Author: Ingrid Schaffner

  • “Speaking Photography” Jennifer Bolande, ed. Nicholas Frank. Milwaukee, Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, Institute of Visual Arts (Inova), 2011 pp. 111-115

    Speaking Photography

    Jennifer Bolande’s art is so fluent in the language of photograph that we may learn to speak it just by surveying her work. Jennifer Bolande Landmarks offers occasion to do just that. With much to say about the development of Bolande’s work over the past 28 years, this exhibition is equally conservant in photography, not only as a medium but also a mode of address a language with it own grammar and intelligence. As practiced throughout contemporary art, this language is present even when actual photographs are not. And what more productive place for learning photograph’s language than this show? Like any good classroom, it even has a globe on the windowsill. Make that 25 globes on 25 windowsills, for that is the number appears in Topology House, 2002 [100], a sculpture constructive from photographs of windows, like a greenhouse made of salvaged frames, each one taken wherever Bolande spotted a globe in a window from the street.

    Photography’s materials and techniques are everywhere on display in this exhibition. We see all kinds of color photography: from standard C-prints (printed like any commercially developed snapshot and as fugitive over time) to cibachromes (archival prints, which use dye-soaked plastic and look as sharp and saturated as slides). Scrolling down the wall and crashing to the floor, where it curls up like a wave, is Cascade, 1987 [8], a duratrans (named for an obsolete Kodak plastic that as used when this printing technique first became popular). The printing and papers of photography are variously deployed and commemorated throughout Bolande’s art, right up to the present. In the Smoke Screens of 2007 [81], photographs of smoke affixed directly onto sheets of plywood that hand on the wall like giant sheets of paper, supporting images of the stuff that all vestiges of the darkroom have gone up in. This smoke is, of course, printed digitally.

    The gesture of the curl–curling smoke, the curl of Cascade–seems deeply embedded. We encounter it again, for instance, in Stack of Shins, (with wire photo) 1987 [89]. A photograph of trees downed in a tornado hands above a stack of wooden slats that stands against the wall. This picture of an aerial view of disaster is a re-photographed newspaper image [83] that has yellowed, crinkled and curled at the corners. (And in case you wondered, as I did, about the title, note the illuminative wire service photo-credit.) The artist says the clipping was pinned up in her studio for a long time, like a peripheral point of reference, flagging exactly what, she was not sure. It’s as if it actually took the process of disintegrating, of slowly yellowing and peeling up from the wall, from the image to become an object, a thing that Bolande could pick up and use. And it is the thing-ness of photography that wires the gaps that are so much a part of Bolande’s art. Stack of Shims is riddled with them, gaps, between paper and wood, between trees seemingly at rest and shims resembling newspapers, between the spiraling distance to the ground in the aerial view and the abrupt immediacy of the object in front of you, between your head and the picture and your body and the stack of wood, between time captured in a photograph (which is always in the past) and time embodied in sculpture (which is always in the present). Nowhere is this last gap more efficiently collapsed and constructed at once than in Milk Crown, 1987 [57], Bolande’s iconic rendition of Harold Edgerton’s milk splash (captured with a stroboscopic camera) [58] into a sculptural piece of porcelain. As a thing, photography takes many shapes in Bolande’s work. There are framed and various forms of mounted photographs (mostly medium to small in scale), photo-objects, light-boxes, postcards. In Side Show, 1991 [76], for instance, a photograph of a spotlight on a tent peg is so succinct a pictorial statement that there might as well be a spot lit tent peg in the room. ([woman as object] [precious body] [this is what framing feels like]) by a beefy cardboard box of a frame that is packed at the corners with clumps of shoulder pads. The photograph in Orange Threshold, 1995, [67], of the back of a truck is perfectly parenthetical to the frame around it: both are orange and square.

    A grammar takes shape around Bolande’s use of photographs as subjects, objects, punctuation, verbs. This grammar leads us into a realm of language that is articulated by photography even when there are no photographs in sight. As if reaching for terms by which to understand it, photography has been known by its metaphors ever since its invention: “light writing,” “light drawing,” and most poetically, “the pencil of nature” as Henry Fox Talbot, one of photography’s originators, defined the “character of truth and reality which that art so eminently possesses.” Keeping these metaphors in mind, consider these works by Bolande: Movie Mountain, 2004 [75]is a photograph of props and objects in a constructed tableau, a sort of Philip Guston night studio, in which an anthropomorphic mountain poes in front of a blank screen, casting upon it the perfect shadow. The screen, in turn, casts its silhouette onto another screen, making for a double portrait of mountain and movie. Hence, one supposes, the title, since this is no film. Nor, for that matter, is Movie Chair, 1984 [77]: a sculpture of a mountain plopped on a chair, posing under bright clip-on lights, the accouterments of every photographer’s studio. Bolande’s art is ever encompassing of shadow plays and moving picture, just as photography’s history is bracketed by them.

    Working like a postmodern Maid of Corinth, whose classical legend is to have made the first drawing when she traced her lover’s shadow by lamplight, Bolande uses photography to draw and drawing kind of photography. Central and Mountain, 1985 [5] is a sculpture made from a big marching-band drum with a drawing on the skin. The drawing shows three mountaintops that seem to crouch, cautious and curious, in view of a mallet that is strapped to the drum, ready to strike. (This striking, of course, transpires in the mind’s eye-or ear—where the thunder rolls around and around them there hills.) So where’s the photography? Sepia in tone, soft to the eye, tentative yet certain in touch, the drawing can be seen as photographic in a pictorialist sort of way. More importantly, there is something about Bolande’s drawings in general that makes them, like spirit photography, appear irrefutably part of the world as she sees it. They don’t seem so much drawn as developed on paper.

