ life experience, background, and education have lodged mThe complex art of Gary Lang. His knowing command of paintings many 3 languages and physical poss.biht.es, aUows him to stimulate the viewers imma­ nent awareness of our visual world. His work brings together a remarkable array of issues of critical importance if certain dunens.ons of the art of painting are to survive into the next century. While many of his generation located th<ur painting careers within the domain of narrative-calculating that the subjects of history, politics, cultural identity, or sociology were vastly more interesting than the epistemological issues lying within the domain and language of painting itself—Lang remained quietly, intently focused upon the daily miracles occurring in his studio. Abstract painting took on a more overtly conceptual tone, as his contemporaries quoted modern masters with a cold and vehement irony. Lang watched his contemporaries tearing apart rhe spiritual tradition of abstract painting but seemed to know that they would not succeed. In much of the painting of the 1980s, personal and authentic emotion was removed from the arena of art and replaced by synthetic expressions derived from media sources and delivered in the voice of ironic quotation. To attempt a frank, personal statement in one’s art was to risk ndicule and forfeit a chance to participate in that self-assured, self-congratulatory art scene. At the time, Lang seemed extraordinar­ ily out of step for one so connected and aware of the tides of critical fashion. His work, for all its bad-boy theatricality and dizzying syntax, is quite simply a search for the spiritual through visual experience. Choosing his words haltingly and carefully, struggling to describe what he feels and sees and knows within the process of realizing his work, his conversation often sounds like a plainer reiteration of Kandinsky speaking in the I9I0s or some of Mondrian’s flights of speculation grounded within the realm of art. When he is questioned closely, it becomes apparent that he has not recently reread their essays, even if he probably encountered them sometime in his education. The odd and marvelous experiences with light, space, contradiction, and paradox he describes arise in the everyday routine of his studio. Slowly the state of fragmentation that so characterized his early work gave way to a satisfying wholeness. His kaleidoscopic color remained, but it acquired a new disciplined coherence as each element was aUowed to reveal itself slowly and quietly while contributing to the work conditfoIK f’ He had n°C ad°PCed myOne’S f°rmuIa but had painstakingly arrived at a SeVmto eXpreSS‘Ve °f ** °Wn “ Reddessness reformed itseir into mature, unwavering assertion. recurring scenariounfidT^kev°luClon 35 a painter, it has been interesting to see a with a group of small pai^ings^ome Jjgh.*mpOrtant chanSes m h's work- He begins devotes himself to a cvrl c & ’ Slx °r seven mches in either dimension, and yC1C Of many ^rks. One often has the impression that they will constitute his final goal. Over the years, however, it has is only the opening act of a long drama which is likely to re scale once the imagery is able to speak with an authentic VC painting of 1987—featuring a group of ascending concent brightly colored field of bright horizontal lines—is such a I My own introduction to this work occurred in 198' one day, carrying a small circular painting under his arm an tically serene expression. The little painting pulsated in spat and pull. Muted circles of olive and earth-gray alternated v blue and warm rose. At closer inspection, the colors seemet Their combinations and the format itself created this vital and looking forward to the playing out of this artistic intui new wave of work. It is not surprising that Lang’s critical fortunes impi 1988. Many solo exhibitions in New York featured the dra critics speculated upon their possible meanings, virtually al metaphysical core. Several writers brought up Lang’s provoi ized it as a challenge to usual norms of beauty in painting. Lang has always included a few flamboyant colors 1 spring green, lipstick red. These are memorable but impolil with debased consumer goods of the 1950s and with psyd the late 1960s. Children also favor extravagant color, but n drop such hues from consideration. These are, however, the Lang’s circle paintings of the 1990s, giving them a glowing subordinate range of dark blues, browns, and warm blacks. Another factor supporting the success of this body of i Lang evolved in the application of his color to canvas. The cent painted several times in thin glazes. Initially, he followed the cir< Once established, this understructure provides a base for n moving outward from the center. These suggested some ini colored light. Flat tints alternate and interrupt translucent making it impossible to consider the whole as a mere repet relationships. Surprise and revelation occur again and agaii part to whole and eventually follows the urge to plunge ba core. Lang's raw, dazzling colors regain the rapturous beau in a child’s naive eye, allowing us to see them without preji On several occasions Gary Lang fulfilled his desire a grand scale. An early painting created on a large wall of i San Diego in 1990 was carried out virtually in the spirit o was beautifully and painstakingly crafted with all the com] canvas. At the end of the exhibition, the painting vanished �PAINTINGS AND OBJECTS 1975—1997 1 g a s 1 will constitute his final goal. Over die yean;, however, it has become clear that this stage is only the opening act of a long drama which is likely to reach its climax on a grand scale once the imager}’ is able to speak with an authentic voice. A small untided painting of 198.- —featuring a group of ascending concentric circles hovering over a brightly colored field of bright horizontal lines—is such a beginning. My own introduction to this work occurred in 1988 when Gary Lang appeared one day. earning a small circular painting under his arm and wearing an uncharacteris­ tically serene expression. The litde painting pulsated in space and was full of lively push and pull. Muted circles of olive and earth-gray alternated with circular bands of electric blue and warm rose. At closer inspection, the colors seemed individually unremarkable. Their combinations and the format itself created this vital presence. Full of confidence and looking forward to the playing out of this artistic intuition, Lang was poised for a new wave of work. It is not surprising that Lang’s critical fortunes improved dramatically after 1988. Many solo exhibitions in New York featured the dramatic circle paintings, and critics speculated upon their possible meanings, virtually always discovering their metaphysical core. Several writers brought up Lang’s provocative color and character­ ized it as a challenge to usual norms of beauty in painting. Lang has always included a few flamboyant colors in his palette: irradiated pink, spring green, lipstick red. These are memorable but impolite colors one often associates with debased consumer goods of the 1950s and with psychedelic fashions and art of the late 1960s. Children also favor extravagant color, but most mature artists tend to drop such hues from consideration. These are, however, the very colors that animate Lang’s circle paintings of the 1990s, giving them a glowing presence supported by a subordinate range of dark blues, browns, and warm blacks. Another factor supporting the success of this body of woik is the beautiful technique Lang evolved in the application of his color to canvas. The central core of each work was painted several times in thin glazes. Initially, he followed the circular contours of the form. Once established, this understructure provides a base for new strata of radiating strokes moving outward from the center. These suggested some inner source of brightly colored light Flat tints alternate and interrupt translucent ones in an irregular rhythm, making it impossible to consider the whole as a mere repetitious pattern of predictable relationships. Surprise and revelation occur again and again as the viewer moves from part to whole and eventually follows the urge to plunge back into the spinning, glowing core. Lang’s raw, dazzling colors regain the rapturous beauty and fascination they have in a child’s naive eye, allowing us to see them without prejudice once again. On several occasions Gar}' Lang fulfilled his desire to create a circle painting on a grand scale. An early painting created on a large wall of the Mark Quint Gallery in San Diego in 1990 was earned out virtually in the spirit of an Indian sand painting. It was beautifully and painstakingly crafted with all the complexity and care of a work on canvas. At the end of the exhibition, the painting vanished under a new coat of gallery • 21 1 �22 G A R Y p L A N G “i-tg of rhe t»T0“’ P““” of P”’“ng h" COn“““1 ” bt * sourceof strength in the lives of both artists. Lang ’s painted installations reveal a number of important things about his work and his cum state of mind While creating them, he seems to dwell within a charmed and focused state of being. It is clear that he is utterly secure in the knowledge of what he is going to do. Intellectually and technically, he has resolved the central questions about the image and its expressive intent. This leaves him free to explore just how the work is to unfold. As each color is laid down, it proposes its own array of possible responses from the painter. Lang is always stalking the edge of disaster, hungry for surprise and eager to do something so odd and arbitrary that it just might not work at all. He will often sequester a particularly dominant hue in one edge or corner of a painting while daring the rest of the work to come to terms with it. He will build up a complex area of a painting to a degree unmatched anywhere else in the work, only to counterbalance it with an equally compelling but different set of elements and keep it all in splendid and continuous motion. Upsetting, amusing and deeply interesting, these are masterworks of painterly syntax. These tendencies and habits are played out most rigorously in another body of work begun in the late 1980s and continuing into the present decade. They are the horizontally and vertically oriented grid compositions or “plaid paintings,” as the artist has irrever­ ently termed them [Figures 12 and 14]. Linearity is the ruling principle i:in these marked dizzying, hard-hitting encounters with speed and color. They exist in n. contrast to the meditative quietude of the circular canvases of the same time period. Full of the frenetic energy of urban life, Lang’s plaid paintings recall the unceasing interrelatedness of Piet Mondrian’s final works created in New York City from late 1940 to early 1944, his experiments with interwoven colored tapes to create an animated grid, and his famous homage to New York, the Broadway Boogie- Langs plaid paintings have just as much in common with the performed character of action painting—which quickly becomes apparent upon closer inspection. He mvites the viewer to follow each colored line on its transit across the surface, a journey mvolvmg mult,pie points of intersection and layering as one color moves over mti f Bold, thick linear elements stand as architectonic pillars screening the imphed vndlirh P7rg- 8^’ Slender membeK toVerse space £1? eve^g moves, undulating in ok but S hOnZ°n each wo k eZot “ assertions ZS s^Z^ °f a COmP- at sea. Color plays atajor ^r, W? b>' * of “mb™d everal strong colonstic voices. Examining them closely, one can often sense the season of the year in which they n er, painted or die e artist’s world as they evolved. Out of this highly personal syntax came a sublime group of wrought and optically complex that Lang called them his ''mirror p 20]. In them, all deep space disappears and is replaced by a shimmei colored light caused by a delicate network of interlaced colored line their light back toward the viewer and to dazzle—indeed mesn nature of this color is difficult to describe. Certainly the numbs graded proximity brings retinal saturation into play. One becon sheer presence of light than of any specific color. Lang’s appro; that the work has a remarkable vulnerability and a good deal ol Each of these paintings appears as a revelation, a gift that can r repeated. Their compelling quietude and beauty recall the med mature circle paintings, also the end of an important concept i Throughout Lang’s career, his pursuit of a meaningful i panied by a need for an appropriate and often innovative form three-dimensional painted weapons, the small and also very lar site works and murals, and the grandly scaled gridded painting is a strong element of theatricality’ in Lang’s choice of format, assertive emotional element to his color. Putting such dynamic ing elements into play, Lang risks calling attention to one aspe detriment of the whole. He seems to enjoy, indeed crave, this s drama. Through time he has gained an astonishing mastery' of He can now achieve a state of calm resonance out of colors sei child’s crayon box. Scale now supports his ability to speak to t eagerness to offer something memorable and important. Colo now so firmly' a part of his aesthetic that their disruptive powe: Gary Lang is a valuable and important American paint and celebrated generation. He has taken hold of the complex i modernist painting and used them with affection, integrity', an adventure. True to his time, Lang almost obscures the tendern enterprise behind a brash facade of sassy color and quick picti demands attention and does not let the viewer out of its grasy pleasures of this work are deep and genuine but they are not e has known for quite a while that the world is not an easy plac But through his art, the disquietude, the noise, the run disillusionment of our time are held at arm’s length; and a glir transcendent emerges from the fray. For Gary’ Lang it can be i offer the outcome of his adventure would be to deny its audit daily’ life. Each work requires that we join him on his artistic j own revelations and outcomes each step of the way. �PAINTINGS AND OBJECTS 1975-1997 was also the tied Lang in her support ■d to be a iut his work charmed [ge of what juestions ;t how the >ossible igry for rot work at er of a 1 build up a k, only to ind keep it resting, >dy of wotk rizontally has irrevere in these larked time recall the ewYork ired tapes to y Boogiermed r inspection, irface, a moves over screening the zourse of the ulating in 'lays a major . Rather, ibined tan often sense die season of the year in which they were painted or the emotional tenor of the artists world as they evolved. Out of this highly personal sjutax came a sublime group of paintings so finely wrought and optically complex that Lang called them his “mirror paintings” [Figures 16 and 20]. In them, all deep space disappears and is replaced by a shimmer of infinitely graded colored light caused by a delicate network of interlaced colored lines. They seem to throw their light back toward the viewer and to dazzle—indeed mesmerize—until the very nature of this color is difficult to describe. Certainly the number of hues and their graded proximity brings retinal saturation into play. One becomes more aware of the sheer presence of light than of any specific color. Lang’s approach is so plainly intuitive that the work has a remarkable vulnerability and a good deb of emotional impact. Each of these paintings appears as a revelation, a gift that can never be reconstructed or repeated. Their compelling quietude and beauty recall the meditative nature of Lang’s mature circle paintings, also the end of an important concept in its development. Throughout Langs career, his pursuit of a meaningful image has been accom­ panied by a need for an appropriate and often innovative format, for example, the three-dimensional painted weapons, the small and also very large circular canvases, the site works and murals, and the grandly scaled gridded paintings of recent years. There is a strong element of theatricality in Lang’s choice of format, just as there is an assertive emotional element to his color. Putting such dynamic and potentially disturb­ ing elements into play, Lang risks calling attention to one aspect of a work to the detriment of the whole. He seems to enjoy, indeed crave, this sense of danger and drama. Through time he has gained an astonishing mastery of these treacherous tools. He can now achieve a state of calm resonance out of colors seldom seen outside a child’s crayon box. Scale now supports his ability to speak to the audience and his eagerness to offer something memorable and important. Color, scale, and process are now so firmly a part of his aesthetic that their disruptive power is set free. Gary Lang is a valuable and important American painter within his talented and celebrated generation. He has taken hold of the complex mechanisms of advanced modernist painting and used them with affection, integrity, and a sense of high adventure. True to his time, Lang almost obscures the tenderness and lyricism of his enterprise behind a brash facade of sassy color and quick pictorial moves. His work demands attention and does not let the viewer out of its grasp without a struggle. The pleasures of this work are deep and genuine but they are not easy. It is clear that Lang has known for quite a while that the world is not an easy place. But through his art, the disquietude, the noise, the rumble of urban life, the disillusionment of our time are held at arm’s length; and a glimpse of something transcendent emerges from the fray. For Gary Lang it can be no other way. To merely offer the outcome of his adventure would be to deny its authenticity and relevance to daily life. Each work requires that we join him on his artistic journey, experiencing our own revelations and outcomes each step of the way. • 23 I i I ��I �'4I I £r 2a Weapon, 1980 enamel, monofilament, and aluminum II X 4 X 4 inches 2b Weapon, 1980 aluminum and rubber 13x4x4 inches ����Isn’t It 11 endtrfnl, 1981 oil and acrylic on canvas 17 X 9’1 inches ��5a Urn, 1982 acrylic, tape and wood 29 X 18 X 18 inches 5b Bullet, 1982 lacquer on wood 17 X 514 X 514 inches �! - r 11 WJv --t �1 f ■ f I* I 1 I �/Ij'/J ■ ! in lie S|nJi&—Better Han Milk, 1985—86 ■ t >• rylii <>n i.mv.is <“ i / 60 irnhi", �( ���I I ■ " • .v e i!x '-' X .'? , �������Pl 11 'i _ ta4 - ... •’ st >1 8I fl ■ i I __ ZL L J .. 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I E l'. : ; ■•-■■•• ■•’ IM!!p f!h ■...............;c ■•::::: J.-' !1 1 :£k 1 i ® f C- ■ g : ' & s| P 4 B * ■ , W"» *; M L -. . a- , e. •£,>'-*_> ai < ‘■.r:r; . n :rrr -:~ :Hp F*M fit u-- -:■• :i t .. ■- - : "IM J .LJ ;2 !' .4 -m:: :::::::■ ......... ■ ■’ ■;r’r:rrr.’'J r raErue siijt iaa»asn . _ B- — » J B4 t E L S U • e - £ - E:.: B 1- SO .a. E -.tLlLuti . .& »r J; * T'i : : :: �I 1 21 Conquering, 1995 acrylic on canvas 108 X 72 inches ��I ■ ■ 1 f ;l 22 Dream Twister #4 (Testimonial), 1996 acrylic on canvas 60 X 60 inches I I ■ I I ��■ ■ • • acrylic on cantos 113 incEes diameter ����CHECKLIST OF THE EXHIBITION All dimensions are given in inches; height precedes width precedes depth. Barcelona Painting, 1975 acrylic on canvas 40 X 13 Weapon, 1980 enamel, monofilament, and aluminum EE2, 1982 acrylic on bamboo and wood 142 X 13 X 13 Collection of Joseph Austin, Manhattan Beach, California Night Light, 1990 acrylic on canvas 72 X 60 Collection of Ru The Loss Promotes the Cain, 1983 paper and staples (aggraphage) size and elements variable Mirror #33, 1991 acrylic on canvas 60 X 60 The Maslow Co. Weapon, 1980 aluminum and rubber 13 X 4 X 4 Night Life, 1987 acrylic on canvas 96 X 72 Prayers, 1991 acrylic on canvas 60 diameter Spear, 1981 wood, acrylic paint, and rhinestones 70 X 6 x 6 Collection of Natasha Sigmund, New York City Untitled, 1987 acrylic on canvas 36 X 8 Collection of Tom Rosenberg, Chicago Blade and White AL acrylic on panel 14 X II Collection of G' Dried in Sound, 1981 oil and acrylic on canvas 84 X 58 Ro Lion, 1987 acrylic and wood 44 X 32 X 30 Private Collection, New York City Ruth s Truths. 