    Unlike a depiction or rendering, the drawing on the drum appears to be the thing itself. Because image and object are equivalent in Bolande’s art, each is interchangeable when it comes to cobbling together and transmitting a sense of pictorial intelligence. To spark a similar gap, Alfred Stieglitz titled his small photographs of clouds “Equivalents” because he saw no difference between photograph, cloud, and their mutual capacities for experience and meaning. Another Modernist, Edward Weston, deemed it photography’s goal “to render the very substance and quintessence of the thing itself, whether it be polished steel or palpitating flesh.” Temperamentally on the cool side, Bolande once made a series of photographs that study her hand and its reflection flatly hovering over an aluminum elevator door.

    This photographic notion of the thing itself seems key to the simultaneously straightforward and elliptical nature of Bolande’s work. As she told the artist David Robbins in an interview, “I study things over time, sometimes for years, to understand what it is, and what its attraction is for me.”[footnote=1] Accruing over decades, these things have been theater curtains, movie marquees, mountains, globes, speakers, microphones, flags, pictures of the planet Mars, the moon, tornadoes, smoke. And while each subject yields a specific understanding that can only be gleaned from the individual work, collectively they may be understood as follows. Abstracted from the sphere of the public domain—which is her elected terrain–Bolande’s things all seem to evoke a sense of encroaching obsolescence. Whether it’s due to technology, the weather, the end of the space race, or beginning of a new global era, this vision of things falling under scrutiny even as they fall from view is as emphatic as touch in Bolande’s art. She works in order to grasp her own understanding and in the process creates a gulf in comprehension, a gulf filled with such intensely focused time and study that it is as sublime to behold as the reach across any great distance.

    Everything is touched in a photograph: touched by light. This is what makes a photograph an indexical object, a conceptual proof of something that is not really there. Like the sound of that bass drum, for instance, and sound in general. Bolande’s work is filled with images and objects that make noise or amplify. The opposite of symbolic, indexes embody. And so does Bolande, who comes to art by way of choreography and dance, seek to embody forms of understanding through her work. Thus I have come to see her index of circling and conical things–traffic cones, tornadoes, cones of light (which could also be cones of sound, sight), Milk Crown, skydivers holding hands to form a circle in the air—as funneling the power of concentration, which is also essentially invisible and yet profoundly physical.

    Bolande’s work is also consistently filled with apertures and chambers; these loom as empty as the darkroom, the negative, the camera obscura of photography itself. Take for instance, the five gaping big-rig truck beds in Holding Pattern, 1995 [63] (a masterful piece of semi choreography, conducted in a parking lot); the open van and manhole in Held Open Space, 1991[66]; the filmic frames of Green Towel Sequence #1, 2004 [7]; the filmstrip construction of Appliance House, 1999 [120]. Each chamber stands ready to be filled, Iike the slots in an empty slide carousel, or the frames of an incipient picture collection.

    Turning from the exhibition Landmarks to this book, e finds clues throughout as to what pictures might be slotted into these chambers. Bolande has already inserted a few. Spotted amidst the flow of her own works of art, these pictures signal various uses. There are historic paintings as pictorial points of reference: Bruegel’s Tower of Babel, 1563, [82] with its craggy profile and Magritte’s Time Transfixed, 1938 [10] (the original title of which, La Durée Poignardée, or “time stabbed by a dagger,” resonates disturbingly with Bolande’s embodied sense of language). A postcard of Times Square [106] and NASA footage [9] appear as source material. Finally, nothing less than commemorative of an artist she knew and deeply regarded is a picture of a set of 45-record albums [85] by the conceptual artist Jack Goldstein, who died in 2003. Of the night they met in 1976 (at a performance by Jack Smith who threatened that he had to mount a mess of slides on stage before he would begin), Bolande, who was deeply immersed in performance and questing her way through the downtown scene, wrote, “That night changed my life. I knew what was possible and I was inspired to be an artist.”[footnote=2] She describes going back to Goldstein’s studio and seeing his looping 2-minute film Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer, 1975, in which the appropriated lion logo grew stranger, more detailed, and finally by Bolande’s estimation, “irretrievably suspect” with each repetition. He gave her a set of records, since lost; represented in this book, they appear to hold a key place in Bolande’s picture archive. (Just read the titles: The Tornado, Three Felled Trees, The Burning Forest.) Another artist, whose work Bolande memorably encountered in her early days in New York is the sculptor Ree Morton; her untitled assemblage of 1972 maps emblems of mountains into just the sort of theatrical terrain that Bolande has come to so readily inhabit.

    Like most contemporary artists, Bolande speaks of photography as a tool. “Photography is generally my first line of approach to any subject,” she recently wrote in Artforum.[footnote=3] And while making photographs is not her object–Bolande actually considers herself a sculptor—the language of photography has proved instrumental to the understanding of her work. This understanding, in turn, grants one a great deal of fluency in the bigger conversation emerging around photography today. Significant expressions of which can be engaged through work of such artists as Trisha Donnelly and Erin Shirreff, as well as The Original Copy: Photography of Sculpture, 1839 to Today,[footnote=4] a recent survey at the Museum of Modern Art, New York. All expound on photography’s language as we have gotten to know it through Bolande’s art. Her work also shows us that, no less vital for being already partially dead, this language grows increasingly historical, critical, and expressive with each new entry into the digital lexicon. Of all the obsolescent things that Bolande’s art points to, photography is the most paradoxical. Even as the thing itself vanishes, the language remains rich and widely spoken.

    This essay synthesizes and builds on two past curatorial projects, Constructing Images (1991) and The Photogenic (2002). Both group shows featured work by Bolande, whose work continues to shape my own.