199 acrylic on canvat 60 X 60 Collection of Th, Fez, 1988-89 acrylic on canvas 43 X 43 Collection of Rebecca and AlexTrepte. La Jolla, California Processing Funk an acrylic on canvai 63 x 63 Collection of Jo IIX4X4 Collection of Bill Ritter and Janny Scott, New York City Isn't It Wonderful, 1981 oil and acrylic on canvas 17 X 9 % Bullet, 1982 lacquer on wood 17 X 5% X 5!4 Urn, 1982 acrylic, tape, and wood 29 X 18 X 18 Full Circle, 1990 acrylic on canvas 84 diameter CcrLpu'mg, 1995 acrylic on canva 108 x 72 ourtesy Quint �60X60 I . -i Cclecr on. A'iikes-Barrc Pennsyiwanta ■;. c.meter E-r.v Dmpp'ari-c:. 1992 irr. lie on pznel I4XII . -irt-cf GF.enoIee and Bernard Zurdier, Pans AxiiPaT'.', 1993 acrylic on cz-i'.as 60x60 .ss,7 rs• n Publishing Group, Washington, DC Li-.sr and II: idrr 7t2, 1994 a:rf:c on ansa 63x63 '• -■ “ R.-.n B. K-,<'gel, New York City ' . I ■■ C acr .Lr < n cxr.vzr108x72 Courtesy Qi :.r:' Contemy irary Art, La JolL, California acrylic on canvas 12 X 12 Courtesy Brian Gross Fine Art, San Francisco Grand Circle, 1997 acrylic on canvas 113 diameter Arsenal of Starsfor Chance, 1997 acrylic on canvas 96 x 96 A NOTE ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS Several important paintings shown in this catalogue could not be included in the exhibition. In addition to Mirroring Heart landing), collection of the artist, shown on the cover, they include the following: Figure 7, Collection Angelika and Marco Vianello-Chiodo, London Figure 10, Collection of the artist J ?igurc J 2, Collection of Ralph Wernicke, Stuttgart, Germany Figure 16, Courtesy Galerie Ziircher, Paris Figure 19,Private Collection, San Juan, Puerto Rico Figure 2d), private Collection, Paris �.C lio-' Angeles. Ne« Yotk City education 1993 Cho-.. urd Art Institute, Los Angeles, 1968-1969 Whitney Museum of American Art, Independent Study Brian Gross Fine Art, San Francisco Galena Cadaques, Cadaques, Spain Michael Klein Inc., NewYork City Program, 19/0—19/I Qhfomia Institute of the Arts, Valencia (B.F.A., 1973) hale University, New Haven (M.EA., 1975) 1992 AWARDS AND HONORS Michael Klein Inc., NewYork City Nina Freudenheim Gallery, Buffalo, NewYork Margaret Lipworth Fine Art, Boca Raton, Florida The Elizabeth Foundation for the Arts Grant, 1995 Fulbrieht/Hayes Travel Grant, Barcelona, Spain, 1975-1977 X-EA. Yale University, Sculpture Commission, 1974 Annina Nosei Gallery, NewYork City 1991 1990 SOLO EXHIBITIONS 1997 2nan Gross Fine Art, San Francisco Contemporary Art, La Jolla, California .rardom Art Gallery,Wilkes University,Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania Galen* Zurcher, Paris 1996 •<a .: Bor**! Fine Art,The Hague.The Netherlands ,„et project, NewYork City —' ■' Ftne Art. San Francisco -■r -.-.omu -jm/Ihe Hague.The Netherlands Annina Nosei Gallery, NewYork City Mark Quint Gallery, La Jolla, California 1989 Simon Watson Gallery, New York City Annina Nosei Gallery, New York City Pretto/Berland Hall Gallery, New York City Mark Quint Gallery, La Jolla, California 1988 Julian Pretto Gallery, New York City 1987 1984 Kirk de Gooyer Gallery Los Angilcs Baskerville — Warsen Gallery. 1- - . -rk SE �1984 SELECTED GROUP EXHIBITIONS Kuk d: Gzc-vr Gzllerv, i_os Ar.gHes Baskerville — Watson Gal’crv. New York Cirv 1997 Benefit Exhibition, Pat Hearn Gallery, New York City Drawing From Life, Stark Gallery, New York City Cramercy International Contemporary Art Fair Miami al the Raleigh Hotel, Friedman-Guinness, Miami, Florida Gramercy International Contemporary Art Fair at Chateau Mannont, Z-SZ Friedman-Guinness, Los Angeles FIAC, Paris ?<Lrk Qzzr.t Cxzllcry. Ssn Diego 1996 1981 Grammy International Contemporary Art Fair at Chateau Mannont, ~:.zz i-zuler, Phoenix. Anzonz Friedman-Guinness, Los Angeles The Collection of Julian Pretto, Wadsworth Atheneum, I98C ulzzH Kantor Gallerv. Los Angeles —■'.-LE. Gallen. Los An^-eHs Hartford, Connecticut Mid-Winter Exhibition, Brian Gross Fine Art, San Francisco Quint Contemporary Art, La Jolla, California 1995 : 75 ?jtf of Arzenran Studies Barcelona, Spain •-tru j •. j.'ior J de Hu EiteHt Lnrdos. _>Hd-id ipain Color Painting, Brian Gross Fine Art, San Francisco Julian’s Show, Littlejohn Contemporary, New York City /Irw.-Wg bna^s. Gallery 400,The University of Illinois at Chicago 1974 _z:v Airf jailer y, Haven. <L'..r_ri^<'r..,cuT 1994 Azw York City Abstract Painting, Salvatore Ala Gallery, New York City // :<t G.lcr, Charles Cowles Gallery, New York City G' ri.rtnr rn (yurtlion, Galerie Ztircher, Paris �I . | GARY LANG 1988 1993 IN Return of the Cadav.e Evquis. The Drawing Center, NewYork City Tkrtr Painters. Margaret Lipworth Fine Art, - I Boca Raton. Florida Put Ctar-B Coast, Nancy Drysdale Gallery, Washmgton, DC Sailing to Byzantium with Disenchantment, Sergio Tossi Arte Contemporanea, Prato, Italy Collage. Brian Gross Fine Art, San Francisco Lang McLaughlin, Venezia, Nina Freudenheim Gallery, Buffalo, New York Kurswechsel, Michael Klein Inc. at Transart Exhibitions, Cologne, Germany 1981 Mutations, Annina Nosei Gallery, New York City Croup Exhibition, Molly Barnes Gid i, . Ls Args Albright-Knox Museum, Buffalo, New York Julian Pretto Gallery, New York City Intimate Object, Downtown Gallery. L -s .m •; fmetgng Downtown Los Angeles Cyprus Gall, Adler Gallery, Los Angeles Small Format, Lang and O'Hara, New York City Los Angeles California Artists, Tower Gallery. NewYork City 1987 Ulnke Kantor, Los Angeles Adler Gallery, Los Angeles Gary Lang and Joe Fay, Mark Quint Gallery Los - Working in Brooklyn—Painting, Brooklyn Museum, The New Art of Downtown Lc: Angela, Madison Art (. Wall Constructions. Security Pacific Bank, Los An; Wisconsin (traveled to four North Amer Brooklyn, New York Recent Acquisitions, Community Redevelopment .’ 1986 Los Angeles Paris Biennale, Paris 1992 Adler Gallery, Los Angeles 1978 Ecstacy, Dooley Le Cappelaine, New York City Geometric Strategies, Marilyn Pearl Gallery, New York City Modem Objects: A New Dawn, Baskerville + Watson. New York City United Nations Plaza, New York City Ageometry, Michael Klein Inc., New York City Vibology, White Columns, New York City 1985 1976 Off the Stmts, Los Angeles Ed Thorp Gallery, New York City Metropolitan Transit, Los Angeles 1991 Bill and Merry Norris Collection, Pepperdine University, Annina Nosei Gallery, New York City Summer Show, Michael Klein Inc., New York City Los Angeles Recent Painting in Southern California, Fisher Gallery, University of Preview, Michael Klein Inc., New York City 1984 1990 A Broad Spectrum: Contemporary Los Angeles Painters and Sculptors. Design Center, Los Angeles Annina Nosei Gallery, New York City Barcelona (traveled to Madrid'; Group Exhibition, Geneva 1973 Crime and Punishment, Triton Museum, Santa Clara, California Grids, Vrej Baghoomian Gallery, New York City ( Southern California, Los Angeles Nancy Drysdale Gallery, Washington, DC Hill Gallery, Birmingham, Michigan 1975 Americans Painting in Spain. Institute of North Al Olympiad: Summer ’84, Koplin Center, Los Angeles ( ( ( hale University’ Art Gallerv. New Haven, Coni 1972 Whitney’ Museum ot American Art, NewYori The Grid, Ben Shahn Galleries, William Paterson College, Wayne, New Jersey 1983 SELECTED LITERATURE Mark Quint Gallery, La Jolla, California University Place Gallery, New York City Fluid Geometry, Cummings Art Center, Connecticut College, L.A.C.E. Gallery, Los Angeles Bacon, George. “Un tour des galeries." Lejortrr Jan Baum Gallery, Los Angeles (September 1994': 41. Blain, Michael. “Formalist Ammunition.’ Los. New London, Connecticut Croup Exhibition, Guillen & Tresserra Galena d’Art, Barcelona Plains Museum of Art, Moorhead, Minnesota 1989 Group Exhibition, Mark Quint Gallery, San Diego Artists Of the 80s: Selected Worksfrom the Maslow Collection, Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes College, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania A-pects of Painting, Julian Pretto Gallery, New York City Jir.iiarirnal, Fiction/Non-Fiction Gallery, New York City <■' up LMition, Annina Nosei Gallery, New York City ( omtng iff Age, Madison Art Center, Madison. Wisconsin 1982 .December 30. 1980'. Branson. Michael. “Art: Brooklyn Painters.’’ T 4th Anniversary of Chinese Chance, University Place Gallery. (July 3,1987): III, 23. Camper, Fred. “Taking Aim at Weapons,’’ Ch. NewYork City Sunday in Rio, L.A.C.E., Los Angeles (September 15. 1995': 34-35. Dans. 1 htl. Point ot Departure,’ Isthmus Me Theatrical Abstractions, Jan Baum Gallery, Los Angeles Sanders Collection, Plains Art Museum. Moorhead, Minnesota s,n] (June 5. 1987': 26. �PAINTINGS AND OBJECTS 1975-1997 • ork Ct i Ity 1981 'fork Farmer, Rob. Art in the Round: 7 he Sensational Circles of Grcwr Exhibition. Molly Barnes Gallen-, Los Angeles Object, Downtown Gallery, Los Angeles Los Angeles Artists. Cyprus Gallery. Los Angeles f City, CwfVrnu drtirtS, Tower Gallery. New York City Hi.'. Constructions. Security Pacific Bank. Los Angeles L'irike Kantor, Los Angeles Gag? Lang andjx Fay, Mark Quint Gallen*. Los Angeles Th-New An cf LHe&nwi LaMrgeks. Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin (traveled to four North American cities) Recent Ar^uisitians, Communin’ Redevelopment Agency, Los Angeles 1978 ^on.NewYodlC!^ I United Nations Plaza. New York Citv 1976 University, — Spasn. Institute of North American Studies, 1973 Yale University Art Gallery. New Haven. Connecticut 1972 Whitnev Museum cf American Art, New York City SELECTED LITERATURE Baron, George. “Un tour des gaieties,” Le Journal des Arts 'September 1994z: 41. Blain, Michael “Formalist Ammunition,” Lc: Angeles Times esota 'December 30, 19&0y. Brenson, Michael. “Art: Brooklyn Painters,” The New York Times (July 3, 1937 : III, 23? Diego Camper. Fred. “Taking Aim ar Weapons,” Chicago Reader Place Gallery, September 15. 1995J 34—35. Davis, Phil “Point of Departure," Isthmus Madison, Wiscon­ ■ s Angela ,rhcad, Mmnesota 1984) : 6. Huntington, Richard. ‘Art,” The Buffalo News (September 10, 1993): 20. . Beauty’s Truth,” The Buffalo News (September 10, 1993). ----------- . Titled Eye,” The Buffalo News (June 12,1992): 35. ----------- • "Ugly Beauty,” The Buffalo News (October I, 1993): 24. Huser, France. “L’Amerique a Paris,” L’Officiel de la Mode (January 1996): 135. Kaiser, Franz W. Gary Lang: The Hague Project (The Hague: Haags Group Fxhzi:::rr., Geneva Angeles 5, 1996): 17. Hicks, Emily. Things Fall Apart,” Artweek (August, 25, 1975 Barcelona traveled to Madrid) linters and Sculptcrs, News (December 1986): 27-28. Hawkins, Julie. “The Circle Game,” San Francisco Chronicle (May (November 1994): 202-204. Jolis, Alan. “In Brief: Gary Lang: Zurcher, Paris,” Art News Americans ita Clara. California New York Artist Gary Lang,” Where San Francisco (June 1996): SI. Goldman, Leah. “San Diego/Gary Lang/Mark Quint,” Art Ed Thorp Gallery, New York Citv Gallery, University of 77 sin] June 5, 1987/ 26. Gemeentemuseum, 1996), exhibition catalogue. Koplos, Janet. “Gary Lang at Crosby Street Project,” Art in America (September 1996): 108—109. Larsen, Susan C. “Gary Lang at Mark Quint Gallery,” Artforum (September 1982): 84—85. ----------- . Sunshine and Shadow: Recent Painting in Southern California (Los Angeles: The Fellows of Contemporary Art, 1985) , exhibition catalogue. McDonald, Robert. “Paintings That Defy Description,” Los Angeles Times (October I, 1986): I, 7. ----------- . "Portraits of the Artist As Life Itself,” Visions (Winter 1993): 31-32. Moorman, Margaret. "Gary Lang at Annina Nosei,” Art News (December 1988): 206,210. Morgan, Robert C. “Three Strategies,” Art Press (February- March, 1996): 64-65. Nathan, Jean. “Gary Lang,” (New York: Michael Klein Inc., 1991), exhibition brochure. Norklun, K. “The Disjunctive Experience,” Artweek (February 19, 1983): 6. Nuridsany, Michel. "Gary Lang,” Figaro (September 19, 1995). �A 78 . GARY LANG Ohlman, Leah. "San Diego/Gary Lang/Mark Quint,” Art (December 1986): 27-28. Ostrow, Saul. “Gary Lang Interview," BOMB 45 (Fall 1993): ■ 14-16. ______ . “More Parts to the Whole: Abstract Painting After Modernism," Art Press (French Edition, November 1995). O'Toole, Judith, H. Artists of the 80s: Selected Worksfrom the Maslow Collection (Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania: Sordoni Art Gallery, Wilkes College, 1989), exhibition catalogue. P„ R.L. [Pincus, Robert, L] "Galleries Downtown," Los Angeles Times (August 10, 1984): VI, 16. Pincus, Robert, L. "Art of Excess: On Energy Alone Lang's Canvases Hie the Bulls’-eye,” The San Diego UnionTribune (March 20, 1997): 40. --------- . "Mark Quint Finds Space for New Art,” The San Diego Union (October I, 1989): E-3. P., J.L. [Pinte, Jean-Louis] "A Vibrant Geometry,” Tigaroscope (September 28, 1994,): 54. Pinte, Jean-Louis. "Gary Lang: Les miroirs de 1’ame,” Tigaroscope (October 4—10, 1995): 43. Rubinstein, Raphael. “Gary Lang at Michael Klein,” Art in America (March 1994): 96—97. Saltz, Jerry. "A Year in the Life: Tropic of Painting,” Art in America (October 1994): 90-101. Scott, Sue. "Ageometry,” Art News (May I993):I4I-I42. Selwyn, Marc. “Three Painters," Flash Art (NovemberDecember 1989): 126-127. Smith, Roberta. "Gary Lang: 'Hague Project,”’ The New York Times (February 9, 1996): C23. . "Old, Traditional and Alternative Spaces," The New York Times (May 5, 1989): III, 30. Stamets, Bill. "Art: A Warm Gun; A Wet Paintbrush," Chicago Sunday Times (September 29, 1995): NC 3. Stockinger, Jacob. "Color Shows Joy,Tension of the Artist" [Madison, Wisconsin] (June 12, ’ [Tomkin^Calvm], "Ageometry," The New Yorker (December Vezin, Luc, and Bernard Ziircher. "La FI AC i ■ nurcU de I’art?),” InfoMalin (October 7 & 8. I . ; . Wat, Pierre. "Gary Lang: L’lntuitif,” Beaux An: (October 1995): 53. Westfall, Stephen. "Gary Lang at Julian Pretto,” inAmr,:, (December 1988): 146. -----------"Gary Lang: A Conversation with Stephen Westfall'' Tema Celeste (January/March 1992/. 98-99. . Fluid Ceometry (New London: Cummings Art Center Connecticut College, 1990), exhibition catalogue. Zimmer, William. "Fluid Geometry: Six Painters Offer Expressionistic Shapes,” The New Fori Times (December 9, 1990): XII. Zinsser, John. "Geometry and Its Discontents," Tema Celeste (Autumn 1991): 72—76. i I EXHIBITION UNDERWR Diversified Records Services. 1; r Annette Evans Foundation for the Arts and Humanities Franklin First Savings Bank Friends of the Sordoni Art Gallen Maslow Lumia Bartonllo Advertising. Mellon Bank, N.A. Pennsylvania Council on the Arts The John Sloan Memorial Foundation Andrew J. Sordoni, III Wilkes University SELECTED PUBLIC COLLECTIONS A. T. &T, Somerset, New Jersey The Brooklyn Museum City Redevelopment Agency, Los Angeles Contemporary Art Museum, University of South Flonda.Tamm The Detroit Institute of Arts IBM Corporation, Somers, New York Madison Art Center, Madison, Wisconsin The Maslow Collection, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania Meadowbrook Art Gallery, Oakland University, Rochester, Michigan Museum of Art, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor Nordstern, Cologne, Germany Paine Webber, New York City Plains Art Museum, Moorhead, Minnesota Portland Museum of Art, Portland, Maine Rayovac, Madison, Wisconsin Thompson Publishing Group, New York City Tuttle & Taylor, Los Angeles Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford. Connecticut ( SPONSORS The Business Council CBI-Creative Business Interiors Eastern Insurance Group Friedman Electric Supply Co., Inc. Marquis Art and Frame Nabisco, Inc. G. R. Noto Electrical Construction Panzitta Enterprises, Inc. Pennsylvania Millers Mutual Insuran Rosenn. Jenkins and Greenwald, L.L. Trion Industries Inc. This exhibition is in honor of Dr. RctB been funded in part by a generous giftH Foundation. Maslow Lumia BartcrilL.® provided additional support to unden^ �■4rr-:octotcr CtO' 4r? 4^, EXHIBITION UNDERWRITERS : 98-99. Diversified Records Services, Inc. Annette Evans Foundation for the Arts and Humanities Franklin First Savings Bank Friends of the Sordoni Art Gallery Maslow Lumia Bartorillo Advertising, Inc. Mellon Bank, N.A. Pennsylvania Council on the Arts The John Sloan Memorial Foundation, Inc. Andrew J. Sordoni, HI Wilkes University tmmgs Art Ce, ;nter, tio" «talOgue. nters Qffer December lts ” Cdesu TIONS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This exhibition and catalogue would not have been possible without the enthusiastic support of Gary Lang. Additional thanks to the following: Joseph Austin John Beck Marsha Chase Eric Fischl Esther Friedman Thomas H. Garver Ap Gewald Brian Gross SPONSORS The Business Council CBI-Creative Business Interiors Eastern Insurance Group Friedman Electric Supply Co., Inc. Marquis Art and Frame Nabisco, Inc. G. R. Noto Electrical Construction Panzitta Enterprises, Inc. Pennsylvania Millers Mutual Insurance Co. Rosenn, Jenkins and Greenwald, L.L.P. Trion Industries Inc. urh Florida. Tampa Sylvania sity. m Arbor ty This exhibition is in honor of Dr. Roy E. Morgan and has been funded in part by a generous gift from the Sordoni Foundation. Maslow Lumia Bartorillo Advertising, Inc. provided additional support to underwrite the catalogue. 4 Robert J. Heaman, Ph.D. Franz W. Kaiser John B. Koegel Nancy L. Krueger Raymond and Shirley Lang Susan C. Larsen, Ph.D. Melanie Maslow Lumia The Maslow Collection Ruth Pastine Mark Quint Bill Ritter Tom Rosenberg Jon Schaffer Robert Schweitzer Janny Scott Natasha Sigmund Andrew J. Sordoni, HI Eric Stark Richard E. Thompson Rebecca and Alex Trepte James Turrell JeffWecker Gwenolee and Bernard Zurcher �ADVISORY commission Freddie Bittenbender Christopher N. Breiseth, Ph.D. Marion M. Conyngham Virginia C. Davis, Chair Stanley I Grand, Ph.D. Robert J. Heaman, Ph.D. Mary Jane Henry Keith A. Hunter, Esq. J. Michael Lennon, Ph.D. Melanie Maslow Lumia Theo Lumia Kenneth Marquis Constance R. McCole Hank O'Neal Arnold Rifkin Kim Ross Charles A. Shaffer, Esq. Susan Shoemaker, Esq. William Shull Helen Farr Sloan Andrew J. Sordoni, HI Sally Sprankle Sanford B. Sternlieb, M.D. Mindi Thalenfeld Thomas H. van Arsdale Joel Zitofsky STAFF Stanley I Grand, Ph.D., Director Nancy L. Krueger, Co-ordinator Earl W. Lehman, Preparator Callery Attendants Tom Harrington Sarah Karlavage Amy Mazeitis LisaTabbit �GATLO«C -» �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1997 May 11 Gary Lang: Paintings and Objects Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Gary Lang Stanley I. Grand Susan C. Larson Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1997 May 11 - August 8 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource This survey seeks to understand the nature of his accomplishment by establishing a chronology and contextualization of his works, by providing an interpretation of his philosophy and a decoding of his methodology, and by locating him within the context of the great modernist colorists from Cezanne to Albers. Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition program Subject The topic of the resource painting paintings Gary Lang sculpture sculptor https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/a365907fe0a84c4d1e5f3a965ee6fff6.pdf 132df941c4969453ac360e2c10cb5241 PDF Text Text ������������������ https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/c405abaa984850e21b9a32355c6980ea.pdf 8297898b07a8e247aec9fbc44a142001 PDF Text Text CONTEMPORARY REALIST ART FROM THE COLLECTION OF MELLON BANK ■ . SORD GA N6512.5 F5G73 1997 ..... �CONTEMPORARY REALIST ART FROM THE COLLECTION OF ------ MELLON BANK �I CONTEMPORAR FROM THE O - -------- -..... — I ! - Essay by Stanley I Grand August 25 to September 28,1997 1 Vija Celmins Ocean Surface i, 1982 drypoint Sordoni Art Gallery Wilkes Univers �CONTEMPORARY REALIST ART FROM THE COLLECTION OF MELLON BANK Essay by Stanley I Grand i-ARLEY LIBRARY V i_KES UNIVERSITY KPS-BARRE, pa August 25 to September 28,1997 Sordoni Art Gallery Wilkes University Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania �Vit'li!’. ■ T A TEAREPLEA^’T°1O1N the Bordoni Art Gahe l/\/ ing "Contemporary Realist Art from the Coll T V Mellon Bank." The corporate art collection ol was established to enhance the workplace for the enjoy employees and customers, while bringing an importan educational asset to those areas we serve. By lending u museums and galleries, our intention is to increase an ; the visual arts and their place in our cultural—and cor heritage. This exhibition includes a selection of contemporary paintings and prints from Mellon Bank's collection. Th which initially consisted of a small body of nineteenth paintings, was carefully supplemented in the early 19f British and American works of the same period. The o works were added to bring the collection into the twei and to reinforce the connection between Mellon Bank innovative ways of doing business. "Contemporary Ri the Collection of Mellon Bank" enables us to share an of our collection with the community and to celebrate ments of a distinguished group of artists. We are grateful to art consultant Jane Richards for her to selecting works of the highest quality’. Her efforts cont key role in the development and use of this collection All of us at Mellon Bank take great pride in sharing our collection and hope that you find pleasure, insigh standing in this exhibition. Copyright © 1997 Sordoni Art Gallery AH rights reserved 1600 copies were printed by Llewellyn & McKane Inc. Catalogue design by John Beck Set in Adobe Palatino (designed in 1952 by Hermann Zapf) ISBN 0-942945-11-5 —Frank V Cah Chairman, Pres Chief Executive Mellon Bank C �■ FOREWORD T A 7"e are pleased to join the Sordoni Art Gallery in presentl/\/ mg "Contemporary Realist Art from the Collection of V V Mellon Bank." The corporate art collection of Mellon Bank was established to enhance the workplace for the enjoyment of our employees and customers, while bringing an important cultural and educational asset to those areas we serve. By lending works of art to museums and galleries, our intention is to increase an awareness of the visual arts and their place in our cultural—and corporate— heritage. This exhibition includes a selection of contemporary American paintings and prints from Mellon Bank's collection. The collection, which initially consisted of a small body of nineteenth-century paintings, was carefully supplemented in the early 1980s with British and American works of the same period. The contemporary works were added to bring the collection into the twentieth century and to reinforce the connection between Mellon Bank and modem, innovative ways of doing business. "Contemporary Realist Art from the Collection of Mellon Bank" enables us to share an important part of our collection with the community and to celebrate the achieve­ ments of a distinguished group of artists. We are grateful to art consultant Jane Richards for her commitment to selecting works of the highest quality. Her efforts continue to play a key role in the development and use of this collection. All of us at Mellon Bank take great pride in sharing this portion of our collection and hope that you find pleasure, insight, and under­ standing in this exhibition. —Frank V. Cahouet Chairman, President, and Chief Executive Officer Mellon Bank Corporation J• ijJE j : �■: '■ • • . . e 100 beginning in 191 Bank a., - . ; ■ a corporate art cotie present contains approximately 3,000 works. 1 preexisting holdings of nineteenth-century American Bank expanded its collection or traditional paintings an prints, while simultaneously moving into other collectii Mellon family's long?landing interest in British art poin another collecting direction: British paintings, watercok drawings from the eighteenth, nineteenth, and early tw ries. Reflecting the Bank's strong position in the interna sector, the collection increasingly assumed a global asp particular, being well represented. Finallv, the Bank pin porary art. primarily works on paper, from which the c is drawn. Several considerations contributed to and influences development of Mellon s art collection, which coincide cant expansion of its consumer base and a concurrent i physical facilities. Obviously, the collection fulfilled int external needs, but it also reflects certain ideas current in which it was created. Specifically, these factors indu trend of corporate collecting, the art market during the since this exhibition deals with representational art-—tl acceptance of "New Realism" during the 1980s Intemallv. the collection was utilized as a means of workplace by creating a "pleasant and stimulating em employees and customers." Not only did art add "col the work spaces." it also demonstrated management's employees: Unlike most corporate collections, which senior management Mellon Bank designed its prograj a highly democratic manner [which! demonstrates t that the Corporation cares about their work environ collection was to serve as an informal educational using a 2 Jennifer Bartlett In the Garden #118,1982 silkscreen >. The quotations in thi^ and the following paragraph art document entitled Mellon Bank C orparate Art Collection I �1 I "X URING a seven-year period beginning in 1980, Mellon I Bank actively developed a corporate art collection, which at present contains approximately 3,000 works. Building on its preexisting holdings of nineteenth-century American paintings, the Bank expanded its collection of traditional paintings and historic prints, while simultaneously moving into other collecting areas. The Mellon family's longstanding interest in British art pointed toward another collecting direction: British paintings, watercolours, and drawings from the eighteenth, nineteenth, and early twentieth centu­ ries. Reflecting the Bank's strong position in the international business sector, the collection increasingly assumed a global aspect—textiles, in particular, being well represented. Finally, the Bank purchased contem­ porary art, primarily works on paper, from which the current exhibition is drawn. Several considerations contributed to and influenced the growth and development of Mellon's art collection, which coincided with a signifi­ cant expansion of its consumer base and a concurrent increase in its physical facilities. Obviously, the collection fulfilled internal and external needs, but it also reflects certain ideas current during the time in which it was created. Specifically, these factors include the broader trend of corporate collecting, the art market during the 1980s, and— since this exhibition deals with representational art—the growing acceptance of "New Realism" during the 1980s. Internally, the collection was utilized as a means of improving the workplace by creating a "pleasant and stimulating environment for employees and customers."1 Not only did art add "color and beauty to the work spaces," it also demonstrated management's concern for employees: "Unlike most corporate collections, which are exclusive to senior management, Mellon Bank designed its program to function in a highly democratic manner [which] demonstrates to employees that the Corporation cares about their work environment. Last, the collection was to serve as an "informal educational tool, a way to i. The quotations in this and the following paragraph are from an undated document entitled "Mellon Bank Corporate Art Collection Fact Sheet. 7 �enrich and broaden employees' personal lives. This concern with the quality of the work environment was consistent with the thinking of contemporary personnel and motivational experts. Externally, Mellon understood the collection's public relations and marketing value: "The art collection is strategically utilized as a means to position Mellon Bank in a leadership role within the cultural community and to promote corporate citizenship within highly demanding communities. The art collection s high caliber enables it to be utilized in a way that serves to strengthen the Bank s image and community involvement in an increasingly competitive marketplace." In management's view, the "quality and enduring value" of the art were "qualities that match Mellon's business activity." Thus, the evolving collection was seen as having a role in the advancement of corporate objectives. The "increasingly competitive marketplace" reflected the boom years of the 1980s, which presented both great opportunities and uncertain­ ties. As the banking industry struggled to redefine itself, corporate art collections helped convey an image of stability, tradition, taste, and responsibility. But then this has often been the case: one thinks of the Florentine Lorenzo de' Medici (1449-1492), who understood well the use of art to further his family's banking interests. The development of the Mellon collection should also be seen in the wider context of corporate collecting and specifically within the heating up of the art market during the 1980s. A relatively recent phenomenon, contemporary corporate art collecting began during the Depression years of the 1930s when, as Marjory Jacobson has noted, the Rock­ efeller Center real estate group and International Business Machines pioneered the "modem precedents for American business involve­ ment in the visual arts."2 The former, following centuries-old tradi­ tions of patronage, commissioned Diego Rivera to paint a mural for its midtown flagship property; the latter, under the leadership of Thomas J. Watson, Sr., effected the "transformation of the accepted mode of art collecting established by nineteenth-century moguls into major company policy."3 In the 1980s, the art market became one repository for surplus capital, a way to diversify one's investments and minimize risk. For example, when the British Rail Pension Fund sold its Impressionist and modem pictures at auction in 1989, the Fund realized an annual 2. Marjory Jacobson, Art for Work: The New Renaissance in Corporate Collecting (Boston: Harvard Business School Press, 1993): 10. 3. Ibid., p. 12. s 3 Janet Fish Autumn Leaves and Canteloupe, 1982 pastel on paper �ancem with the the thinking of ic relations and ilized as a ithin the ship within tigh caliber hen the Bank's r competitive 1 enduring >usiness zing a role in the boom years id uncertainIf, corporate iition, taste, one thinks understood SStS. be seen in the tin the heating phenomenon, Depression the Rockiess Machines ess involvees-old tradit a mural for iership of he accepted y moguls into r surplus lize risk. For ipressionist ed an annual Corporate 8 �f 7?- --- - increase in value exceeding 20 percent on many of these paintings. The possibility of selling trophy pictures like van Gogh's Iris (which fetched $53-9 million) or Portrait of Dr. Gachet ($82.5 million) offered the potential of bringing instant fame and prestige to the paintings new owners and of providing stockholders with an outstanding return on investment. Broadly speaking, most of the artists on view in this exhibition were associated with New Realism, one of the many and often intersecting—stylistic directions (Minimalism, Pop, Op, Process, Site, Earth, Conceptual Art, Hard Edge Abstraction, Photo-Realism, Kinetic, and Happenings) that flourished during the 1960s. The prior decade had witnessed less formal diversity; indeed, many critics would have agreed with Clement Greenberg's 1954 observa­ tion "that representational painting and sculpture have rarely achieved more than minor quality in recent years, and that major quality gravitates more and more toward the nonrepresentational."' "Quality," however, is an elusive concept. By 1961, Greenberg had come to believe that "standards of quality" were directly tied to an art's "purity," by which he meant that the artist must "eliminate . . . every effect that might conceivably be borrowed from or by . . . any other art."5 Since representational painting shares subject matter, narrative, and illusionism with other arts, it was inherently of lesser aesthetic quality in Greenberg's formalistic hierarchy. The artist and critic Fairfield Porter (Catalogue Numbers 23 and 24) represented a notable and eloquent dissenting viewpoint from Greenberg's. In 1962, Porter, a long-time advocate of figurative and representational art who had written for Art News (1951-1959) and The Nation (1959-1961), wrote: "To say that you cannot paint the figure today, is like an architectural critic saying that you must not use ornament, or as if a literary critic proscribed reminiscence.'"’ Subsequently, an increasing number of critics favorably inclined toward representational art began forcefully arguing its case.7 4. Greenberg expressed this view in a lecture originally delivered at Yale University and subsequently published as "Abstract, Representational, and so forth" (1954) in Art and Culture (Boston: Beacon, 1961): 135. 5. Clement Greenberg, "Modernist Painting," Arts Yearbook 4 (1961): 103. 6. Fairfield Porter, Art in Its Own Terms: Selected Criticism 1933-1973, edited by Rackstraw Downes (New York, 1979): 70. 7. For an overview of the critical response to the realist revival, see Lawrence Alloway, "The Renewal of Realist Criticism," Art in America (September 1981): 108-111. 10 4 Sidney Goodman East River Drive, 1979 oil on canvas �lintings. ■is (which. i) offered aintings' iding bition aften icess, Realism, The lany bserva■ly major itional."4 rg had d to an nate... ...any after, of lesser 23 and t from ive and 39) and t the ust not ce."6 ined >7 at Yale 1, and so i): 103. '975- see iai 10 4 Sidney Goodman East River Drive, 1979 oil on canvas �Concurrently, several important museum and gallery exhibitions, along with their accompanying catalogues and reviews, served to focus and clarify the revival of representational painting and bestow legitimacy on it. The Museum of Modem Art's (MoMA's) seminal -New Images of Man" (1959) exhibition recognized figurative art as a powerful, contemporary means of expression. Guest curator Peter Selz argued that in response to "solitude and anxiety .. . anguish and dread .. . these new imagists take the human situation, indeed the human predicament rather than formal structure, as their start­ ing point."8 Three years later, MoMA hosted another important exhibition titled "Recent Painting U.S.A.: The Figure" (1962). Se­ lected from more than 9,500 entries, the show highlighted the increasing interest in figurative painting. Several commercial spaces, including the Komblee Gallery and the Downtown Gallery, orga­ nized figurative exhibitions to coincide with MoMA's exhibition. During the 1960s, three additional exhibitions significantly furthered the cause of the new representational art: "Realism Now" (1968) at Vassar College, "Report on the Sixties" (1969) at the Denver Museum, and "Directions 2: Aspects of a New Realism" (1969) at the Milwaukee Art Center.9 By the time the Whitney Museum of Ameri­ can Art's "22 Realists" (1970) opened, pluralism had replaced the once unchallenged dominance of abstract art. Putting the change in perspective, Alvin Martin observed that whereas Barbara Rose in her American Art Since 1900 (1967) had devoted only one paragraph to post-World War II realism, Sam Hunter, a mere five years later, gave the subject half a chapter in his American Art of the Twentieth Century}0 In sum, by the early 1980s, when Mellon Bank began collecting contemporary representational art, Greenberg's belief in the su­ premacy of abstract art had been supplanted by other critical viewpoints.11 Moreover, unlike the often hermetic abstract art, ^959) iitef SelZ' Sidn‘ °fMan (NeW Y°rk: Museum of Modem Art, Nochli." wrote a ^logue essay for the Vassar exhibition, and 12 5 Richard Haas View Through Sun Roam. tl/iaf watercolor 198» �chibitions, irved to nd bestow seminal tive art as itor Peter aguish ., indeed eir startrtant >). Sehe :al spaces, i orgalition. fly m Now" le Denver 169) at the if Ameried the -range in ose in iragraph s later, ’.ntieth lecting ’ sutical irt, rn Art. tion, and fferent is: San ues, /Photo­ urn 12 5 Richard Haas View Through Sun Room, Haas House, 1983 watercolor �representational art had, in the words of Mellon curator Jane Richards, a "broad appeal," which was important to the Bank. The broad appeal of New Realism stemmed, in part, from its variety of aesthetic choices. As Frank Goodyear observed, "most important, at the root of realism's pluralism, is the realization that contemporary realism is not an art movement per se and thus shared ideas may be few."12 Thus realism can look both to the past as well as to the future: "it reflects both a revisionist and an avantgarde bias. Contemporary realism cannot be understood in any other sense, encompassing as it does the complexities and contradic­ tions of contemporary life."13 Unlike the nineteenth-century Realism of a Gustave Courbet, "contemporary American realism," in Good­ year's view, represents "two radically different aesthetics—one a commitment to the value of phenomenological information as the basis of art, the other an affirmation of the process and value of its translation into pictorial information."14 In terms of this exhibition, Goodyear's synthesis and position were especially important since they helped define New Realism during the period when Mellon was actively collecting. The subsequent contextualization of much figurative art within a post-modern perspective did not effectively influence the direction of the collection. The aesthetic options noted by Goodyear are well represented in the current exhibition. "Phenomenological information"—art based on a careful study of the object as it appears optically—is seen in Janet Fish's meticulous still lifes (Figure 3). Although Fish worked from direct observation, others, like photorealist Richard Haas (Figure 5), painted from photographs. Filtering the perceived subject through a mechanical medium reflects a modem sensibility shared by many other artists who employ photographs or photographic ways of seeing. Although he does not work from photographs, Philip Pearlstein's compositions (Figure 8) frequently suggest the camera's often arbitrary cropping. Association's "Real, Really Real, Super Real" (1981), and The Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts' exhibition "Contemporary American Realism since i960" (1981), with an important catalogue by Frank Goodyear that provided the most comprehensive survey of the phenomenum to date. 12. Frank H. Goodyear, Jr., Contemporary American Realism since i960 (Boston: New York Graphic Society and The Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, 1981): 9. 13. Ibid., p. 23. 14. Ibid., p. 32. h John Moore Light .’urine. 