  • “Ensemble Encore,” Christian Marclay: Festival (no. 2). New York: Whitney Museum of American Art, 2010, pp. 8-17.

    Ensemble Encore

    Very much a piece of his work, even though none was in it, Ensemble was a group show organized by Christian Marclay, who drew on his credentials as an artist, musician, and deejay to engage others in a project they might have resisted in the hands of most curators. Because, as the title suggests, the exhibition was conceived as a composition to which each work contributed some sound. Not that we in the post-retinal field of contemporary art necessarily lack the ear; it’s more a question of trust. “Sound artists routinely see their work relegated to the lobby, elevator, toilet, and basement, or simply put outdoors,” Marclay observed.[footnote=1] He knew from experience. Indeed, it was the opportunity to counteract this tendency of museums to isolate the act of listening from that of looking at art that prompted him to accept an invitation from the Institute of Contemporary Art (ICA) at the University of Pennsylvania (Penn), and conceive this exhibition in the first place.”[footnote=2]

    Under the guise of “guest curator,” Marclay operated more along the lines of “generator-arbitrator.” This is the term Marcel Duchamp coined to describe his own role as an artist making exhibitions (which he routinely did) by compelling peers to contribute to a collaboratively constructed tableau. Any reference to Duchamp taps deep into the roots of Marclay’s practice, from the name of the experimental band – The Bachelors, even – that he performed with during the 1980s, to a more recent installation to empty museum crates outfitted with music boxes that played like so much hidden noise (Music Boxes [from Crossings], 1999), to the very Duchampian sense of agency that allows Marclay, as a conceptual artist, to move freely between making objects and music. Nor is Ensemble the first museum exhibition Marclay has organized in his career; there is a strain of shows, starting in 1995 at the Musée d’Art et d’Histoire in Geneva, in which he has drawn aural images and objects from historic collections to create installations that perform like silent concerts, filling the viewer’s mind with pictures of unheard melodies.

    However, Ensemble is the first time Marclay made an exhibition with works borrowed from his contemporaries. In this case, Duchamp’s approach proved more conducive. Acting as an agent among peers, Marclay made Ensemble not only to illustrate his solidarity with sound artists, he also neatly sidestepped issues of authority and submission that would otherwise have loomed large in the creation of a show in which each work was selected as an instrument that would complement the others and culminate in an overarching composition. No artist wants his or her work to be instrumentalized by a curator, but who doesn’t want to be a part of a cool band?

    Ensemble was not just curated, it was orchestrated. Using both eye and ear, Marclay selected twenty-seven works by as many artists that made some kind of acoustical or natural sound (i.e., not amplified). Mineko Grimmer’s giant bamboo curtain was set rattling as soon as one entered the gallery, which was filled with bright and shimmering noises: there were bells gonging, pieces of china clinking, a teapot whistling, metronomes clicking, music-box tines pinging. Not everything played at once: Some works, like Dennis Oppenheim’s Attempt to Raise Hell (1969) and Michelangelo Pistoletto’s Orchestra of Rags (1968) were on timers; others, like Martin Kersels’s Creakers (2007) and Katja Kölle’s Staccato (americano) (2004/2007) required viewer interaction. Motion detectors set Carolee Schneemann’s War Mop (1996) a-beating and Fia Backström’s Visitor Chime (1996) a-chiming. Sometimes the show ticked and hummed like a nervous cabinet of curiosities. There were the constant clinks of Céleste Boursierr-Mougenot’s thirty-one bowls floating in a plastic inflatable swimming pool and the regular flap of Darren Almond’s monumental flip-clock. Other times the exhibition erupted into urban din. Lift the lid of The Alarming Trashcan (c. 1987), by Yoshi Wada, for an alarm bell-deafening din. Occasionally the phone would ring. I was in the gallery the day that two little boys got to talk to their father’s favorite artist, Yoko Ono. More often, Ono would reach the gallery guard Linda Harris, and they would have a quick chat.

    Overall, as Ono’s Telephone Piece (1997) might intone, Ensemble was very Fluxus in feeling, in terms of both the ordinary and readymade nature of the objects on view, and the flow of chance and happenstance that brought the show to life every day. Echoes of the historical movement that emerged during the 1960s turn into clear sound when one considers the exhibition in light of Marclay’s 2004 video installation Shake Rattle and Roll (Fluxmix), in which he handles objects form the Walker Art Center’s formidable collection of Fluxus art like tiny instruments to produce a matrix of sounds.

    As playful as Ensemble was, it also contained the specter that haunts all kinetic art: When it’s not moving, it’s dead. Enter the Accompanists. Marclay invited eight musicians and performance artists to add their own sounds to the exhibition and interact with it. The vocalist Shelley Hirsch gave throat to works in the show; electronic musicians o.blaat (Keiko Uenishi), Aki Onda, and Alan Licht sampled and produced feedback for themselves to loop and play and drone back into; sculptor Terry Adkins beat jazz percussion from the more instrumental objects. One of the original Fluxus artists, Alison Knowles, performed with her own accompanist, a volunteer Penn student, whom Knowles armored in crinkling sheets of mulberry paper and paraded ceremoniously (and blindly) about.

    Collectively the Accompanists pitched into relief the musical meaning of ensemble: A concert piece involving a number of voices or instruments. The show was also a score, arranged by Marclay only to be played, sampled, and given variations by the viewers who interacted with it. Sampling and scoring being the primary modes of Marclay’s practice, Ensemble was as representative as it was generative. Its staging calls to mind Graffiti Composition (1996-2002) in which sheets of musical composition paper were pasted around the city to be marked up by people and documented through photographs, which were published as an edition to be used as a score.

    As much a populist as he is a conceptual artist, Marclay often plays off and with public accessibility and participation. Performed annually, The Sounds of Christmas (1999) allows deejays to spin, mash, and mix tunes from Marclay’s collection of more than one thousand holiday records. Likewise, so many images, ideas, and anecdotes continue to spin out of Ensemble and attach themselves to bigger thinking and to memory. As a viewer, each visit was episodic, depending on who and what sounds were playing in the gallery with you. Small children leaping to pull the clappers of Jim Hodges’s blown-glass bells comes to mind. As does the day that a talented viewer picked up the mallets and hammered beautiful music from Doug Aitken’s K-N-O-C-K-O-U-T. And from my peripheral curatorial involvement, I know the show created much lore within the institution and for the individuals involved. There was that scavenger hunt for the vintage amp required by one of the performers that plunged the ICA curatorial department into an uproar.[footnote=3] And there is the idea of the Accompanists as a curatorial model of programming that activated an exhibition from within: Each performance was integral – as opposed to ancillary – to the artist-curator’s total composition of objects within the gallery. Perhaps my favorite outcome is the various recordings, including one you can find on Ubuweb online, of a student reciting John Cage’s Notes on Silence inside the exhibition.[footnote=4] You can actually hear the walls of the gallery, baffling and bouncing with all of the intriguing and dissonant volumes this exhibition contains. What is especially audible it the reality of the situation: ICA’s galleries were not built for showing sound. The acoustics are terrible! But boy, did Ensemble sound good.

  • “Exaltations/Observations” Maira Kalman: Various Illuminations (of a Crazy World), Ingrid Schaffner; with contributions by Donna Ghelerter, Stamatina Gregory, and Kenneth E. Silver. Institute for Contemporary Art, University of Pennsylvania; Delmonico Books/Prestel, 2010, pp. 13-89.

    EXALTATIONS/OBSERVATIONS

    Here’s a routine that’s been in rehearsal in the wings of the museum for nearly two years now. It begins with you asking me what I’ve been working on. I say, “A Maira Kalman show.” You say, “Who’s Maira Kalman?” I say, “You know Maira Kalman, the illustrator.” Occasionally, the routine ends here, wreathed in smiles, while you say: “Oh! Maira Kalman, I love her work.” More typically, it continues with my answering your inquiring look. Maira Kalman is the author of twelve children’s books and creator of Max Stravinsky, the dog poet of Ooh-la-la (Max in Love). Among her adult classics is an illustrated edition of William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White’s timeless grammar The Elements of Style. Her book The Principle of Uncertainty is a series of picture essays, a memoir of thoughts and reflections à la Montaigne, but illustrated. (Incidentally, Montaigne was also sure that nothing in life is certain.) Kalman’s book is based on a yearlong column she created for The New York Times online.[footnote=1] In December 2009, she completed a second column called “And the Pursuit of Happiness” about democracy and history in America. The series opens with her coverage of President Obama’s inauguration ceremony in Washington, D.C., and the handwritten word “Hallelujah!”

    As an illustrator and writer, Kalman has done a lot of editorial work for the Times over the years, as well as for The New Yorker. Born in Israel in 1949, she has lived in New York since the age of four. Her most famous work is a cartoon map of New Yorkistan that shows the boroughs divided into tribes, like Pashmina on the Upper East Side, Taxistan in the Bronx, Irate and Irant in Brooklyn. It ran on the cover of The New Yorker in December 2001; in the midst of the aftermath of 9/11, it was many people’s first burst of laughter. It was pored over, quoted, analyzed, translated. (Did you know that Fashtoonks is Yiddish for stink?) In short, the map became a public distraction. As one commentator said of the panacea effect of New York’s Afghanization: “If the world gives you Kandahar and Chechnya, send them back Khandibar and Kvetchnya.”[footnote=2]

    The New Yorkistan map is actually a collaborative work by Kalman with Rick Meyerowitz. A writer and illustrator who has contributed prolifically to National Lampoon since its inception, Meyerowitz is also a children’s book author. Since they met in 2000, the couple has created a number of illustrated editorials, my favorite being “Things to Do on Valentine’s Day,” which ran in the Los Angeles Times[footnote=3]; suggestions include “make up new nicknames” – Sprinkles and Caligula, for instance. Sweet. The New Yorker cover started as car-ride banter as they drove out of the city; Kalman called out “Bronxistan” and Meyerowitz responded, “Yes, but a small section of Bronxistan [is] called Ferreristan” after borough president Freddy Ferrer.[footnote=4] (This tribe ultimately never made it onto the map.) To lay the terrain on paper, she did the pen and he the brush of the watercolor drawing. Universally known, the New Yorkistan map doesn’t register much name recognition; also obscure is the original context, since the map has since been widely disseminated as everything from a puzzle to a shower curtain. The general lack of correspondence between the illustrator’s reputation and her work only makes this exhibition project more gratifying. Because now it’s my opportunity to introduce you to one of today’s most idiosyncratic and revered creative artists.

    Maira Kalman: Various Illuminations (of a Crazy World) is the first major museum survey of the work of Maira Kalman, whose narrative art illuminates so many aspects of contemporary life. Since the 1990s, her children’s books have been acclaimed for their syncopated nuttiness and sophistication. A dog named Max arrives in Paris and checks into the Bleu suite at the aromatic Miss Camembert’s hotel. The room is flatly drawn and dreamily composed, with objects floating across the picture plane and everything painted in an expressive palette of blues. Will children get the blue-period Picasso joke? Probably no more than they are likely to eat Camembert cheese. Indeed, so might parents be hard pressed to keep up with the verbal and visual fusillade of references to art, literature, music, movies, dance, architecture, design, and fashion that catapult Kalman’s books right off any shelf built to hold conventional genre. Although she emerged as a children’s author, Kalman’s audience today is largely adult. And though her style has become less cartoony and more painterly over time, her work’s appeal remains spontaneous. Apparently, exploding the modernist canon proves fun for all ages.