1984 oil on board �re ink. n its "most on that tus he past as rantany :ontradicr Realism n Good-one a 1 as the le of its aibition, nt since Mellon if much ectively rented in art based een in worked laas ed subject y shared raphic phs, est the nsyhania tealism ar that date. ’ i960 ny of the 14 6 John Moore Light Manufacturing, 1984 oil on board �a e •V Many other artists, however, rejected the mechanical aesthetic and smooth surface associated with "straight" photography, an aesthetic that eliminates all evidence of the artist's hand. For these artists, many of whom had begun their careers during the heyday of "action painting" as Harold Rosenberg characterized Abstract Expression­ ism, the gesture was of paramount importance. Jennifer Bartlett's painterly garden scene (Figure 2) or Sidney Goodman's expressive landscape (Figure 4) clearly grow out of this tradition. For both Bartlett and Goodman, the formalistic concerns of process, surface, tactility, and materials remain central—as they do in James Weeks's loosely painted but tightly designed composition (Figure 12). The advent of Pop Art, with its cool, ironic, deadpan imagery derived from commercial products and rendered in an impersonal manner as if by a machine, represents both an assault on formalistic values and traditional subject matter. In terms of the latter, Pop Art represents the final rejection of History Painting, the high art of the Renaissance and Baroque eras. Didactic and moralistic in intent, History Painting was serious: it treated allegorical and narrative subjects, drawn primarily from the Bible or the Classics, in the Grand Manner; that is, in a manner appropriate to the gravitas of the subject matter. Landscapes, portraits, still lifes, views, or genre paintings, on the other hand, occupied a considerably lower place on the aesthetic totem pole. The successful assault on this standard commenced in the nineteenth century, when critics like the poet Charles Baudelaire urged artists to paint the "heroism of modem life" and reject the timeworn scenes and incidents from the antique. The triumph of the Impressionists over the Academy, where the old History Painting still ruled, ushered in the modem era and broad­ ened the number of acceptable subjects for serious art to consider. For Pop artist Claes Oldenburg a three-way plug absurdly floating on quiet water (Figure 7) is as valid a subject as the Apollo Belvedere. Although today Pop artists are not seen as New Realists, the lines were more blurred initially: when the Sidney Janis Gallery mounted New Realiste," an important 1962 exhibition, most of the exhibitors were Pop artists. This ambiguity is seen in the career of West Coast artist Wayne Thiebaud, perhaps best known for his thickly painted ■ PU™mg K’‘'S •rx * «,“■? reaC“ a8ainS1 Abslra« Expressionism's ™ M*"taafo's rei»ed the action uberanre. The rehned seascapes otViJ. Celmins (figure r) 1* 7 Claes Oldenburg Floating Three Way Plug, 1976 etching and aquatint �thetic and sthetic ts, many tion -essionrtlett's >ressive >oth surface, Weeks's 0igery ersonal rmalistic Pop Art rt of the itent, :ative the Has of the mre ;r place tandard poet lodem antique, e the old broad­ insider, floating Ivedere. le lines mounted exhibitors st Coast painted tiginous o). Ed i witty aism's ction igure i) 16 �Si -J or the spare landscapes of James Turrell (Figure xi) exemplify the figurative component of the "less is more" aesthetic. The reductive aesthetic, with its roots in the Precisionism of Charles Sheeler and others, is seen also in the simplified forms and flat colors of Alex Katz (Catalogue Number 13), who had begun his career working in an Abstract Expressionist manner. In the art world as elsewhere, every action seems to have a reaction. Rejecting the irony of Pop and the asceticism of Minim­ alism, artists such as Jack Beal (Catalogue Number 2) have striven earnestly to reinfuse art with sincerity and meaning accessible to all. In retrospect, his efforts are a harbinger of the debate on inclusive­ ness that has attracted so much critical attention in the 1990s. John Moore's cityscape (Figure 6) likewise reflects a traditional approach to his subject. New Realism's strength and broad appeal result from its hetero­ geneous nature. Most important, the reintroduction of recognizable subject matter did not mean a renunciation of Modernism. Rather, many artists combined modernist perspectives with the larger art historical tradition. Thirty-five years ago, George A. Kubler, in The Shape of Time: Remarks on the History of Things, noted that the pace of formal innovation in the visual arts was likely to decrease. The century that had witnessed the rapid succession of Impressionism, Post-Impressionism, Cubism, Fauvism, Futurism, Dadaism, Surreal­ ism, and so on could no longer continue to develop at the same pace. Kubler's prescient concept of an "archaeology" of visual imagery—whereby artists turn increasingly to the art historical tradition as they focus more on what they want to say instead of how to say it—seriously undermined the romantic notion of a perennial avant-garde. The art in this exhibition comes from the historical period when the implications of this insight were first beginning to be understood. ° & I L Ct <!•••---------’ —Stanley I Grand Wilkes University it 8 Philip Pearlstein Temple of Hatshepsut, 1979 aquatint �ii) exempiity the iietic. The reductive harles Sheeler and sat ccior? of Alex is career working m eras to have a zticism or Sitnnnrer - have striven 7±rg accessh-:e to al­ ehate on tndtstv^ ■ :~. the ica-os >hn nactho---- arttroa". ~c~ a netsrozon of recogrczab.e -. •;-.* the —ger art t.-. S?_r .ir m ~ : ttaa ±r tri pace o: : z^a^z. ~Z'i • : ■' ar~ri=5-ra5~ - Z aca:s~ S_—--L.’t S'. Z. :r jj^suhism >• j. . o Hmipiio :Z~Zi. z:~ ~-^- 1:: -_e; l-3t££- z: sjs ?Zz- T :— ,.' 7 :_zzzzzz~ :z zr-..':-ezrrZr z zz -zz- : . -^z ’- ’ - z. Z■ .■ "> •Z ■J rht ,h> fi ,ul, ><)■;<) 1M ■i ■M■ �$ �Wayne Thiebaud Downgrade, 1979 etching and aquatint �SSI 12 it lames Turrell Deep Sky Vll, 1^84 aquatint : -i ir..<-•. Wet k> - <»;. r i I'ub! CtrJtn . t <*' oil on canva*- ��CHECKLIST OF All dimensions are given in inches; height precedes width. ^Indicates works illustrated in this catalogue. 8 Sidney Goodman (b. 1936) East River Drive* 15 Sylvia Plimack Mangold (b. 1938) Untitled (17 December 1983) 1983 pastel on paper 22 x 29V4 22 P I *977 watercolor 17I6 x 25I6 16 John Moore (b. 1941) Light Manufacturing* 1984 oil on board 30x24 23 F 7 Richard Haas (b. 1936) View Through Sun Room, Haas House* 1983 watercolor 2116 x 34 17 Claes Oldenburg (b. 1929) Floating Three Way Plug* 1976 etching and aquatint 42’/s x 32I4 24 I I 11 David Hockney (b. 1937) Vase and Flowers 1969 etching and aquatint 27% x 21% 18 Philip Pearlstein (b. 1924) Sacsahuaman 1979 aquatint 29% x 39’/$ 25 I 5 Vija Celmins (b. 1939) Alliance 1982 drypoint and aquatint 26 x 2016 12 Yvonne Jacquette (b. 1934) Two Ferries 1982-1983 aquatint 30 x 22 19 Philip Pearlstein (b. 1924) Stonehenge 1979 aquatint 29% x 391/2 26 ’ 6 Vija Celmins (b. 1939) Constellation-Uccello* 1982 aquatint with soft ground 26 x 2016 13 Alex Katz (b. 1927) Good Morning 1975 silkscreen 37I6 x 28I6 Philip Pearlstein (b. 1924) Temple of Hatshepsut* 1979 aquatint 29% x 3914 27 . 7 Janet Fish (b. 1938) Autumn Leaves and Canteloupe* 14 Alex Katz (b. 1927) Philip Pearlstein (b. 1924) Temples at Abu Simbel 1979 aquatint 2934 x 3914 28 Jennifer Bartlett (b. 1941) In the Garden #118* 1982 silkscreen 29 X 38I6 Jack Beal (b. 1931) Black Eyed Susans 1980 pastel on paper 34x44 Vija Celmins (b. 1939) Ocean Surface 1* 1982 drypoint 26 x 2016 Vija Celmins (b. 1939) Jupiter Moon-White Constellation 1982 mezzotint and etching 26 x 20I6 pastel on paper 39 x 28 1979 oil on canvas 36 x 51 9 10 Richard Haas (b. 1936) Old Waterworks, Philadelphia Late July 1970 lithograph 22 x 30 20 1 a 2 1 2 1 1 < ( �■ CHECKLIST OF THE EXHIBITION I - Kia Plimack Mangold (b. 1938) 15 Sylvii Untitled (17 December 1983) ey Goodman (b. 1936) I.Rit’cr Drive* 1983 pastel on paper n canvas 22 x 29% P 1 Haas (b. 1936) lard x6 John Moore (b. 1941) Light Manufacturing* Waterworks, Philadelphia i984 oil on board 30x24 jrcolor x 25% iard Haas (b. 1938) ,, ,, Through Sun Room, Haas House* tercolor U34 Lid Hockney (b. 1937) L and Flowers I9 king and aquatint |i x 21% ■July 1° ■ograph ■<30 24 26 x 20% 18 Philip Pearlstein (b. 1924) Sacsahuaman 1979 aquatint 29% x 39% 25 Ed Ruscha (b. 1937) Paradise* 1986 dry pigment on paper 601 /a x 40% 21 Philip Pearlstein (b. 1924) Temples at Abu Simbel 1979 aquatint 29% x 39% lx Katz (b. 1927) 1971 lithograph 24 Fairfield Porter (1907-1975) Isle au Haut 1975 color lithograph 20 Philip Pearlstein (b. 1924) Temple of Hatshepsut* 1979 aquatint 29% x 39% ■5 •screen I x 28% 23 Fairfield Porter (1907-1975) The Christmas Tree (Interior with Christmas Tree) 17 Claes Oldenburg (b. 1929) Floating Three Way Plug* 1976 etching and aquatint 427s X 32% 19 Philip Pearlstein (b. 1924) Stonehenge 1979 aquatint 29% x 39% Lnne Jacquette (b. 1934) I) Ferries I2-1983 liatint lx 22 lx Katz (b. 1927) Bd Morning 22 Philip Pearlstein (b. 1924) Tintern Abbey 1979 aquatint 29% x 39% 25% x 22 26 Wayne Thiebaud (b. 1920) Downgrade* 1979 etching and aquatint 29% x 22% 27 James Turrell (b. 1943) Deep Sky I-VII (*VH illustrated) 1984 aquatint 21 x 27 each 28 James Weeks (b. 1922) Concord Public Gardens* 1981 oil on canvas 51x73 25 �exhibition underwrite : Diversified Records Services, Inc. Franklin First Savings Bank Friends of the Sordoni Art Gallery Maslow Lumia Bartorillo Advertising Mellon Bank Pennsylvania Council on the Arts The John Sloan Memorial Foundation, Inc. Andrew J. Sordoni, m Wilkes University ■ SPONSORS The Business Council CBI-Creative Business Interiors Eastern Insurance Group Friedman Electric Supply Co., Inc. Marquis Art and Frame Nabisco, Inc. G. R. Noto Electrical Construction Panzitta Enterprises, Inc. Pennsylvania Millers Mutual Insurance Co. Rosenn, Jenkins and Greenwald, L.L.P. Trion Industries Inc. m it' lakes pride in presenting ar exhibit.on ... n tom thi Collection of Mellon Bank, P burgh. Ex ■ r, one <v Mated with the Gallery thanks the for its generosity in making selected works from the Collector available to the students at Wilkes University’ and the iitizervNortheastern Pennsylvania This exhibition grew out of initial discussions between Tern W. Casey, Vice President/Private Asset Management and Mel Maslow 1 urnia, a member of the Sordoni Art Gallery's Advise Commission. Once the project was under way, Peter B Fglin,' man. President and C.E.O, of Mellon Bank, N A., gave hr entl tic support. Bri m J. Lang, Art Collection Administrator, alsov tirelessly on all aspects of the project Jane Richards, curator o Mellon Art Collet tion, provided me with insights regarding tl evolution of the Collet tion and read an early draft ot my essa Other readers included C hristopher N Breiseth. Robert J. He. Nancy L. Krueger, and Brian Lang. 1 appreciate their commet suggestions. I am especially grateful to Frank V. Cahouet, Chairman, Pr and C.E.O, of Mellon Bank Corporation, for contributing the word to this catalogue. -s 26 �derwriters ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Sordoni Art Gallery takes pride in presenting an exhibition drawn from the Collection of Mellon Bank, Pitts­ burgh. Everyone associated with the Gallery thanks the Bank for its generosity in making selected works from the Collection available to the students at Wilkes University and the citizens of Northeastern Pennsylvania. This exhibition grew out of initial discussions between Terrence W. Casey, Vice President/Private Asset Management, and Melanie Maslow Lumia, a member of the Sordoni Art Gallery's Advisory Commission. Once the project was under way, Peter B. Eglin, Chair­ man, President and C.E.O, of Mellon Bank, N.A., gave his enthusias­ tic support. Brian J. Lang, Art Collection Administrator, also worked tirelessly on all aspects of the project. Jane Richards, curator of the Mellon Art Collection, provided me with insights regarding the evolution of the Collection and read an early draft of my essay. Other readers included Christopher N. Breiseth, Robert J. Heaman, Nancy L. Krueger, and Brian Lang. I appreciate their comments and suggestions. I am especially grateful to Frank V. Cahouet, Chairman, President, and C.E.O, of Mellon Bank Corporation, for contributing the Fore­ word to this catalogue. —SIG he SPONSORS 27 26 �ADVISORY COMMISSION Freddie Bittenbender Christopher N. Breiseth, Ph.D. Marion M. Conyngham Virginia C. Davis, Chair Stanley I Grand, Ph.D. Robert J. Heaman, Ph.D. Mary Jane Henry Keith A. Hunter, Esq. J. Michael Lennon, Ph.D. Melanie Maslow Lumia Theo Lumia Kenneth Marquis Constance R. McCole Hank O'Neal Arnold Rifkin Kim Ross Charles A. Shaffer, Esq. Susan Shoemaker, Esq. William Shull Helen Farr Sloan Andrew J. Sordoni, in Sally Sprankle Sanford B. Stemlieb, M.D. Mindi Thalenfeld Thomas H. van Arsdale Joel Zitofsky STAFF Stanley I Grand, Ph.D., Director Nancy L. Krueger, Co-ordinator Earl W. Lehman, Preparator GALLERY ATTENDANTS Leah Crescenzo Sarah Karlavage Colleen McKinnon Lisa Tabbit Beth-Ann Witkowski 28 �11 — �ZTATAVAyg ftiligB sSSs^sg -rr-r.—reu-jt-s" 3 iS&SSs MIO: »aw«8^a^aB®<W«Hi SBMBSBS|B^^!!S®b3s & s==s=^W^^ : :■ rv^.g;.~ «SW gasses � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1997 August 25 Contemporary Realist Art from the Collection of Mellon Bank Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Jennifer Bartlett Jack Beal Vija Clemins Janet Fish Sidney Goodman Richard Haas David Hockney Yvonne Jacquette Alex Katz Sylvia Plimack John Moore Claes Oldenburg Philip Pearlstein Fairfield Porter Ed Ruscha Wayne Thiebaud James Turrell James Weeks Stanley I. Grand Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1997 August 25 - September 28 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource This exhibition includes a selection of contemporary American paintings and prints from Mellon Bank's collecttion. The collection, which initially consisted of a small body of nineteenth-century paintings, was carefully supplemented in the early 1980s with British and American works of the same period. Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition program Subject The topic of the resource American British Mellon Bank realism realist Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource SAG https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/a54e2152398bcdef91e9acb115f84c2e.pdf 8891790c52f0b25d8aa16aa9fdea5e67 PDF Text Text ���������������������������������������������������� https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/dd090b27470f9989b223432c5e95256d.pdf 5ad7c72d118f17e2c81e89c8331fb406 PDF Text Text E7E7 1997 �* JIMMY ERNST SHADOW TO LIGHT PAINTINGS 1942-1982 i �I ■ ■ - J E V \ • ©Arnold Newman 1997 �;n H h JIMMY ERNST SHADOW TO LIGHT PAINTINGS 1942-1982 Exhibition Curated by Stanley I Grand Essays by Donald Kuspit Stanley I Grand E.S. FARLEY LIBRARY WILKES UNIVERSITY WILKES-BARRE, PA ©Arnold Newman 1997 SORDONI ART GALLERY Wilkes University ° Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania 0 October 5-November 9, 1997 �9 ARCHIVES to 99^7 Cl -7 ) 997 Jimmy Ernst: From Surreal! Donald Kuspit k The pall of silence had beet apparent finality that I feai behind it. 3 TT immy Ernst called himself "a I ism," and paintings like Surrea, J (Blue Max), 1942 (Figure 3) mal A Copyright © 1997 Sordoni Art Gallery All rights reserved 1500 copies were printed by Unigraphic Color Corporation Catalogue design by John Beck Photography by Gary Mamay Set in Palatine ISBN 0-942945-12-3 center of the latter is a portrait o painter Max Ernst, Jimmy's fath much more than a Dadaist and Si abstract art—a far-from-tranquil t transcendental experiences of hi new contemporary purpose, at c Once Jimmy realized that 1 captive by Surrealist ghosts," he 1. Jimmy Ernst, A Not-So-Still Marek, 1984), 249. All subsequent quc otherwise noted. A Not-So-Still Life i autobiography of our time, both as s above all as a demonstration of wha through. I am not exaggerating; I kn which a modem artist shows such ii their relationship. �Jimmy Ernst: From Surrealist to Abstract Visionary Donald Kuspit The pall of silence had been in place with such apparent finality that I feared what was hidden behind it. —Jimmy Ernst1 T immy Ernst called himself "a child of Dada and SurrealI ism," and paintings like Surreal, 1942 (Figure 2) and Untitled J (Blue Max), 1942 (Figure 3) make this abundantly clear—at the center of the latter is a portrait of the German Surrealist painter Max Ernst, Jimmy''s father. But the adult Jimmy was much more than a Dadaist and Surrealist: in the silence of his abstract art—a far-from-tranquil silence—he recapitulated the transcendental experiences of his youth, and used them to new contemporary' purpose, at once personal and social. Once Jimmy' realized that his "talent was ... being held captive by' Surrealist ghosts/' he was able to make the transi- 1. Jimmy Ernst, A Not-So-Still Life (New York: St. Martin's/ Marek, 1984), 249. All subsequent quotations are from this book, unless otherwise noted. A Not-So-Still Life is perhaps the greatest artist's autobiography of our time, both as social and artistic history and above all as a demonstration of what psychoanalysts call workingthrough. I am not exaggerating; I know of no other autobiography in which a modem artist shows such insight into his life and art and their relationship. tion from adolescence to adulthood. This was an artistic awareness—a search for something fresh and new, recognizing that Surrealism had become somewhat old and labored—but even more crucial, a personal one.2 For the chief Surrealist ghost was Jimmy's famous father, from whom he had been more or less alienated since the age of two, when Max be­ trayed Jimmy's mother with Gala Eluard, later to become Gala Dali. How could Jimmy continue to live off the capital of his father's art and fame when he felt so ambivalent—to say the least—about Max, who had abandoned his mother? Max was notoriously cold, and Jimmy needed warmth, empathy, intimacy, and—above all—an identity of his own. It was the classic syndrome of the famous father and the son who "suf­ fered ... painful rejections" by him, ostensibly because his career was more important than any human relationship, but more deeply because he was emotionally defective—Max was a seriously "flawed, often hermetically cold human being," as Jimmy came to understand. The challenge of Jimmy's career— indeed, of his life—was to get beyond his father's influence, 2. The decisive moment seemed to have been the 1942 Surrealist exhibition at the Marian Willard gallery in New York. It became clear to Jimmy—twenty-two at the time and himself showing in the exhibi­ tion—that Surrealism had "the unmistakable aura not of an alive movement but rather that of a closed circle of licensed practitioners." J7-<UUU15 �r fl': 6 • JIMMY ERNST: SHADOW TO LIGHT - 4i persona, and reputation. Until he could do this, he would achieve nothing as either a person or an artist. The solution to his problem came directly from his mother, and more broadly from all the women Max had used and "discarded at the brightest possible moment" of their relation­ ship—ostensibly in fear that "the end result of emotional involvements was a detestable prison," but in fact out of narcissistic inability, rationalized as artistic superiority, to see beyond himself. Jimmy identified with these hurt, victimized women: "As a son I had experienced some of the terror that others, most particularly women, must have felt at the unex­ plained appearance of an impenetrable barrier that would freeze attempts to approach the inner person." He also identified with his mother's humanism, as he called it, and even more, with her saintliness—her ability to rise above her suffering and her unhappy situation to maintain hope and faith in life. (She fled Nazi Germany for Paris, but she died in Auschwitz.) Jimmy also found this quality in Marie-Berthe Aurenche (Max's second wife) and perhaps above all in Maja Aretz, the Catholic woman who cared for him after Max had left. This spirituality also became associated with the churches and synagogues he attended as a child (on the principle that he would choose between Judaism—his mother's religion— and Catholicism—his father's—when he grew up). In particu­ lar, "Cologne's beautiful churches" impressed him with the "wonder of [their] stained glass windows and altarpieces by the Rhenish masters." These churches—representing security and community ("the symbolic Gothic spires of my child­ hood") came to Jimmy's rescue and saved him both from his father and from Surrealism. Suddenly, at the moment of crisis, "without any deliberate effort I found the content of my painting shifting toward a more pronounced Abstraction . .. certain totally nonfigurative passages on a canvas became strongly reminiscent of the Gothic church-architecture and stained-glass windows of my youth." In a sense, Jimmy experienced an emotional and artistic miracle—a regression in the service of both his ego and his art. With the help of a symbol and memory of transcendence, he moved beyond the "personal biomorphy [and] dependence on Freudian interpre- tation" demanded by Surrealism and left behind its generally "literary" character. He did something more: although he achieved a "sense of 'immediacy' and 'action on the canvas/" (the abstract expressionistic norms of the day), he did so on his own terms. His "linear energy-storms" were not simply gratuitous explo­ sions of the unconscious—blind discharges given nominal "artistic" shape—but conscious expressions of the need and wish for transcendence and sublimation. He united expres­ sionist rage—a response to danger and isolation—with faith in spiritual survival, whatever the emotional and social odds against him. Hope balanced helplessness, as he himself said. Grunewald's Isenheim Altarpiece was a beloved model— indeed, the one unequivocally great work of art for Jimmy. It juxtaposes, on the one hand, the dramatic, hyperexpressive image of the very physical Christ crucified and abandoned and, on the other, the equally dramatic, more subtly expressive image of the spiritually transfigured and resurrected Christ. Jimmy's problem was to translate Grunewald's vision into abstract terms—to liberate its basic spiritual meaning from its old-fashioned iconography. In short, Jimmy struggled to synthesize physical impulse and spiritual structure—implic­ itly Gothic (that is, aspirational)—in works that were essen­ tially abstract altarpieces. He eventually succeeded, uniting expression and construction to new transcendental effect. In terms of art history, he was ahead of his times, for according to modernist dictates, expression and construction are opposites that cannot be united. Nor should they be; each should be pursued to the limits of its own purity'. In showing that they could and must converge—that they could form a viable hybrid, more esthetically and emotionally adventurous and complex than pure expression or pure construction— Jimmy was, however unwittingly; a postmodernist. One of the most striking aspects of Jimmy's works is their increase in size over the years. This gradual change demonstrates in physical dimensions his development beyond his father's Surrealism his ...... own .... autonomous abstraction - ----------- - to ..... >u.j....... ............ —— autonomous even in terms of the prevailing American abstract expressionism, however abstract and expressionistic it also expressionism, however abstrac was. Max's pictures tend to be s the size of pages in a book. In fa books of collage images. Jimmy this model; Surreal (Figure 2) is Untitled (Blue Max) (Figure 3) is twenty-four. There are some sta the 1940s—Dallas Blues, 1947 (Fi eight inches. But by the sixties, 1960 (Figure 12), which is fifty b 1964 (Figure 14), which is fifty t making large works, confirmin' father and confidence in his ow works also show his assimilatio open, expansive space—in shar even claustrophobic, European The contrast between the enclo: Surreal and the broad space of i Katchina White, 1982 (Figure 25) The change in style broug' a shift from hand-me-down "si called, to a uniquely American Jimmy's transcendental imager gious" experience. Mahogany H Dallas Blues (Figure 7) embody are a kind of embodied jazz (as Surrealism to abstraction)—am experience of Native American the most authentic, "native" as that, he spontaneous!}' identify jazz and the Native Americans in the West, for they were as so felt himself to be. Shortly after he arrived in two experiences that proved p the streets of New York, the otl one day, at Fifty-ninth Stre Jinimv witnessed the performa so p> 1 ack youngsters." He becar �FROM SURREALIST TO ABSTRACT VISIONARY lism and left behind its generally ?: although he achieved a "sense n the canvas,"' (the abstract day), he did so on his own terms, /ere not simply gratuitous exploind discharges given nominal us expressions of the need and ublimation. He united expresanger and isolation—with faith in he emotional and social odds helplessness, as he himself said. ece was a beloved model— y great work of art for Jimmy. It he dramatic, hyperexpressive irist crucified and abandoned dramatic, more subtly expressive igured and resurrected Christ, slate Griinewald's vision into basic spiritual meaning from its i short, Jimmy struggled to nd spiritual structure—implicd)—in works that were esseneventually succeeded, uniting j new transcendental effect. ; was ahead of his times, for is, expression and construction ited. Nor should they be; each ts of its own purity. In showing rerge—that they could form a and emotionally adventurous sion or pure construction— igly, a postmodernist. aspects of Jimmy's works is ,’ears. This gradual change insions his development beyond wn autonomous abstraction— he prevailing American abstract ict and expressionistic it also expressionism, however abstract and expressionistic it also was. Max's pictures tend to be sub-easel in scale—more or less the size of pages in a book. In fact, his most famous works are books of collage images. Jimmy began his career following this model; Surreal (Figure 2) is twelve by sixteen inches, and Untitled (Blue Max) (Figure 3) is not much larger, twenty by twenty-four. There are some standard easel-size works from the 1940s—Dallas Blues, 1947 (Figure 7) is thirty-six by twenty­ eight inches. But by the sixties, with such works as Rimrock, I960 (Figure 12), which is fifty by sixty inches, and Icarus 64, 1964 (Figure 14), which is fifty by forty, Jimmy had begun making large works, confirming his independence from his father and confidence in his own ideas and ability. The large works also show his assimilation of an American sense of open, expansive space—in sharp contrast to the cramped, even claustrophobic, European space in his father's pictures. The contrast between the enclosed, impoverished space of Surreal and the broad space of infinitely extending figures in Katchina White, 1982 (Figure 25) makes the point succinctly. The change in style brought with it a change in content— a shift from hand-me-down "sumaturalism," as it might be called, to a uniquely American content, which came to serve Jimmy's transcendental imagery as much as his early "reli­ gious" experience. Mahogany Hall Stomp, 1946 (Figure 6) and Dallas Blues (Figure 7) embody Jimmy's response to jazz—they are a kind of embodied jazz (as they are also transitional from Surrealism to abstraction)—and Katchina White reflects his experience of Native American ritual. For Jimmy, they were the most authentic, "native" aspects of America. More than that, he spontaneously identified with the blacks who created jazz and the Native Americans confined to their reservations in the West, for they were as socially outcast and rejected as he felt himself to be. Shortly after he arrived in the United States, Jimmy had two experiences that proved particularly formative—one on the streets of New York, the other in the New Mexican desert. One day, at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to Central Park, Jimmy witnessed the performance of "a spasm band of nine or so black youngsters." He became so fascinated with their jazz, 7 that he joined the band as "collector of contributions, [which] seemed to astound the pedestrians." Black boys were sup­ posed to work for white boys, not the other way around. One night one of the band members took him to Carnegie Hall to hear a jazz concert devoted to Spirituals to Swing. "I had the feeling of being an eavesdropper at a private event. More than a performance, each musician seemed to communicate far beyond instrument and voice." This became Jimmy's ambi­ tion: to make pictures as full of "subtle tonalities [and] deep empathy" as jazz and to emulate its method of improvisation and skat. In other words, to improvise visual skat—which is one way Jimmy understood abstraction. The other formative component was also supplied by a musical event when he witnessed the annual Hopi Snake Dance. "The ceremony was performed by richly painted dancers who to the insistent rhythm of drums and an almost monotone chant moved in a contracting circle toward a pit in the center of the village's plaza from which each man pulled a pair of writhing rattlesnakes." It was a "Surrealist spectacle," as Jimmy said (that is, archaic in import), but it was also a fertility ritual—a rain dance intended to make the desert bloom—with profound social import. What made it especially moving for Jimmy was that it was "the expression of a people rather than of isolated artists, and yet each one of them was highly individual, as if calling out from one soul to another." This was crucial for Jimmy: William Baziotes—a surrogate father figure who was as emotionally good to Jimmy as Max was bad for him—had argued that "'meaningful art' ... could occur only within groups who shared a totally common experience. Or in a time ... when the artist's subject matter ran fairly parallel to a predominant belief." Jimmy was deter­ mined to make art that was meaningful in these terms—"great art [that] would be based on anonymity rather than personali­ ties"—on shared beliefs and communal concerns, not the self­ expression of isolated individualists (such as Max). Jazz was one kind of communal, spiritual art; the Snake Dance another. Jimmy's was to be a third, at once as personal as jazz and as social as the Snake Dance. One final experience, even more personal and intimate �• 1 JIMMY ERNST: SHADOW TO LIGHT them the way myth predates history—informs the spiritual vision of his mature works. Ever since childhood, he had been "intrigued by bodies of water washing against reeds, grasses and trees."3 More particularly, the sensation of being "in a lake, in a pond, very still water, with insects skating on the water," haunted him.4 The patterns these insects made seemed improvised and abstract—a particularly intense, spontaneous form of skat. But the awareness of water had a highly personal meaning. As Jimmy writes in A Not-So-Still-Life, his earliest memory is of "my mother holding me in her arms, letting the mysterious water [she was standing in] cover my legs. Sud­ denly the mirrorlike surface ahead of me was broken." It was Max, rising from the depths. "He raised his arms to me, and Lou was lifting me toward him. I became aware of innumer­ able long-legged, water-skating insects on the glassy surface surrounding Max's body and I began to scream and struggled against being handed over. Max's face went dark and angry; he turned and swam away." This emotionally complicated experience has been interpreted psychoanalytically by Gilbert Rose, a friend of Jimmy's.5 For me, what is important about the event—in effect a screen memory—is Jimmy's acute awareness of physical detail, as well as his association of the water with Iris mother. His prescient rejection of Max adds a touch of instinctive aggression: aggressively articulated detail, as endlessly proliferating and as crystal clear as ripples, is exactly what we find in Rimrock, 1960 (Figure 12), which hovers on the border between natural observation and pure abstraction. The experi­ ence of the placid maternal water, shattered by his father's intrusive body, is transposed to stone, engraved as though for 3. Unpublished statement, dated August 27, 1983. 4. Jimmy Ernst with Francine du Plessix, "The Artist Speaks: My Father, Max Ernst," Art in America (November/Decemberl968): 54. 5. Gilbert Rose, The Power of Form: A Psychoanalytic Approach to Aesthetic Form (Madison, Conn.: International Universities Press, 1992, expanded edition), 102. Jimmy is the character called Bruno. eternity—materialized in a substance as elemental, enduring, and basic to life as water. The horror vacui made evident compensates for his father's empty place—the emptiness he felt at his father's rejection and abandonment. (Why did Max swim away? Is it not supremely narcissistic to be offended that an infant does not want you to hold him?) This same experience—the sense of a tranquil, fragile surface broken but not entirely shattered, and thus intact for all its "suffering," for the swarm of buglike details that disrupt its clarity and make it dangerous—appears in what is in effect the broken stained-glass-window look (stained glass being yet another kind of liquid surface) of such later grand, murallike works as Oceania, 1963 (Figure 13), which might be seen as Max's monstrous presence shattering the peace; Homage to Edgar Varese, 1965 (Figure 15), honoring a visionary of musical improvisation; and Only Yesterday, 1968 (Figure 17), among other works. A highly detailed surface is "disturbed" by enormous fault lines—huge flaws—that nonetheless do not destroy. The silence of the scene—the intimacy with the mother—is broken by the noisy father, but it remains intact, however precariously. Even the row of shamanistic person­ ages in Katchina White—Katchina dolls represent the religious figures in the sacred performances—seems to disrupt the surface, but not to undermine it. Perhaps the experience is embodied most obviously in Sea of Grass (Black on Black), 1982 (Figure 27), one of a series in which Jimmy deals directly with the fascination water washing against grass held for him. Here apparently, its depressing aspect—the unhappy effect of Max's sudden presence in the water—is conveyed. The idiosyncratic mixture of personal and transcendental experience that informs Jimmy's art, conceived as a sublima­ tion of rejection and ostracization, is perhaps nowhere more evident than in Icarus 64, 1964 (Figure 14), one of many works devoted to the theme. On Winter Nights (With Louis Simpson), 1982 (Figure 26) is another. The ambiguous figure of Icarus— half-flying, half-falling—is overlaid on what is essentially a poem about death. Icarus's feathers are as marvelously detailed as the shards of liquid glass and hold together with the same uncertainty. Jimmy was as obsessed by the story of Icarus as he was by water. Indeed, u Icarus fell from the sky into the sea, the myth of Icarus is a classic story c ship between father and son. Jimmy had an unusual respons first heard it as a student in the Gyn "Icarus' destruction was the result c father's commands to avoid soaring melt the wax that held his wings tor moisture from the sea would make" endear myself to the rigid tutors by indeed at fault, not for disobedience first place, unquestionably trusted e by his father, Daedalus, whose geni entrap the monster Minotaur on Cn "only Daedalus would live to tell th father's view of what happened. In offers another version of the story. I it were, his sister's son Perdix, who charge to be taught the mecha apt scholar and gave striking t ity. Walking on the seashore h< of a fish. Imitating it, he took i notched it on the edge, and th: He put two pieces of iron toge at one end with a rivet, and sh ends, and made a pair of comp so envious of his nephew's pe took an opportunity, when ths day on a high tower, to push I in other words, Icarus did not fall t of his own arrogance but because o Daedalus "was so proud of his ach bear the idea of a rival," as Bulfincl 6. Thomas Bulfinch, The Age ofFable �FROM SURREALIST TO ABSTRACT VISIONARY ^stance as elemental, enduring, torror vacui made evident npty place—the emptiness he 1 abandonment. (Why did Max y narcissistic to be offended that hold him?) le sense of a tranquil, fragile ■ shattered, and thus intact for m of buglike details that disrupt us—appears in what is in effect ow look (stained glass being vet of such later grand, murallike 13), which might be seen as ttering the peace; Homage to honoring a visionary' of musical day, 1968 (Figure 17), among surface is "disturbed" by iws—that nonetheless do not ie—the intimacy' with the y father, but it remains intact, e row of shamanistic personna dolls represent the religious aces—seems to disrupt the it. Perhaps the experience is ea of Grass (Black on Black), 1982 ,'hich Jimmy deals directly with against grass held for him. Here ict—the unhappy' effect of Max's -is conveyed. ; of personal and transcendental r's art, conceived as a sublimaion, is perhaps nowhere more (Figure 14), one of many' works 'er Nights (With Louis Simpson), e ambiguous figure of Icarus— irlaid on what is essentially a ithers are as marvelously i glass and hold together with i’as as obsessed by the story of Icarus as he was by water. Indeed, water is significant here— Icarus fell from the sky' into the sea, where he drowned. And the myth of Icarus is a classic story' of the ambiguous relation­ ship between father and son. Jimmy’ had an unusual response to the story' when he first heard it as a student in the Gymnasium in Germany. "Icarus' destruction was the result of not having obeyed his father's commands to avoid soaring so high the sun would melt the wax that held his wings together, or so low that moisture from the sea would make them heavy. I did not endear myself to the rigid tutors by’ agreeing that Icarus was indeed at fault, not for disobedience, but for having, in the first place, unquestionably' trusted artificial wings fashioned by his father, Daedalus, whose genius had enabled him to entrap the monster Minotaur on Crete." As Jimmy remarked, "only’ Daedalus would live to tell the tale." The story is a father's view of what happened. In fact, Thomas Bulfinch offers another version of the story'. Daedalus had a stepson, as it were, his sister's son PerdLx, who was put under his charge to be taught the mechanical arts. He was an apt scholar and gave striking evidences of ingenu­ ity. Walking on the seashore he picked up the spine of a fish. Imitating it, he took a piece of irony and notched it on the edge, and thus invented the saw. He put two pieces of iron together, connecting them at one end with a rivet, and sharpening the other ends, and made a pair of compasses. Daedalus was so envious of his nephew's performances that he took an opportunity, when they were together one day on a high tower, to push him off.6 In other words, Icarus did not fall to his death solely because of his own arrogance but because of his father's envy. Just as Daedalus "was so proud of his achievements that he could not bear the idea of a rival," as Bulfinch states, so Max was so 6. Thomas Bulfinch, The Age ofFable (New York: Heritage, 1942), 162. • proud of his achievements he could not bear the idea of a rival—even his own son. Where Daedalus literally killed his stepson—pushing him from the same high tower he and Icarus flew from—Max in effect "soul murdered" his (to use the psychoanalyst Leonard Shengold's terminology). But Jimmy survived by becoming angry: "A strange anger sud­ denly took possession of me. The ancient dilemma: Should a son make use of wings fashioned by his father? I bolted from the building and delivered myself of a tirade against all painting." He also ran to his mother for succor. The flight of Icarus is as much a parable of ambition that overreached itself—that understood no limits—as it is of rebellion against the father. It is an archetype of the wish to transcend—to fly higher than the world and one's father—and the failure to do so. Jimmy's mature works combine images of successful and unsuccessful transcendence in a single abstract vision. Just as the water was broken and disturbed by the apparition of Max, so transcendence makes a broken, dis­ turbed appearance in such works as Across a Silent Bridge, 1957, Sentinel, 1967, Another Silence, Twice, both 1972, and Due North, 1972-73 (Figures 11, 16, 20, 21, and 22), among many other works. The central, confrontational, emblematic, apparitional, abstract constructions that appear in these works—at once communal, Katchinalike figures and symbols of radical autonomy and individuality—are all versions of Icarus, at least in my opinion. The fate of Icarus haunted Jimmy, how­ ever unconsciously, all his life. Icarus was the obverse of Daedalus Max, and the question was whether to wear the Surrealist wings he fashioned or forge one's own. After attempting to obediently wear his father's wings, and finding they were a bad fit and that he could no longer fly far with them in the different artistic atmosphere of America, Jimmy finally managed to forge his own ingenious artistic wings—indeed, to soar, truly transcend, with them. He did ironically: by turning the figure of failure—the Icarus who wore his father's wings and got nowhere with them—into ; symbol of successful selfhood. Indeed, there is a certain irony in Due North, which can be interpreted both as the shrine Daedalus built for his dead son and as Icarus's transfigured �10 • JIMMY ERNST: SHADOW TO LIGHT and resurrected figure. The same can be said for Sentinel and the other mysterious abstract figures that haunt Jimmy's pictures. Griinewald remains the consistent paradigm: the transformation of the crucified Christ into the resurrected Christ becomes the transformation of the falling Icarus into the rising hero. It is now a strong new Jimmy who emerges out of the silence of the past, as Self-Portrait When Last Seen Out of the Past, 1961, suggests (Figure 9 is an earlier study for this . painting). He has become strong where he was wounded, as J HllUiy BlElSt the sturdy, supporting structure of Another Silence and Homage J i to Edgar Varese indicates: what were once fault lines—breaks in tilC Tlddi-tl the surface—have become flying buttresses. In these and similar works, Jimmy has ingeniously created an indestruc­ tible cathedral of the self. Stanley I Grand We cannot accept the anti-h culture is a mere servant or aims. The seeds of aesthetic any people have always bee and discovered by philosop ~iT n his remarkable memoir A A recounts his reaction on first se JL (c. 1525-1569) Landscape with Musees Royaux des Beaux-Arts ds Parisian exhibition. A youngster a painting and what it represented sc of the exhibition hall. Yet despite t later years the Icarus legend becarr painting [Icarus 64, Figure 14] and the myth forms the autobiography question of Jimmy's growing up:" son make use of wings fashioned Like Icarus, Jimmy was the artificer, the painter Max Ernst. I So-Still-Life contains a flight to fr however, where the son falls to J 1. Jimmy Ernst, "A Letter to A Journal 21, 2 (Winter, 1961-62): 68. 