    Packed with diverse cultural references, digressions, curlicues, and question marks, Kalman’s work seems quintessentially postmodern. And yet, there is nothing arch or ironic in, say, her portrait of Le Corbusier’s kitchen sink, which first appeared in her online column in November 2006. She later described seeing the sink as a “heart-stopping” moment, a moment she hoped to transmit to her reader through her work’s depiction as “an earnest and loving presentation to you of this thing that I fell in love with.”[footnote=5] Kalman’s work is always colored by strong emotions, like love and loss – how empty stands Corbu’s sink – even while valorizing the most ordinary objects and moments of everyday life. We don’t see the studio in which one of the modern architecture’s great purists worked, but rather the porcelain fixture in which he washed his hands. Talk about truth to material. This light touch is typical of the humor that gives Kalman’s work its vitality and charm. Paradoxically, its lightness is also what gives her work that capacity to be so profoundly moving. As in medieval times, when gold was used to bring light to the pages of illuminated manuscripts, so today Kalman’s vaguely absurd illuminations bring daily exaltations to light.

    Funny that a sink, or a hat, or a box can be so transcendent an image, but that’s an achievement of Kalman’s work: to surprise expectation. Consider her métier. Because it presumably bends to popular tastes and is crafted in response to a dominant text, illustration is traditionally regarded as a decorative form of picture making. (Never mind if the illustrator is also the author, especially if the readers are children; then we are talking seriously minor arts.) Well, so be it. By identifying herself as an illustrator, Kalman may eschew high art’s claims of cultural seriousness and name recognition, but the work is no less ambitious or authoritative, just truer to its own aspirations of creative freedom. As viewers, suffice to say, joy is where you find it – usually on the shelf right next to sadness.

    I Saw Her

    The current exhibition features one hundred original drawings and paintings that span thirty years of illustration for publication. Drawn largely from the artist’s studio and including a generous number of loans from private collections, the selection is composted thematically – as opposed to chronologically, stylistically, or by publication project. It begins and ends approximately with self-portraiture. The first picture is a pencil sketch of a girl wearing galoshes and a blue coat with a fur collar; she is faintly drawn on a pocket-size sketchbook page, inscribed with the words: “I saw her.” This modest work (with its whiff of menace) signals so much to follow, from Kalman’s journalistic approach to the act of voyeurism it sanctions. “There is a strong personal narrative aspect to what I do. What happens in my life is interpreted in my work. There is very little separation. My work is my journal of my life.”[footnote=6] By the time we reach the last picture in the exhibition, we know that dog reading a book at the table, paw resting next to a strong cup of coffee, is also a self-portrait of Maira Kalman. We see her.

    As beginning and end points, the two pictures – one a sketch the other a painting, both from the 1990s – bracket a selection that moves into the present, while showing a full spectrum of process in between. Preparatory drawings hang next to finished paintings on paper. There are traces of mechanical reproductions, such as Wite-Out erasures and scotch-taped additions, as well as marginal notes to printers and editors. Likewise, stylistic changes that occurred over decades jostle randomly from picture to picture. This corresponds with Kalman’s own tendency to work in a number of different styles and media at any given moment within a curatorial narrative, that unfolds, quickly and quixotically, along these pictorial lines: self-portraiture; family; dogs; writing, drawing, and mapping; cities. Pause for a glass of water. Resume: portraits of objects; landscapes; dreams; flowers; still life and food; interiors. Attention, when you get to the Rajastani room, keep your eye on the miniature portrait and jump-cut to Abraham Lincoln; faces, fashions, and uniforms; performances; art; books. What emerges is a sense of how consistently, Kalman has worked a full range of themes, while concentrating on certain images, to realize her idiosyncratic point of view. Another constant is chaos. Be is crazy and madcap, or simply devastating, chaos erupts from within and pressures against the exterior framework of Kalman’s world. Even as her work appears to hold it at bay, chaos ebbs without ever fully waning.

    But this is just the beginning of what’s on view. Beyond the illustration for which she is best known, Kalman’s work in other media – photography, embroidery, textiles, and performance – is represented. So are books and other publications, as well as design objects. As a context for this sweeping total production, Kalman has created a special installation.The space is furnished with chairs, ladders, and “many tables of many things,” to quote Kalman, who has judiciously ransacked her own studio, household, basement, and storage to arrange it. Among the many things are fezzes, bobby pins, balls of string, lists, things that have fallen out of books, rubber bands. (Kalman is a cofounder with the artist Alex Melamid of the Rubber Band Society, which disbanded when the group became too popular.[footnote=7]) There are bits of moss tucked into envelopes that are neatly labeled in Kalman’s hand with the names of places such as Matisse’s grave, Marfa, Falling Water, Jerusalem, and Sissinghurst. Kalman’s collection is based on someone else’s she had found at an antique store. Hanging on a nearby wall is Kalman’s painting of the shoebox containing Mosses of Long Island. Why is this so tender an image? Perhaps it is its evocation of the word “amateur” – from the Latin “to love” – that ennobles every hobbyist pursuit to connect with the world in some small way. Some of the many things Kalman has collected are encased in two vitrines that were made years ago by her son, when he was thirteen. Painted blue, one of these vitrines holds a wooden box, painted black, made by her daughter when she was eight. All of it appears expressive of Kalman’s habits as a collector, traveler, reader, and avid walker. To wander amidst this theatrical tableau is to catch a glimpse of the world as Kalman sees it, both inside and outside the studio.