2. Jimmy Ernst, A Not-So-Stil Marek, 1984), 78. �[Figure 9 is an earlier study for this strong where he was wounded, as ructure of Another Silence and Homage what were once fault lines—breaks in le flying buttresses. In these and s ingeniously created an indestruc- ! Jimmy Ernst and the Tradition of the Artist-Intellectual I Stanley I Grand We cannot accept the anti-humanist concept that culture is a mere servant or tool of political or social aims. The seeds of aesthetic and social aspirations of any people have always been anticipated, sensed and discovered by philosophers, poets and artists. —Jimmy Ernst1 Tro his remarkable memoir A Not-So-Still Life, Jimmy Ernst j recounts his reaction on first seeing the Elder Pieter Bruegel's -JL (c. 1525—1569) Landscape with the Fall of Icarus (c. 1558, Musees Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, Brussels) at a Parisian exhibition. A youngster at the time, Jimmy found tire painting and what it represented so upsetting that he stormed out of the exhibition hall. Yet despite this inauspicious encounter, in later years the Icarus legend became important in both Jimmy's painting [Icarus 64, Figure 14] and writing. Indeed, in many ways, the myth forms the autobiography's subtext since it poses the key question of Jimmy's growing up:"The ancient dilemma: Should a son make use of wings fashioned by his father?"2 Like Icarus, Jimmy was the son of a famous artist/ artificer, the painter Max Ernst. Like the Icarus legend, A NotSo-Still-Life contains a flight to freedom. Unlike the myth, however, where the son falls to his death, here he manages to 1. Jimmy Ernst, "A Letter to Artists of the Soviet Union," Art Journal 21, 2 (Winter, 1961—62): 68. 2. Jimmy Ernst, A Not-So-Still Life (New York: St. Martin's/ Marek, 1984), 78. evade the tightening noose of National Socialism, while the father—whom the Nazis officially labeled a Degenerate Artist in 1937—barely manages to escape to America. Jimmy's mother Louise Straus-Ernst, on the other hand, died at Ausch­ witz. A Not-So-Still-Life, then, is a coming-of-age saga that is simultaneously part biography and part autobiography. It includes the artist's youth in Weimar, Germany, his flight from Europe, a new life in America, and the loss of his parents (the book begins and ends with a parent's death). Complete with cameo appearances by the leading European Modernists, it describes a personal odyssey through the labyrinth of twenti­ eth-century art and politics. On another level it is a partial biography of the father as witnessed, frequently from afar, by the son. That the tone of the book is often dark is indicated by tine evocative, poetic chapter titles: "An Echo Etched in Smoke," "A Cage of Nightmares," "The Luxury of Sadness," "Darkness Uber Alles," or "Some Desperate Dances." In sum, the book is a modern parable, an allegory, a contemporary Pilgrim's Progress, and an eloquent apologia pro vita sua. As Diane Waldman observed: "In both his extraordinary autobiography . .. published shortly before his death, and in his last paint­ ings, he indeed came to terms with both his life and his art."3 Although "extraordinary," the book is part of a long tradition of artists' writings, a tradition that Jimmy Ernst knew. While growing up in German)' he had had the benefit of a Gymnasium education. His mother, an art historian and 3. Diane Waldman, "Introduction" in Jiininy Ernst: A Survey, 1942-19S3 (East Hampton, N.Y.: Guild Hall Museum, 1985), 9. i �. JIMMY ERNST: SHADOW TO LIGHT journalist, reared him in a home where both the written word and images were valued highly. Later, when Jimmy himse began to write, he consulted and quoted from Goldwater and Treves's Artists on Art? In the catalogue that accompanied Jimmy's Retrospective at the Guild Hall Museum (1985), Frank Getlein stated that Jimmy was "arguably the most literate American artist of his generation."5 (High regard indeed when one considers that this company included Robert Motherwell, Ad Reinhardt, and Barnett Newman.) A Not-So-Still-Life adds to an extensive written heritage that stretches back to the Classical era. Although vast, this literature is not well known to non-specialists. Consequently, in order to appreciate fully Jimmy Ernst's contribution, a brief overview of the landscape would be helpful. (Since compre­ hensiveness cannot be attempted in a short essay, bear in mind that the following examples represent a personal, even idiosvncratic, selection from the Western tradition.) This survey begins with the High Classical sculptor Polvclitus (active between c. 450 and 405 b.c.) who wrote a famous, but now lost, treatise on human proportion called the Canon. Somewhat later, during the Late Classical era, the minor sculptor Xenocrates of Sikyon (active first half of the third century b.c.) wrote a book that evaluated and criticized artists according to certain aesthetic criteria. Reflecting the refined taste exemplified by Lysippus' (active second half of the fourth century b.c.) new canon of proportion, Xenocrates praised Polyclitus for his employ­ ment of contrapposto but faulted him for the excessively monoto­ nous heaviness of his figures. Although no longer extant, Xeno­ crates' text informed much of Pliny the Elder's Natural History. Not to be dependent on the astuteness of other critics, Apelles (active in the fourth century b.c.), the most famous painter of 4. Jimmy Emst, "Freedom of Expression in the Arts II," Art Journal 25,1 (Fall 1965): 46, n.l. He quotes a letter from Courbet included in Robert Goldwater and Marco Treves, Artists on Art from the XIV to the XX Century (New York: Pantheon, 1945). 5. Frank Cetlein, "Jimmy Ernst in Retrospect," Jimmy Ernst: A Survey, 1942-1983 (East Hampton, N.Y.: Guild Hall Museum, 1985), 12. his day wrote a treatise on his own art, which boasted that he knew when to remove his hand from the painting. Despite the contributions from antiquity, the rich tradition of writing artists has its roots in the intellectual imperative forged during the quattrocento (the 1400s) in Italy, namely that the painter is an intellectual, not a craftsman, that creating art is a mental endeavor, and that the role of the artist is to ad­ vance the store of human knowledge. Thus, during the Renais­ sance as individuals and society became ever more complex and self-conscious, as Classical learning was rediscovered and absorbed, as urban based economies rapidly developed, and as thought became increasingly secularized; artists were no longer content to write studio manuals like Cennino Cennini's (c. 1370 to c. 1440) Il Libro dell'Arte (written c. 1400). While seeking to differentiate themselves from craftsmen and become identified as humanists, artists were stigmatized by what they regarded as an unfortunate oversight: painting was not included among the Seven Liberal Arts. Typically divided into the quadrivium (arithmetic, astronomy, geometry, and music theory) and the trivium (grammar, rhetoric, and logic), the liberal arts represented activities of the mind in contrast to those of the "vulgar" or manual arts. Worse, although poetry could boast of authoritative and ennobling ancient texts—Aristotle's Poetics and Horace's Ars poetica—no similar theoretical works existed for the art of painting. Nonetheless, since both Aristotle and Horace, the latter in a famous simile Lit pictura poesis ("as is painting so is poetry" or as it came to be understood "as is poetry so is painting"), had commented on certain correspondences between painting and poetry, art theoreticians came to equate the "sister" arts. Significantly, Cennini, without mentioning Horace, linked painting and poetry; and somewhat later, Leonardo stated flatly that painting is the superior art. The full development of the theoretical implications of Ut pictura poesis, however, was concurrent with the rise of art academies commencing at the end of the sixteenth century. During the Renaissance, on the other hand, artists were often more concerned with advancing the scientific aspects of their art. No longer content merely to codify studio practices, numerous artists engaged in studies that clearly belong w the quadrivium. Their interest in perspective is a case in°pc Rediscovered by Filippo Brunelleschi (1377-1446) or at le first publicly demonstrated by him, the basic laws' of line; mathematical perspective captured the imagination of me of the foremost quattrocento artists. Paolo Uccello (1397-h according to Vasari, was so enamored with perspective, h "sweet mistress," that he refused his wife's entreaties to c to bed. Leon Battista Alberti (1404-1472), a close friend of Brunelleschi s, made a detailed study of tine subject. Pierc della Francesca (c. 1410/20-1492), also of a theoretical bei wrote De pi aspect iva pingendi as well as other works on m ematics and perspective (Del abaco and Libellus de quinque corporibus regularibus). When his eyesight failed, Piero, on the greatest of a great generation of painters, gave up his and devoted himself to writing works that went beyond solving studio problems and into the realm of mathemati speculation. Another master of perspective, and one of tJ foremost painters of Baroque illusionistic ceilings (Sant' Ignazio, Rome is his masterpiece), Andrea Pozzo (1642-1 published Perspectiva pictorum et architectorum (2 vols., 16 and 1700). This exceedingly influential study—it appears many editions and translations, including Chinese—diss nated widely the Roman convention of quadratlira ceiling decoration in which illusionistically painted architecture elements appear as extensions of the actual architecture. Artists during the Renaissance approached proport well from a humanistic point of view. Although artists li Lysippus had based their rules on a study of nature—Lysif used to say that "whereas his predecessors had made mt they really were, he made them as they appeared to be" Nat. Hist. XXXIV, 65)—in the centuries following the dec the Ancient world, art became less concerned with natui proportions. By the Gothic era, authors such as the archi Villard d'Honnecourt (active in the thirteenth century) F reverted to a pre-classical aesthetic wherein proportions determined schematically and ornamentally, often with; any interest in the proportional relationships of the varii parts of the body. Reflecting the Renaissance's new scier �THE TRADITION OF THE ARTIST-INTELLECTUAL • 13 [rich boasted that he tainting. ty, the rich tradition ctual imperative n Italy, namely that an, that creating art he artist is to ads, during the Renais/er more complex as rediscovered and ly developed, and 1; artists were no ? Cennino Cermini's c. 1400). Ives from craftsmen 5 were stigmatized versight: painting Arts. Typically ronomy, geometry’, ar, rhetoric, and of the mind in arts. Worse, 'e and ennobling :e's Ars poetica—no of painting, ce, the latter in a ng so is poetry" or is painting"), had ween painting and "sister" arts. Horace, linked eonardo stated ull development of •sis, however, was mmencing at the land, artists were □entific aspects of ,’ studio practices, numerous artists engaged in studies that clearly belong within the quadriviuni. Their interest in perspective is a case in point. Rediscovered by Filippo Brunelleschi (1377-1446), or at least first publicly demonstrated by him, the basic laws of linear or mathematical perspective captured the imagination of many of the foremost quattrocento artists. Paolo Uccello (1397-1475), according to \ asan, was so enamored with perspective, his "sweet mistress,' that he refused his wife's entreaties to come to bed. Leon Battista Alberti (1404-1472), a close friend of Brunelleschi's, made a detailed study of the subject. Piero della Francesca (c. 1410/20-1492), also of a theoretical bent, tvrote De prospectiva pingendi as well as other works on math­ ematics and perspective (Del abaco and Libellus de quinque corporibus regularibus). When his eyesight failed, Piero, one of the greatest of a great generation of painters, gave up his art and devoted himself to writing works that went beyond solving studio problems and into the realm of mathematical speculation. Another master of perspective, and one of the foremost painters of Baroque illusionistic ceilings (Sant' Ignazio, Rome is his masterpiece), Andrea Pozzo (1642-1709) published Perspectwa pictontm et architectorum (2 vols., 1693 and 1700). This exceedingly influential study—it appeared in many' editions and translations, including Chinese—dissemi­ nated widely the Roman convention of quadratura ceiling decoration in which illusionistically painted architectural elements appear as extensions of the actual architecture. Artists during the Renaissance approached proportion as well from a humanistic point of view. Although artists like Lvsippus had based their rules on a study of nature—Lysippus used to say’ that "whereas his predecessors had made men as they really’ were, he made them as they appeared to be" (Pliny, Plat. Hist. XXXIV, 65)—in the centuries following the demise of the Ancient world, art became less concerned with naturalistic proportions. By' the Gothic era, authors such as the architect Villard d'Honnecourt (active in the thirteenth century) had reverted to a pre-classical aesthetic wherein proportions were determined schematically and ornamentally, often without any interest in the proportional relationships of the various parts of the body. Reflecting the Renaissance's new scientific approach, however, Albrecht Diirer (1471-1528) made a careful study of proportion that culminated in his Underweyssung derMessung (Treatise on Measurement, 1525) and the posthumous Vier Bucher von menschlicher Proportion (Four Books on Human Proportion, 1528). By the end of tire quattrocento, the position of the artist in society had changed dramatically, and Leonardo da Vinci (14521519)—engineer, inventor, painter, musician, anatomist, writer, fortifications expert, botanist, art theoretician, and hydrologist (this is the short list)—embodied the new ideal. No longer was a work of art valued primarily for its rich materials (Alberti urged artists to avoid using gold and precious stones on their paintings) or painstaking technique, but instead for its intellec­ tual conception and learning. Thus when accused of wasting time by painting too slowly, Leonardo responded by saying that the time spent thinking is the most valuable. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, the new status of the artist in Italy was epitomized in painter and courtier Raphael (1483-1520). That Jimmy Ernst believed firmly in this conception of the artist as thinker is clear from his contribution to a sympo­ sium on "The Artist—Technician or Humanist?": The artist is not a mechanic of methods or of theo­ ries. In the physical construction of his work the tools of technique are subservient to the excitement of the inner eye. Inspiration must precede technical means. Without it the artist[']s activity consists of mere means only.6 After gaining acceptance in Italy, the new view of the artist as humanist gradually spread throughout the rest of Europe. In Spain, Francisco Pacheco (1564-1654), painter, writer, poet, and scholar, who was the dominant artistic personality in Seville, helped propagate the new conception of the artist. A great teacher whose best-known pupil, and subsequent son-in-law, 6. Jimmy Ernst, "The Artist—Technician or Humanist? One Artist's Answer,"Art Journal 15, 1 (Fall 1955): 52. :i i i< �was Velazquez, Pacheco wrote El Arte ae in rnnuiu -■ addition to biographical information about Velazquez, El Greco and others, Pacheco made exceedingly detailed pro­ nouncements on iconography: for example he insisted that artists depict four rather than three nails in Crucifixion scenes. Since he was an official censor for the Inquisition, his recom­ mendations carried considerable weight. In England, despite the success of portrait painters Hans Holbein (1497-1543) and Anthony' van Dyck (1599-1641), whom Charles I knighted, a concerted effort to elevate the status of the artist was not made until the founding of the Royal Academy of Arts in 1768.' Between 1768 and 1790, until blindness forced his retirement, the Academy's first president, Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723-1792) delivered fifteen lectures that define and codify' the classic academic attitude. Published as the Discourses, Reynolds's lectures elucidate the principles of eighteenth-century' aesthet­ ics—the cult of the antique, the rational tradition, the pan­ theon of artists headed by Raphael—which sought to form a bulwark against the expansion of inchoate Romanticism. That James Boswell dedicated his famous Life of Johnson to Reynolds is indicative of the respect the painter inspired among the leading thinkers of his time. Nonetheless, considering the Academy's preference for History Painting, it is ironic that Reynolds's greatest success, both financially' and aesthetically, came from his portraits. The theoretical issues discussed in the Discourses are repre­ sentative of artists' continuing and extensive interest in theory, a cursory study of which would require several volumes. The following examples illustrate only one theoretical stream, the Classic. In a famous letter to Baldassare Castiglione (1516), Raphael, echoing Zeuxis, described the creation of an ideal figure by employing the best attributes of several models. When the Milanese painter and writer Giovanni Paolo Lomazzo (1538- 7. As a young man, Reynolds had read and been influenced by the portrait painter Jonathan Richardson's (1665-1745) An Essay on the Theory of Painting (1715), which asserted the intellectual nature of painting. subsequently published two enormously umuaiuai ueauseson art: Trattato dell'Arte de la Pittura, Scoltura, et Architettura (1584, an English translation appeared in 1598) and Idea del Tempio della Pittura (1590). Further advancing the theoretical base of the Classical ideal, Nicolas Poussin (c. 1593-1665) developed a complex doctrine of Doric and Ionic modes based on an under­ standing of antique musical theory. Although Poussin's planned treatise on art never progressed beyond the research stage, his notes were published by Bellori in 1672 and, along with his letters, contributed to his immense influence. Poussin's greatest advocate was Charles Lebrun (1619-1690), who worked for Louis XIV. In 1662, the Sun King named him Premier Peintre du roi. The following year Lebrun became Director of the Academie and subsequently institutionalized Poussin's Classicism as the official French style. Indebted as well to Poussin, Lebrun's famous Methode pour apprendre a dessiner les passions... (1698) systematized the rendering of emotional states. Long a standard reference work, Lebrun's opus codified, organized, and classified the rules of art reflecting the underlying belief that laws do indeed exist, can be discovered, and when properly' applied will produce high quality art. Other important advocates of the Classic ideal include Anton Raffael Mengs (1728-1779), the leader of the Neoclassical school, who was once considered to be the finest living painter. His Gedanken uber die Schbnheit hand den Geschmack hi derMalerei (Considerations on Beauty' and Taste in Painting, 1762), winch he dedicated to his friend Johann Joachim Winckelmann, was of great importance and widely' disseminated. Finally, in response to the naturalistic surfaces employed by' artists such as Rodin, Adolf von Hildebrand (1847-1921), an exponent of classicism both in his own sculpture and as the author of the widely read, and translated, Das Problem der Form in der bildenden Kunst (1893; English edition, The Problem of Form in Painting and Sculpture, 1907) advocated the concept of "pure form." Closely' related to the view of the artist as a practitioner of the liberal rather than the vulgar arts—theory clearly’ falls within the realm of philosophy and rhetoric—was the Renais­ sance concept of fame. The radical nature of this concept becomes apparent when we consider the art created between 330, when Constantine moved empire to Byzantium, and the first eight hundred years later. We are st absence of artists' names. For the rr who painted the illuminated manu mosaics, or built the churches soari creators are cloaked in an opaque r sionally, of course, a name pops up In the twelfth century, howevi Not only' did the sculptor Wiligelm a new, more naturalistic figure stvle, edge of Classical art, but his achieve) an inscription carved into one of the Cathedral in the Northern Italian t< quently Giovanni Pisano (d. after 1 inscription into the pulpit of the Di boasts of surpassing his father, wh< Sienese inscription, claimed to be f beginning of the 1300s, the trecento, creasing importance, and transitor Iii painting Cimabue thou< To hold the field: now Giot So that thefame of the othe (Purgatory XI, 94-96 Not unexpectedly, and confer developing cult of fame is the rise of well-known examples include Ghil Baptistery' Doors and Alberti's, done medal, which well reflects the era's tion with the antique. (Both Albert Ghiberti wrote important treatises.) classic humanist texts such as Pliny 8. A translation of the inscriptio your work shines forth. Wiligelmus. H< honors." �e 33. he devoted himself to writing and two enormously influential treatises on e la Pittura, Scoltura. et Architettura (1584, appeared in 159S) and Idea del Tempio rther advancing the theoretical base of :olas Poussin (c. 1593-16651 developed a >ric and Ionic modes based on an underisical theorv. Although Poussin’s planned regressed beyond the research stage, has by Bellori in 1672 and, along with his is immense influence. Poussin's greatest ebrun (1619-lec-2 i. who worked for Louis ng named him Premier Peinrre d:: roi. The i became Director of the Academic and nalized Poussin's Classicism as the official :s well to Poussin, Lebrun's famous Vrc.'