    M&Co

    Another Studio looms large in the foreground, the revolutionary design firm of M&Co. Founded in 1979 by Maira Kalman’s late husband Tibor Kalman, M&Co’s challenging principles of un-design, blunt vernaculars, and socialist agendas are widely credited for having changed the look and profession of contemporary graphic art. For instance, Benetton’s Colors magazine, the firm’s most infamous work, emblazoned itself in mass cultural memory with in-your-face- portraits of Queen Elizabeth as a black woman and President Reagan scourged with the AIDS virus. Hip, humorous, radical, and angry, Colors delivered one-two graphic and political punch. Created to sell Italian sportswear, it was also rife with the contradictions of pairing a ‘“bad boy” designer with a corporate sponsor. That said, Colors was a first big gulp of multiculturalism and issues of globalism within the popular media. No wonder Maira called Tibor a “perverse optimist.” He called her “M” and named his company after her.

    Tibor Kalman and Maira Berman met in 1968 when both were eighteen-year-old students on the verge of flunking out of New York University. Both were children of families who immigrated to the United States in the 1950s, which may explain a mutual love of things American – coffee shops in particular. In the background of Maira’s 1998 portrait of Tibor hangs a small, greasy trophy – Tibor collected onion rings – from the just recently closed Joe Junior, their favorite New York City neighborhood coffee shop. Another painting, a portrait of a Snickers bar, pays homage to Maira’s love of American snack foods. Growing up as outsiders, however, also means otherwise ordinary things and daily language may seem curious, alien, or just plain funny. This is how things often look as seen through the Kalman’s respective bodies of work, as if you are seeing something for the first time. (Look, a glass of water.) Jokes are also big.

    As students, neither Maira nor Tibor trained in art or design, a lack that turned out to seem purposeful, given Tibor’s reputation for fearlessness and Maira’s hallmark naïveté. Not knowing the rules of how something should be done or should look leaves one free to make things up for one’s self. By encouraging each other to have the confidence to follow intuition, the Kalmans evolved creatively in a dialectical bond, as if by design. While Tibor as a young man was busy getting radicalized (he joined Students for a Democratic Society and cut sugar cane in Cuba), Maira says she was home “knitting sweaters for him. (Feminists hated us.).”[footnote=8] However, what seemed like a conventional relationship from the outside was anything but, when one considers the work this partnership engendered.

    Maira was never officially a part of M&Co, but at the same time she was intrinsic to it. No profile of the studio is complete without acknowledging her role. As design historian Steven Heller summed up: “Maira Kalman – as muse, sounding board, wacky-idea generator – has been instrumental in most of M&Co’s major projects.”[footnote=9] Among the most beloved is a series of design objects that M&Co produced, including watches, clocks, paperweights. And among the most popular of these is the 10-One-4 watch. Now in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art, it is based on a sketch Tibor spotted in one of Maira’s journals of a clock with a few random numbers sprinkled on the face.[footnote=10]

    Even before Tibor started the studio, Maira was a contributor. For a guide to New York he designed in 1973, she wrote the text. Her vision rings clear in the introduction, which reads like a voice-over for her myriad illustrations of the city to come: “There’s nothing special about New York. Sure it’s the banking, finance, art, entertainment, media, trade capital of the world. So what? It’s just a façade. New York is really just a fascinating fabric of small towns. What’s nine million people but lots of humanity living together.”[footnote=11] From New Yorkistan to Grand Central Station to Annual Misery Day Parade, it’s all in the script.

    Among M&Co’s early clients was the musician David Byrne. For the cover of his 1981 solo record Three Big Songs, Tibor chose four doodlelike drawings by Maira. It was also Tibor who brokered Maira’s first children’s book into being. (“Schmuck, it’s time for you to do a book,” she says were Tibor’s exact words.[footnote=12]) Published in 1987 with text by David Byrne and pictures by Maira Kalman, Stay Up Late is a New Wave children’s books – and not just because the words are the lyrics for the anthem song by New Wave’s signature group Talking Heads, but because of the illustrations’ electrified compositions, synthetic colors, and big-shouldered, skinny-legged characters, waving noodlelike arms, mouths agape in jubilant ululations, while the whole family dances around a living room amidst bobbing bits of furniture, a tiny TV, and a pet robot. Even baby is geek chic with it’s itty-bitty green hair. Sound like the neighbors of one’s East Village heyday?

    Maira Berman

    For adults, Maira’s early illustration style was more on the punk side. Weasel Wendy, Imogen Placenta, Letita Air, and Maria Crass are among an irony-clad cast of characters that turn up in an undated illustration for National Lampoon.[footnote=13] Kalman worked for the magazine as a pasteup artist from 1979 to 1981, while establishing herself as a freelance graphic artist. Her work of this period is signed with her maiden name, Berman. Another early colored-pencil drawing featured a blood-oozing suitcase in the center of a room full of dolled-up men. Well serving in the David Lynch-like drama, the floor pitches forward. More generally, however, this tipped-up perspective shows the world come unglued and things gone topsy-turvy. “I can see a crazy world…. It is a violent, comical and funny feeling,” she said in a 1983 interview.[footnote=14] It’s also patently surreal.