.L les passions... (1698) systematized the states. Long a standard reference work, , organized, and classified the rules of art ing belief that laws do indeed exist, can en properlv applied will produce high iant advocates of the Classic ideal include 728-1779), tire leader of the Neoclassical considered to be the finest living painter. thbnheit hand den Geschmackin derAlalerei uty and Taste in Painting, 1762}, which he Johann Joachim Winckelmann, was of ridely disseminated. Finally, in response aces employed by artists such as Rodin, I (1847-1921), an exponent of classicism ure and as the author of the widely read, blent der Form in derbildenden Kunst (1893: roblem of Form in Painting and Sculpture, mcept of "pure form." > the view of the artist as a practitioner an the vulgar arts—theory clearly falls lilosophy and rhetoric—was the Renais. The radical nature of this concept len we consider the art created between ---------- o mguci. uieir creators are cloaked in an opaque robe of anonymity. Occa­ sionally. of course, a name pops up, but rarely more titan that. In the twelfth century, however, things began to change. Not only did the sculptor Wiligelmus (active c. 1100) introduce a new, more naturalistic figure style, which reflects some knowl­ : edge of Classical art, but his achievement was commemorated by an inscription carved into one of the reliefs on the facade of the Cathedral in the Northern Italian town of Modena.8 Subse­ quently Giovanni Pisano (d. after 1314) carved a self-laudatory inscription into the pulpit of the Duomo at Siena wherein he boasts of surpassing his father, who had himself, in an earlier Sienese inscription, claimed to be the greatest sculptor. At the beginning of the 1300s, the trecento, Dante captured the in­ creasing importance, and transitory nature, of fame: bi painting Cintabue thought indeed To hold the field; now Giotto has the cry, So that the fame of the other few now heed. (Purgatory XI, 94-96, Binyon translation) Not unexpectedly, and contemporaneous with the developing cult of fame is tire rise of interest in self-portraiture: well-known examples include Ghiberti's on the Florentine Baptistery' Doors and Alberti's, done in tire manner of a Roman medal, which well reflects the era's lionization of and competi­ tion with the antique. (Both Alberti, as has been noted, and Ghiberti wrote important treatises.) Moreover, as artists turned to classic humanist texts such as Pliny's Natural History, they read 8. A translation of the inscription reads "Among sculptors, your work shines forth, Wiligelmus. How greatly you are worthy of honors." > Vasari, that is a shift from Lives of the Saints to Lives of the artists. One of the most famous artist-writers, Luke the Evangelist was a painter celebrated for his portrait(s) of the Blessed Virgin Mary, one of which, according to the faithful, is still visible in SS Annunciata, Florence. Patron saint of painters and protector of academies such as the Accademia di S. Luca, Rome (founded 1593), Luke appears as the subject of many paintings including Guercino's Saint Luke Displaying a Painting of the Virgin (1652, Nelson-Atkins Museum). The shift from hagiography to history is evident in the career of the miniaturist Matthew Paris (d. 1259): not only did he write and illustrate a Life of Saint Alban (Trinity College, Dublin, owns an autograph manuscript), but he also composed the Historia Anglorum (or Historia Minor), which chronicles events of the first half of the thirteenth century. Interestingly enough, the work contains a self-portrait. The most influential chronicler, of course, is the impor­ tant Mannerist painter Giorgio Vasari (1511-1574). Long befo)ire the era of professional biographers, artists themselves as­ sumed the task of retelling the lives of predecessors and contemporaries. The classic example is Vasari's Lives of the Artists (Le Vite de'piii eccellenti architetti, pittori, et scultori italiani, 1550; 2nd. ed. enlarged 1568). More than a series of biographical entries, the Lives argues that the great painters of Tuscany, commencing with Cimabue and Giotto, rescued art from the debased conventions of the post-Classical world by establish­ ing their art on a close study of nature. He traces the progres­ sion from the pioneering artists of the trecento, through the achievements of Donatello, Masaccio, and other quattrocento artists, until his own day when Michelangelo, Leonardo, and Raphael elevated art to perfection. The importance of Vasari's Lives cannot be overemphasized; not unexpectedly it spawned numerous imitators. Now largely' forgotten as a painter, and justifiably so, Carlo Ridolfi (1594-1658) wrote Le Miraviglie deWarte (Marvels �ft ft lb • JIMMY ERNST: SHADOW TO LIGHT of the Painter's Art, 2 vols., 1648), which provides an alternative, Venetian perspective to Vasari's emphasis on the Central Italian and Roman Schools. Ridolfi also wrote a full biography of Tintoretto (1042). In Le vite de'pittori, scultori, ed architetti (1642), Giovanni Baglione (1573-1644), another mediocre painter but important writer, described the lives of artists then active in Rome. Notable is his unequivocally expressed enmity for and detestation of Caravaggio, which represented (as will become clear) justice from poetry if not poetic justice. Other important biographers included Filippo Baldinucci (16241696) an artist from Florence, whose Notizie de' professori del disegno (1681-1728) covers artists from Cimabue to his contem­ poraries. He also wrote a biography (1682) of the sculptor Gianlorenzo Bernini (1598-1680), which has long been the primary source for understanding the artist's life. Baldinucci's contemporary, tire painter and antiquarian Carlo Malvasia (1616-1693), concentrated on the lives of the Carracci and their Bolognese followers in Iris Felsina pittrice: vite dei pittori bolognesi (Felsina [Bologna in Etruscan] Painters: Lives of the Bolognese Painters, 1678). Malvasia's pioneering handbook of Bolognese paintings (Le Pitture di Bologna ..., 1686) was among the first such studies; he also wrote a full biography of Guido Reni. The example of Vasari was not confined to Italy. Karel van Mander (1548-1606), the "Dutch Vasari" and erstwhile teacher of Frans Hals, included biographies of Netherlandish and German artists commencing with Jan van Eyck (d. 1441) in his Het schilderboeck (The Book of Painters, 1604) which also contains information on the Italians, mostly derived from Vasari, although Mander does add some original material, especially about artists working after Vasari's second edition appeared. The book also contains a long poem dealing with techniques, materials, and critical theoretical matters. Another forgotten painter, the "Spanish Vasari" Antonio Palomino y Velasco (1655-1726) chronicled the lives of his countrymen in his Museo Pictbrico y Escala Optica (3 vols., 1715 and 1724). On this side of the Atlantic, the "American Vasari," William Dunlap (1766-1839) continued the tradition with A History of the Rise and Progress of the Arts of Design in the United States (2 vols., 1834). Other important "lives" by artists include Joachim von Sandrart's (1606-1688) Teutsche Academic der Edlen Ban-, Bildund Mahlerey-Kilnste (German Academy of the Noble Arts of Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting, 1675), Arnold Houbraken's (1660-1719) De Groote Schouburgh der Nederlantsche Konstschilders en Schilderessen (The Great Theater of Netherlandish Painters, 3 vols., 1718-1721), and John Ruskin's (1819-1900) Modern Painters (5 vols., 1843-1860). Although von Sandrart was once highly regarded as a painter, he is now remembered primarily as the author of a treatise that combines a strong debt to Vasari with original material concerning the lives of German artists, information on art collections and iconogra­ phy, as well as a most unusual feature, a chapter on Oriental Art. Arnold Houbraken remains an invaluable source of information on Netherlandish artists of the seventeenth century. Finally, John Ruskin, the premiere English art critic of his era and a prolific writer whose collected works total 39 volumes, was also a talented amateur watercolorist. In addition to "lives" a number of artists, such as Ridolfi and Malvasia, have written more extensive biographies on a single subject, whom they frequently knew personally. For example, Ascanio Condivi (d. 1574) wrote a biography of his friend Michelangelo (1553) in rebuttal to certain claims made by Vasari in the first edition of tire Lives. The Memoirs of Sir Joshua Reynolds (1813-1815) by the uninspired academic history painter and portraitist James Northcote (1746-1831) remains the premiere contemporary source on Sir Joshua. Charles Robert Leslie (1794—1859), now forgotten as a painter, is remembered for his Memoirs of the Life of John Constable (1843), a biography of his close friend that remains a classic of the genre. Not all biographies are flattering however. Like Northcote, J. T. Smith (1766—1833) had served as an assistant to his subject, but unlike Northcote, Smith described his master as a tightwad, cheapskate, and miser in his harsh, brutal and unflattering [Joseph] Nollekens and His Times (1828). Our own century provides numerous examples of artist­ biographers. A painter who never emerged from the shadow of his more famous father, George Inness, Jr. (1854-1926) wrote (Text continues on p. 4V 1 The Elements, 1942 oil on canvas 24x20 �! ■5 ■" by artists include Joachim von che Academic der Edlcn Ban-, Bildm Academy of the Noble Arts of Painting. 1675), Arnold Houbraken's burgh der Nederlantsclte Konst> Great Theater of Netherlandish , and John Ruskin's (1819-1900) 3-1860). Although von Sandrart ; a painter, he is now remembered treatise that combines a strong material concerning the lives of on art collections and iconogralal feature, a chapter on Oriental ains an invaluable source of sh artists of the seventeenth i, the premiere English art critic of whose collected works total 39 1 amateur watercolorist. number of artists, such as Ridolfi more extensive biographies on a equentlv knew personally. For 1.1574) wrote a biography of his n rebuttal to certain claims made of the Lives. The Memoirs of Sir by the uninspired academic st James Northcote (1746—1831) nporary source on Sir Joshua. ■1859), now forgotten as a painter, irs of the Life ofJohn Constable )se friend that remains a classic of ;s are flattering however. Like -1833) had served as an assistant to cote, Smith described his master nd miser in his harsh, brutal and is and His Times (1828). ides numerous examples of artistnever emerged from the shadow ieorge Inness, Jr. (1854-1926) wrote (Text continues on p. 41) ../j H I 1 The Elements, 1942 oil on canvas 24x20 2 Surreal, 1942 oil on canvas 12 x 16 �'A A B '■ •"* 3 Untitled (Blue Max), 1942 oil on canvas 20 x 24 4 Untitled, c. 1942-1943 oil on canvas 12x16 5 Blues in Black and White, 1946 oil on canvas 20x23 �■ 1 1 5 Blues in Black and White, 1946 oil on canvas 20x23 6 Mahogany Hall Stomp, 1946 oil on canvas 36 x 347s �8 The Wake, 1947 oil on canvas 30x36 �8 the Wai-Ji, 1947 oil on canvas 30x36 �■ id i a 9 Self-Portrait, 1951 oil on canvas 24 x 20 10 Animals and Mineral, 1952 oil on canvas 43x43 ��>« 's J ; ■ £ 12 Rimrock, 1960 oil on canvas 50 x 60 �sJ A > .. .' a ■ -a ■ ■ Ss? •' ...A \.X 7 - < ' • •■- ■< ■ ... - ' BRASS’ ' A ' --- \. * x . ' r ■ _■ i f ’^A ; .;'A Sacs'aS 'A... ' -.. s " - 'A -u ■ A s' A A ■" i i :•■ A". .;.. - -' . ' ., , •- t V' > . / AA W A A .... . . 'H. - IB ' - S A A ' -A; ' ' 'I . \ SS i. r ' ■ A- A. .'. I ■ -A ■ A< L J V cc . s-X ■1 A >Ac< VA >A 1 . 12 Rimrock, 1960 oil on canvas 50 x 60 frig AK - �13 Oceania, 1963 oil on canvas 43x38 14 Icarus 64, 1964 oil on canvas 50 x 40 �— : & gg 1 :-- I ?rr?^ 'i V;^*-=■<>’ 1 • i I $3 g ;/ fi 9 ■ 4- 1 �r f S': I ' b. &r'il -741 I 1 ■ i liBWBfc 15 Homage to Edgar Varese, 1965 oil on canvas 50 x 6572 16 Sentinel, 1967 oil on canvas 65Vs x 50 �*■ a- It �i I rJ! i i'l 17 Only Yesterday, 1968 oil on canvas 60x50 18 Nightscape IIIA, 1969 oil on Plexiglass 21x21 ��i 20 Another Silence, 1972 oil on canvas 72 x 120 ' ■■ ,®s‘i �) ..•I �T i ;; F'. ���5 B ! I i 1 :?5! > ■ �ft" i?.-' K x . s ^5- -> : ■ «, - i Ik' •.«*£= : 1 ■ ■ L— i A >. i ; , . 1!__ .. ‘r 1 ■ l3_. ::: s iii 25 Katchina White, 1982 oil on canvas 50x60 26 On Winter Nights (With Louis Simpsoi oil and fumage on canvas 84x60 �- ■ ■ . ■ " w.. YOU „ “ - '-’1 FINDING SWlUiUULb r: v ' ’ ' “.-.l i: ih r OWAF0RM • i ■" »<(*', ■■ ‘ ' - WSANITY . . 6= '■ ? 26 Oh Winter Nights (With Louis Simpson), 1982 oil and fumage on canvas 84x60 . fe. ■« I I J �(Continued from p. 76; (1932)amdE^H^ ^931), that Zb^ knowledge of the subject with a critical •. . have the example of Roland Penrose (1900-1984) a painter - - ■ knownfor Pic 19s ± J tea veritable flood of ink on the artist, remains ai n like Jimmy Ernst, arfeteha nfe the need to tell their own stones. Alth fy fest published in 1728, Ben Cellini's (1500-1571) autobiography is a notable e^pfeU autoapotheosis.AfterCellini,whatwasatri< . jbecan torrent, especially in our own century. A partial sam titles includes Marc Chagall’s (1887-19851;Sah *. dor Dali s (1904-1989) colorful, vibrant, self-promoting, and hyperbolic autobiography Comment on dement Dali: les exax inmoudblesd Sa . . ... . Unspeakable Confessions of Salvador Dali as told t ■ Andre Parinaud, 1973); the American sculptor Jo David., ?n' - 18831952) Be. J ■ . - ' . --. ; (1951); the v. . Hillier (1905-1983): the unsurpassed, if net altogether e source on the movement, William Holman Htmfs(1827-191 Prc-R.i ; . _ John s (. S, >—. -■ . . .. . . - ■ -. - ;- • 1 - ”2 and Finishing Touches (1964); Guy Pene du Bess's(1884-1958 Artists Say the Sa.ast 7 ;s r34, .: and Lcrr; Rivers - t. 1-23 fun and somewhat ri-cue memoir "A.;: D :C. ‘ ~ . I.' :.::..- .■ 1992 withAmoldl einstein). Less formal than a m.? graphiesare - diaries 27 Sea of Grass (Black on Black), 1982 oil on canvas 50x60 Jacopo Ponto-me -i?--.-.r, .zx-irr- m ■which he records the progress of his great fresco pre rc~ Lozrenzo. Florence. What emerges is a portraita - da rr . self-absorbed hypochondriac, dEugene Delacroix 179S-lSb3 which he kept ire. cert 1 '22 and 1824 and from 1S47 to 1863. reveals the great Romantic pemrer to be an equally perceptive observer and commentator er. art his own life, loves, and cm. Jusfl famous s#e Cami .. issatio s �THE TRADITION OF THE ARTIST-INTELLECTUAL • 41 (Continued from p. 16) (1932) and Edward Hopper (1931), fa, eornbLd . personal knowledge of die subjects with a critical appraisal. Finally, we have the example of Roland Penrose (1900-1984), a painter best known for Picasso: His Life and Work (1958), which despite a veritable flood of ink on the artist, remains an important work Like Jimmy Ernst, artists have often felt the need to tell their own stories. Aldiougli only first published in 1728, Benvenuto Cellini's (1500-1571) autobiography is a notable example of autoapotheosis. After Cellini, what was a trickle became a torrent, especially in our own century. A partial sampling of titles includes Marc Chagall's (1887-1985) Ma vie (1931); Salva­ dor Dali's (1904-1989) colorful, vibrant, self-promoting, and hyperbolic autobiography Comment on devient Dali; les aveux inavouables de Salvador Dali. Recit presente par Andre Parinaud (Th<ie Unspeakable Confessions of Salvador Dali as told to Andre Parinaud, 1973); the American sculptor Jo Davidson's (18831952) Between Sittings: An Informal Autobiography of Jo Davidson (1951); the wonderfully titled Leda and the Goose (1954) by Tristram Hillier (1905-1983); the unsurpassed, if not altogether objective, source on the movement, William Holman Hunt's (1827-1910) Pre-Raphaelitism and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (1905); Augustus Jofm's (1878-1961) Chiaroscuro, Fragments of Autobiography (1952) and Finishing Touches (1964); Guy Pene du Bois's (1884-1958) Artists Say the Silliest Things (1940); and Larry Rivers's (b. 1923) fun and somewhat risque memoir What Did I Do?: The Unautho­ rized Autobiography (1992, with Arnold Weinstein). Less formal than autobiographies are journals, diaries, notebooks, and letters. A fascinating example is the diary that Jacopo Pontormo (1494—1557) kept between 1554 and 1556, in which he records the progress of his great fresco project for San Lozrenzo, Florence. What emerges is a portrait of a melancholic, self-absorbed hypochondriac. On the other hand, the Journal of Eugene Delacroix (1798-1863), which he kept between 1822 and 1824 and from 1847 to 1863, reveals the great Romantic painter to be an equally perceptive observer and commentator on art, , his own life, loves, and era. Justly famous are Camille Pissarro's (1830 1903) letters to his son Lucien (published in 1943, edited by John Rewald) and Vincent van Gogh's (1853-1890) to his brother Theo (first published by the painter Emile Bernard [1868-1941]). The Renaissance conception of the artist-intellectual has frequently encouraged artists to write on subjects seemingly outside their main areas of interest. In this category' one thinks of the English painter Paul Nash (1889-1946) who wrote a Shell Guide to Dorset (1936) or the vanguard experimental artist and personality Yves Klein (1928-1962) who composed a Judo text (1954), or the Swiss born Surrealist Kurt Seligmann (1900-1962) who, after immigrating to the United States, penned a thought­ ful study entitled The Mirror of Magic (1948). An outstanding example is the great seventeenth-century painter of Amsterdam cityscapes, Jan van der Heyden (1637-1712), whose expertise in the area of firefighting was demonstrated in his Brandspuitcnboek (Fire Engine Book, 1690). Still others have created works of literature. Among the best-known are the sculptor-painter-architect Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) who also wrote beautiful and sensitive poems; the visionary, Romantic poet, and mystic William Blake (1757-1827) who combined illustrations and text in his Songs of Innocence (1789) and The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1793); and Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882), the founder of the PreRaphaelite Brotherhood. When his beloved wife died of a drug overdose, the bereaved Rossetti, a gifted poet, painter, and translator, placed the only complete manuscript of his poems in her coffin. (Subsequently, the poems were unearthed and published.) Adored in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as tlie proto-Romantic artist (legend had it that he was a bandit), Salvator Rosa (1615-1673), when not painting wild, picturesque, and sublime landscapes, wrote poems. Other poets included Edgar Degas, whose Huit Sonnets (1946) appeared posthumously; Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931), whose verses from The Prophet (1923) have helped launch countless marriages; David Jones (18951974), author of the prizewinning In Parenthesis (1937), a massive experimental work that combines poetry and prose, which T. S. Eliot praised highly; and the minor Umbrian painter Giovanni Santi (d. 1494), father of Raphael, who wrote a verse history' of 1 �ft i- 42 • JIMMY ERNST: SHADOW TO LIGHT ■’ £- *'* - :1 r* ii" the Dukes of Urbino. Less decorous are the poems of II Sodoma (1477-1549), which, according to Vasari, unabashedly glorified the pleasures that earned him his nickname. Art historians are uncertain if Caravaggio (1571-1610) actually wrote the insulting and satirical poems that led to his imprisonment after Giovanni Baglione, the target of the poems, filed a lawsuit for libel (1603). The Expressionist painter Oskar Kokoschka (1886-1980), who began his career as a Jugendstil follower of Gustav Klimt, wrote several plays, including the satirical Sphinx und Strohntann (Sphinx and Strawman, 1909) and Mbrder Hoffnung der Frauen (Murderer Hope of Women, 1909), a savage, misogynist, and brutal drama of lust and blood. More gentle are the plays of Everett Shinn (1876-1953), one of The Eight. Fiction writers include Aubrey Beardsley (1872-1898), the illustrator in the dark fin-de-siecle manner, who wrote the Story of Venus and Tannhauser (1907), for which he also provided erotic, if not downright pornographic, illustrations. Other novels include the caricaturist Max Beerbohm's (1872-1956) Zideika Dobson (1911); and Salva­ dor Dali's (1904-1989) Hidden Faces (1944). Among the more bizarre novels is Die andere Seite (The Other Side, 1909) by Alfred Kubin (1877-1959), a member of Der Blaue Reiter group, who had dramatically, but unsuccessfully, tried to kill himself on his mother's grave. The list of writing artists goes on and on. How can we overlook Jonathan Richardson (1665-1745), who with his painter son Jonathan the Younger (1694-1771), wrote An Account of Some of the Statues, Bas-Reliejs, Drawings, and Pictures in Italy (1722), which was carried and consulted by countless dilettanti and young noblemen as they made the Grand Tour of the continent? Or the acerbic bon vivant, James Abbott McNeill Whistler (1834-1903), who sued Ruskin for libel and wrote the witty and mordant The Gentle Art of Making Enemies (1890)? Or Paul Gauguin's (18481903) Noa Noa (1897) about his life in Tahiti? And the literature of artists' art criticism has not even been scratched! In sum, the tradition of writing artists is a vast landscape over which we have flown. From this vantage point, details are lost; but the broad panorama unfolds. Visible below are numer­ ous cities with names like Theory or Biography or Poetry. Like the Guelphs and Ghibellines, the cities built fortifications against their rivals. Within the walls, sit many once magnificent edifices, now fallen into disrepair. Outside the walls, surrounded by impedimenta, commentators, scholars, and their followers encamp. Along the roads, solitary travellers make their way. Beyond the horizon, to the East, an unexplored tapestry unfolds. Neither an isolated castle nor an urban tower, A Not-SoStill-Life resides in a small country village where the author is known. The story is intimate and personal. It is a testament, an affirmation, of the power of art and the spirit to overcome adver­ sity. Jimmy's life was not easy: his father left when he was but a toddler. His mother was forced to flee and left him in tine care of relatives who regarded him as an unhappy reminder of a failed marriage. Later, he himself desperately struggled to escape from what would become his govemmenf s "final solution." When he disembarked from the S.S. Manhattan in June 1938, a few weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday, Jimmy had few prospects in his new homeland. But after a succession of menial jobs, he finally landed a position—in the mail room—at the Museum of Modern Art. Here his father's spirit was unavoidable. Throughout his youthful years, Jimmy had made a point of rejecting art—"Should a son make use of wings fashioned by his father?" Viewing Picasso's Guernica, however, knocked the seventeen-year-old's eyes open: "Here was the artist's elusive miracle. Conscious human knowledge becoming a rope ladder into dark solitude, there to find the blinding flash of ultimate reality, the lightning bolt called the moment of truth."’ Now, in the New World, Jimmy strapped on the wings but used them not to follow his father across the wine-dark sea but to pursue his own light. Although Jimmy's earliest works [Figures 1-4] reflect his father's vision, that vision was not his own and he promptly left it behind. Since Classical times the parable of Icarus has often been retold. In the Medieval age, it was seen as a cautionary tale against flouting authority, hubris, and pursuing forbidden knowledge. Later, in the Renaissance, Icarus was seen as an allegory of the heroic, soaring human spirit that seeks new knowledge despite 9. Ernst, A-Not-So-Still-Life, p. 87. I the costs. In our own century, writers and a tale through a Freudian glass, if not darkly Oedipally. For the Italian Lauro de Bosis, w 1927, the legend was more than symbolic; h subject: after dropping anti-fascist leaflets f over the city of Rome, he crashed to his dea Although Jimmy Ernst initially saw th tion, as a Siren call, he also saw them as a rr dence and freedom. But even more so, he u symbolic of the fragility of civilization: the �•I It many once magnificent edifices, ■side the walls, surrounded by (scholars, and their followers ■at)' travellers make their way. I an unexplored tapestry unfolds, le nor an urban tower, A Not-SoBntry village where tire author is Ind personal. It is a testament, an Band the spirit to overcome adver■ris father left tvhen he was but a I to flee and left him in the care of I an unhappy reminder of a failed lerately struggled to escape from ■meat's "final solution." When he tii/iattnn in June 1938, a few weeks I. Jimmy had few prospects in his [cession of menial jobs, he finally ■ room—at the Museum of Modern Is unavoidable. I years, Jimmy had made a point of riake use of wings fashioned by his lemicfl, however, knocked the In: "Here was the artist's elusive lowledge becoming a rope ladder Id the blinding flash of ultimate Id the moment of truth.''9 I Jimmy strapped on the wings but Ither across the wine-dark sea but lugh Jimmy's earliest works I's vision, that vision was not his ehind. parable of Icarus has often been has seen as a cautionary tale against pursuing forbidden knowledge, us was seen as an allegory of the hat seeks new knowledge despite fe, p. 87. i^^XuZS ?f' ists have seen the Oedipally. For the Italian Lauro de Bosis who ° C"ta.inly 1927, the legend was more than svmbo r 6 ICarUS in subject: after dropping anti-fascist leaflets fromT J6?1”6 over the city of Rome, he crashed to his deaS P Although Jimmy Ernst initially saw the wings as a temni- TH E TRADITION OF THE ARTIST-INTELLECTUAL • ES™ bLnding Wax-Whenyoun8Jimmy fled ‘^° amS °f hiS m°ther' she reProved him fo3 am accidenr fUm and Spoke Sadly Of the coming war, of the Die urPg n preserva«on' of ‘hose who burned books and ss assx Li/e is a testament to that love. symMc of tile fragility „f dviU2ation; th. LS”! 10. Ibid., p. 79. 43 �f;i F I, ChecxB’-c jf the E' Selected Bibliography ■ it Amason, H. H. American Abstract Expressionists and Imagists. New York: The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, 1961. The Arts Club of Chicago. Recent Paintings by Jimmy Ernst. Chicago: The Arts vl Club of Chicago, 1968. Baur, John I. H. Evolution and Tradition in Modern American Art. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1959. --------- , ed. The New Decade: 35 American Painters and Sculptors. New York: The Whitney Museum of American Art, 1955. Beekman, Aaron. The Functional Line in Painting. New York: Thomas Yoseloff rj Im Inc., 1957. Berkson, Bill. "Review of Books: What Becomes a Legend," Art in America (October 1984): 23. Bethers, Ray. Composition in Pictures. New York: Pitman Publishing Corpora­ tion, 1962. Blesh, Rudi. Modern Art, USA. Men Rebellion Conquest 1900-1956. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1956. Campbell, Lawrence. "Jimmy Ernst at Armstrong," Art in America (October 1984): 200. Canaday, John. Mainstreams of Modern Art. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1961. Detroit Institute of Arts.T/ie Art of Jimmy Ernst: A Comprehensive Exhibition. Detroit: Detroit Institute of Arts, 1963. Ernst, Jimmy. "The Artist—Technician or Humanist? One Artist's Answer," Art Journal 15,1 (Fall 1955): 51-52. --------- . "Freedom of Expression in the Arts II," Art Journal 25,1 (Fall 1965): 46-47. --------- . "A Letter to Artists of the Soviet Union,"Art Journal 21, 2 (Winter, 1961-62) 66-71. --------- . A Not So-Still Life: A Memoir. New York: St. Martin's/Marek, 1984. --------- , and Francine du Plessix. "The Artist Speaks: My Father, Max Ernst," Art in America. (November-December 1968): 54-61. Friedman, B. H. '"The Irascibles': A Split Second in Art History," Arts Magazine (September 1978): 96-102. Galerie 1900-2000. Jimmy Ernst. Paris, Galerie 1900-2000,1990. Getlein, Frank. "Book Reviews: A Not-So-Still Life." Smithsonian (July 1984): 122. --------- . "Jimmy Ernst the Artist," Art Journal 21 (1961-1962): 60. --------- . "The Younger Ernst," The New Republic, March 23,1963,35-36. Goodrich, Lloyd, and John 1. H. Baur. American Art of Our Century. New York: The Whitney Museum of American Art, 1961. Guggenheim, Peggy, ed. Art of This Century. New York: Art of This Century, 1942. The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum. American Abstract Expressionists and Imagists. New York: The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum. 1961. ______ Younger American Painters: A Selection. New York: The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, 1954. Guild Hall Museum. Jimmy Ernst: A Survey 1942-1983. East Hampton, N.Y.: Guild Hall Museum, 1985. Hadler, Mona. "Jazz and the Visual Arts," Arts Magazine Uune 1983): 91-101. Janis, Harriet, and Rudi Blesh. Collage. Personalities Concepts Techniques. Philadelphia and New York: Chilton Co., 1962. Janis, Sidney. Abstract and Surrealist Art in America. New York: Reynal & Hitchcock, 1944. McCurdy, Charles, ed. Modern Art... A Pictorial Anthology. New York: Macmillan, 1958. Mendelowitz, Daniel M. A History of American Art. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1961. Moore, Barbara. "Ernst." In Art: USA: Now, edited by Lee Nordness, 2 vols. New York: Viking Press, 1963. Motherwell, Robert, and Ad Reinhardt, eds. Modern Artists in America. New York: Wittenborn, Schultz, 1951. Philadelphia Museum of Art. Multiples: The First Decade. Philadelphia: Boston Book and Art, 1971. Philharmonic Center for the Arts. Jimmy Ernst: Lincs through Time. Naples, Fla.: Philharmonic Center for the Arts, 1994. Porto, Gabriel Lawrence. An Analysis of the Life and Works of Jimmy Ernst and his Father's Early Influence. 1969. Pousette-Dart, Nathaniel, ed. American Painting Today. New York: Hastings House, 1956. Read, Herbert. A Concise History of Modern Painting. New York: Frederick A. Praeger, 1959. Ritchie, Andrew Carduff. Abstract Painting and Sculpture in America. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1951. Robertson, Jack S. Twentieth-century Artists on Art: An Index to Writings, Statements, and Interviews by Artists, Architects, and Designers. 2nd enl. ed. New York : G. K. Hall, 1996. Seitz, William C. Abstract Expressionist Painting in America. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1983. Tampa Museum of Art. Jimmy Ernst: Trials of Silence, Works 1942-1983. Tampa, Fla.: Tampa Museum of Art, 1994. Ward, John C. American Realist Painting 1945-1980. Ann Arbor, Mich.: UMI Research Press, 1989. 1 The Elements, 1942 oil on canvas 24x20 2 Surreal, 1942 oil on canvas 12 x 16 3 Untitled (Blue Max), 1942 oil on canvas 20x24 4 Untitled, c. 1942-1943 oil on canvas 12x16 5 Blues in Black and White, 1946 oil on canvas 20x23 6 Mahogany Hall Stomp, 1946 oil on canvas 36 x 343/s 7 Dallas Blues, 1947 oil on canvas 36x28 8 The Wake, 1947 oil on canvas 30x36 9 Self-Portrait, 1951 oil on canvas 24x20 �Checklist of the Exhibition nil Abstract Expressionists and iggenheim Museum. 1961. Jew York: The Solomon R. 942-1983. East Hampton, N.Y.: Magazine (June 19S3): 91-101. alities Concepts Techniques. So., 1962. lerica. New York: Reynal & rial Anthology. New York: 11 Art. New York: Holt, Rinehart dited by Lee Nordness, 2 vols. Modern Artists in America. New :irst Decade. Philadelphia: it: Lines through Time. Naples, ;, 1994. ife and Works of Jimmy Ernst and 1 The Elements, 1942 oil on canvas 24 x 20 10 Animals and Mineral, 1952 oil on canvas 43x43 19 Nightscape VI, 1969 oil on Plexiglass 21 x21 11 Across a Silent Bridge, 1957 oil on canvas 50x90 20 Another Silence, 1972 oil on canvas 72 x 120 12 Rimrock, 1960 oil on canvas 50x60 21 Twice, 1972 oil on canvas 50x60 4 Untitled, c. 1942-1943 oil on canvas 12x16 13 Oceania, 1963 oil on canvas 43x38 22 Due North, 1972-73 oil on canvas 50 x 60 5 Blues in Black and White, 1946 oil on canvas 20x23 14 Icarus 64,1964 oil on canvas 50x40 23 Exile, 1974 oil on canvas 50x60 6 Mahogany Hall Stomp, 1946 oil on canvas 36 x 343/s 15 Homage to Edgar Varese, 1965 oil on canvas 50 x 65'/, 24 Mombasa, 1975 oil on canvas 50x60 7 Dallas Blues, 1947 16 Sentinel, 1967 oil on canvas 65'/sx50 25 Katchina White, 1982 oil on canvas 50x60 8 The Wake, 1947 oil on canvas 30x36 17 Only Yesterday, 1968 oil on canvas 60x50 26 On Winter Nights (With Louis Simpson), 1982 oil and fumage on canvas 84x60 9 Self-Portrait, 1951 18 Nightscape TUA, 1969 oil on Plexiglass 21 x21 27 Sea of Grass (Black on Black), 1982 oil on canvas 50x60 2 Surreal, 1942 oil on canvas 12x16 Untitled (Blue Max), 1942 oil on canvas 20x24 ing Today. New York: Hastings tinting. New York: Frederick A. id Sculpture in America. New >1 Art: An Index to Writings, Irchitccts, and Designers. 2nd enl. ng in America. Cambridge: f Silence, Works 1942-1983. 1994. —1980. Ann Arbor, Mich.: UMI oil on canvas 36x28 oil on canvas 24x20 �Acknowledgments E"' This exhibition would not have been possible without the wholehearted participation and support of Dallas Ernst and The Rimrock Foundation Inc. I am particularly grateful to Mrs. Ernst for her advice, assistance, and hospitality, all of which she gave ■ unsparingly. We are very’ pleased that Donald Kuspit agreed to write tire lead essay in this catalogue. As Dr. Kuspit notes in his essay, Jimmy Ernst had a great love of jazz. Two other jazz lovers, Andrew J. Sordoni, III and Hank O'Neal, assisted in numerous ways to make this exhibi­ tion a reality. A special debt is owed to Rebecca Foster and the Society for the Preservation of American Modernists (SPAM) for sup­ porting this project with a generous grant. The Pennsylvania Council on the Arts also helped underwrite this exhibition. Last, I thank my colleagues Bonnie C. Bedford, Robert J. Heaman, Nancy L. Krueger, and William H. Sterling for reading an early draft of my essay. I appreciate their thoughtful com­ ments and suggestions. —SIG i £. ■■■ ' X1 U I Exhibition Underwriter: Diversified Records Services, Inc. Franklin First Savings Bank Friends of the Sordoni Art Gallery F. M. Kirby Foundation, Inc. Maslow Lumia Bartorillo Advertising Mellon Bank Pennsylvania Council on the Arts The John Sloan Memorial Foundation, Inc. Andrew J. Sordoni, III Wilkes University Sponsors The Business Council CBI-Creative Business Interiors Eastern Insurance Group Friedman Electric Supply Co., Inc. Marquis Art and Frame Nabisco, Inc. G. R. Noto Electrical Construction Panzitta Enterprises, Inc. Pennsylvania Millers Mutual Insurance Co. Rosenn, Jenkins and Greenwald, L.L.P. Trion Industries Inc. �Exhibition Underwriters Diversified Records Sen-ices, Inc. Franklin First Savings Bank Friends of the Sordoni Art Gallery F. M. Kirby Foundation, Inc. Maslow Lumia Bartorillo Advertising Mellon Bank Pennsylvania Council on the Arts The John Sloan Memorial Foundation, Inc. Andrew J. Sordoni, III Wilkes University Sponsors The Business Council CBI-Creative Business Interiors Eastern Insurance Group Friedman Electric Supply Co., Inc. Marquis Art and Frame Nabisco, Inc. G. R. Noto Electrical Construction Panzitta Enterprises, Inc. Pennsylvania Millers Mutual Insurance Co. Roserm, Jenkins and Greenwald, L.L.P. Trion Industries Inc. �F Advisory Commission Z' ■ i-; 2- x; u Bonnie C. Bedford, Ph.D. Freddie Bittenbender Christopher N. Breiseth, Ph.D. Marion M. Conyngham Virginia C. Davis, Chair Stanley I Grand, Ph.D. Robert J. Heaman, Ph.D. Man’ Jane Henry Keith A. Hunter, Esq. J. Michael Lennon, Ph.D. Melanie Maslow Lumia Theo Lumia Kenneth Marquis Constance R. McCole Hank O'Neal Arnold Rifkin Kim Ross Charles A. Shaffer, Esq. Susan Shoemaker, Esq. William Shull Helen Farr Sloan Andrew J. Sordoni, III Sally Sprankle Sanford B. Sternlieb, M.D. Mindi Thalenfeld Thomas H. van Arsdale Joel Zitofsky Staff Stanley I Grand, Ph.D., Director Nancy L. Krueger, Co-ordinator Earl W. Lehman, Preparator Gallery Attendants Deidre Blake Sarah Karlavage Colleen McKinnon Lisa Tabbit Beth-Ann Witkowski �JBHL *> I / > GAYLORD FG �I- .»MJ 1 ? "' ' ■ : ■■■■ .' i|g ' : / - ' ■ ■■-.■ >'■ ■■ ■;:*;: ' .- ; s- ■. - Esss � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1997 October 5 Jimmy Ernst-Shadow to Light Paintings Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Jimmy Ernst DonaldKuspit StanleyI.Grand Stanley I. Grand Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1997 October 5 - November 9 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource Jimmy Ernst was a painter heavily influenced by Surrealism and Dada as seen in his erratic pallette and interest in chance happenings in his paintings. Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition program Subject The topic of the resource Jimmy Ernst painter painting Surrealism Dada Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource SAG https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/4a2234d76f9a5e4aeb67868d1f159f63.pdf a6037777598858875ecde555b2d42638 PDF Text Text ���������������������������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1997 November 16 Richard Florsheim: The Artist In His Time Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Richard Florsheim Robert L. Kurtz Louis A. Zona August L. Freundlich Domonic J. Iacono Neil Watson Robert L. Kurtz Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1997 November 16 - December 2 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource Richard Florsheim's art was very much influenced by the events occuring around him from the Second World War to geometric modernism. His work captures the tragedies and triumphs of our time. Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition program Subject The topic of the resource Richard Florsheim landscape landscapes modernism Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived The Butler Institute of American Art https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/b55db641adc47f9086fd4243294dca86.pdf 36393ad4709eb9bf72ec7a69d25909cd PDF Text Text ����������������������� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Exhibition Programs, 1973-present Description An account of the resource Exhibition programs created by the Sordoni Art Gallery from 1973 to the present. Digitized by Wilkes University Archives interns, Zachary Mendoza and Sophia Kruspha. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource The Sordoni Art Gallery Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Wilkes University Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available The Sordoni Art Gallery Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1973-present Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Wilkes University retains copyright of these exhibition programs. Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition programs, flyers, and calendars. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 1998 Will Barnet: An American Master Print Retrospective Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Will Barnet Lisa M. Davis Micheal A. Tomor Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1998 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Description An account of the resource This exhibition is a survey of Will Barnet's lifetime career as a remarkable printmaker. Type The nature or genre of the resource Exhibition program Subject The topic of the resource printmaking prints printmaker Will Barnet Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Southern Alleghenies Museum of Art