    Kalman’s pictorial space is dream space, wherein visual non sequiturs and stream-of-consciousness narratives are the disorderly order of the day – and, according to her, the everyday reality of life with children, which, by the time Stay Up Late was published, the Kalmans had two of: Lulu Bodoni (after a favorite typeface) and Alex Onomatopoeia (one of several middle names). “If you live with children, the kinds of conversations you have during the day range from the surreal to the mundane to the insane to the pedantic.”[footnote=15] Following the successful collaboration with Byrne, Kalman went solo. Her next two books are discombobulating tales of adventure as told by a girl named Lulu to help her brother, Alex, fall asleep (or stay up late). The fictional children have a pet dog, Max, whereas their namesakes did not. (The Kalmans eventually did get a dog, whose appetites are the subject of another children’s book, What Pete Ate.) Real Kalman family travels are woven throughout these books. Sayonara, Mrs. Kackleman was published in 1989, the same year as Maira’s solo exhibition at the Ginza Art Space in Tokyo. Writing for the brochure, curator Hiroko Tanaka gently stirs, “You might feel a little awed or even frightened when an adult draws like a kid, since there is so little pretention.” She continues, “Her work is so unrestrained that you might even feel jealous.” And concedes, “Maira Kalman, your pictures are so crazy that everyone wants to hug them.”[footnote=16]

    Max

    Max is me…

    [but] People see a lot of themselves in Max.

    Wry and sophisticated. Insecure and courageous.

    Humanist and Irreverent.[footnote=17]

    Swami on Rye finds the dog poet in India on a spiritual quest for the meaning of life – puppies, or, in other words, family. It is the penultimate of Maira’s books designed by Tibor with M&Co. The process was as intense as a tango, as he describes, “She would write the text and start to sketch, and I would sketch type over her pencil drawings… and she’d have to cut copy or I’d say, this type could go here and it’d be nicer if this character could raise their arms so we could tuck the type in their armpit. It was a completely integrated process, and there was lots of trust.”[footnote=18]

    And lots of play with type, too. The couple drew, Maira says, from a “big library full of our favorite work of Dadaists and Futurists and lots of other ‘ists.’ And we both like the surprise of vernacular design and hand-lettered typography…. The text was a piece of the art.”[footnote=19] Nowhere is this more apparent than in Roarr: Calder’s Circus, in which both the sense and the structure of the words on the page shimmy with movement and shimmer with sound, sounds like “Zing” that ping with echoes of some Futurist manifesto past.[footnote=20]

    A planned-for children’s book that never came to be is “Max in Rome.”[footnote=21] In 1993, Tibor sold M&Co to run Colors from Italy. For Maira, the deeply cultured city was Manhattan dolce – with the human kerfuffle of coffee shops only amplified by the marble interior of the espresso bar. For Tibor, the civilized place was too close to a standstill. After two years, suddenly it was imperative to return to America. Following a four-year battle with cancer, Tibor Kalman died on May 2, 1999. It had always been his wife’s habit to start the day reading the obituaries: “Well life is short and… being reminded of that every morning grounds me. Or gives me something kind of larger than life beginning – with my cup of coffee. And then you find out all kinds of fantastic tidbits about crazy things that people did. It’s a very emotional way to begin the day.”[footnote=22] That Maira began the following year in a very emotional way is still an understatement, considering the obituary she wrote and illustrated for The New York Times Magazine’s January 2000 tribute to the notables who died in the previous year.

    The piece appears as the magazine’s endpaper; small paintings illuminate the page. One shows Tibor floating in the Caribbean, where the family traveled to spend his last days together. Another shows Maira’s grandparents “floating in heaven watching.” She writes, “Tibor died in a whisper. The children and I went down to the ocean…. Swimming in a sea of tears, not comprehending how this extraordinary man, this life force, could die. I saw a fish…. Happily swimming alone. Fearless. ‘It’s Tibor,’ I shouted to the children. ‘Tibor is still here.’ You bet he is.”[footnote=23]

    As personally devastating as it gets, the page is a prayer, a public offering of the solace to be found in life’s distractions. Which is not the same as distraction from life, but exactly the opposite. “How to live and how to die,” that’s what Kalman says occupies her thoughts all the time and every day, “and have some snacks and yell at my children.”[footnote=24] Keeping things light, in light of the crushing void — and the chaos, depression, anxiety, nightmare, and worse that fill that void – is the meaning of finding distraction. And in Kalman’s work both the difficulty and imperative of doing so is right there on the page, along with the cakes, the kids, the family, the fish.

    In the story of Maira Kalman’s life, Tibor is epic. And vice versa. Together for thirty-two years, each was integral to informing the other’s life, work, and identity. To Tibor’s politics with a capital P, Maira may have professed passionate indifference – “I approach everything from the personal point of view, and I reject everything that doesn’t interest me, politics being top of the list.”[footnote=25] And yet, over the past decade, Kalman’s work has made her an increasingly public citizen, and through it, she has created a form of compassionate engagement through media culture that is the very core of Tibor Kalman’s activism by design.

    Dreams

    Dreaming has always been a highly productive mode for Maira Kalman. Dreams provide her work with its surreal imagery and structure. And dreams literally provide passage into it: so many of her stories open with a dream sequence that segues seamlessly into Kalman’s skew on reality. Take her picture essay “Mad about the Met,” which begins with Kalman sleepwalking the halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art: “Something is wrong. I am distraught. Unable to open my eyes. Blinded by the beauty. It is a tragedy.”[footnote=26] The spell is broken by the splash of ice blue that is Ingres’ portrait of Princesse Albert de Broglie, allowing for Kalman’s highly subjective tour to begin. Among the highlights: run, don’t walk, to see the Manolo Blahnik boot with Damien Hirst dots in the Met’s Costume Institute, where Kalman confesses she can barely restrain herself from snatching the Schiaparelli Shoe Hat and making a break for it.

    Other times, dreams are just there, like rooms we enter – sometimes unwittingly. Of a not particularly strange painting of a man and woman in a pink hotel room, she informs, “I had this dream [in Venice] I was wearing this fantastic green dress and looking out the window.”[footnote=27] Capping off this (Maidenform) fantasy, she adds the bald man’s hair was also part of the dream. Dreams are signaled metaphorically by streams and rivers, which flow through Kalman’s pictures, turning landscapes into lyrical dreamscapes and interiors into anxious states of mind. That woman hovering in sleep above her bed might be less peaceful if she were aware of the creek running through the bedroom and that ominous suitcase on the shore/floor.[footnote=28] Finally, dreams are destinations. The Céleste Hotel in Algiers, for instance, frequently turns up as a haven, even though Kalman only knows the place from a treasured vintage postcard, where it appears, like the past, as a place one can only visit in dreams.

    Dreamy since childhood, Kalman jokes that she dreamed her way into college. At the high school for Music and Art, she had focused on music. An accomplished classical pianist and so-so accordionist, Kalman says music remains a major distraction and source of solace.[footnote=29] Art had always been the domain of her sister Kika Schoenfeld, whose creativity was part of the family life Kalman considers formative, and whose inspiration is instrumental to this day. Enrolled at New York University, Maira was determined to become a writer and majored in English, briefly. “If I was there for eight minutes, that was a lot,” she says of her college career.[footnote=30] Writing lots of bad poetry, she says, did teach her one thing: “That maybe if I drew what I was thinking, I would escape this horror of the word.”[footnote=31] Not that drawing was necessarily an easier discipline, but what did work was merging the two into one fluid practice, a practice in which inscription, description, narrative, notation, quotation, painting, and poetry all flow from the same brush, the same pen, and occasionally from the typewriter. An IBM Selectric stands in her studio at the ready; she likes its conduciveness to “a lot of unexpected delightful mistakes.”[footnote=32] Also at hand are needle and thread. Since 2005 Kalman has made embroidery on cloth an extension of her work on paper. (In her essay in this catalogue, Donna Ghelerter writes on these works in relation to embroidery traditions.)

    One might say that Kalman approaches writing like drawing and drawing like writing. One thing clearly does lead to the other in her work. Spindly drawn objects, organized in a grid, appear to have the look of a mysterious alphabet or grammar. Kalman’s fondness for the alphabet is expressed by a number of works, including children’s books and a mural for P.S. 47 in the Bronx. In another ink drawing, columns of words and pictures create a kind of Rosetta Stone touchstone or index. A woman’s elegant profile in a plumed hat, “Spinoza,” what looks like a clown shoe (but is actually one of a pair Kalman owns, but has never worn, by the Japanese designer Junya Watanabe), “Cheeseburger,” “polished étagère,” and “Exaltations/Observations” are among the citations. An actual coatroom claim check (number 1) and toothpick are collaged to the paper, this drawing of many things.

    Words become pictures in the rebuslike illustration for this jingle: “He meant to blow the saxophone, but man, he blew his nose instead, and his glasses flew off his head onto the bed.” And Kalman’s own decorative handwriting – “ an exaggerated version of my normal writing. I weep for the lost penmanship art”[footnote=33] – illuminates many a drawing.[footnote=34] Three of her favorite quotes – from Gustave Flaubert, Marcel Proust, and Sigmund Freud — appear penned on the gallery wall in this exhibition, turning its whiteness into a page. Printed words appear in her work as images in their own right. The British wartime slogan “Keep Calm and Carry On” comes back usefully into the wartime picture today.[footnote=35]

    Mapping

    In Kalman’s works, the calligraphic hand turns readily to cartography. Of her many drawings of maps, the mother of them all is literally her mother’s hand-drawn map of the United States, which almam has reproduced as a painting. A blue bob with a little spigot (Long Island) holds a spattering of states, including “Pitzb.” – short for the city of Pittsburgh, which appears to be the new abbreviation for the state of Pennsylvania (where Maira Kalman’s exhibition is now taking place – in Philadelphia). The largest area is dedicated to “Sorry the rest unknown Thank you.” Making space for “Jerusalem” and “Lenin,” the mpa obviously charts a personal terrain.

    “In the droshky town of Lenin (named after the Princess Lenina) on the bank of the river Slootch…lived my wild and beautiful mother,”[footnote=36] begins a story that Kalman tells frequently through her work. Her mother, Sara Dolgin, grew up in a village in Russia and fled with her family to Israel to escape Jewish persecution. Kalman’s own story picks up here in 1949 to her refrain, “I was born in sunny, sandy, Tel Aviv”; in 1954 her family “moved to grey blue hard sizzling New York City.”[footnote=37] Growing up in the Riverdale section of the Bronx, Maira and sister Kika enjoyed the benefits of their mother’s serious love of distractions. Through culture: there were piano lessons, dance lessons, museums (“she took us to a million museums”), concerts. Through food: there were snacks in bed (“trays of little blintzes and fluffy mini sour-cream pancakes. Sliced apples and pears”[footnote=38]) and meals in Manhattan restaurants. Through shopping: trips to Lord & Taylor and the mall. And through storytelling: “About Masheh the idiot, who always forgot to put his pants on. About Rifke the deranged…. About Zispa the thief… they made fun of EVERYONE. They were not mean, just sharp.”[footnote=39] Her mother’s childhood stories are the stuff of Kalman’s work today. Masheh turns up as “Maisel Shmelkin” in Hey Willy, See the Pyramids. To spend time with Kalman’s work is to connect with family bonds and history, to love her mother’s nonjudgmental, free spirit and sense of humor, to mourn her death in 2004, and to appreciate her presence through Kalman’s work today. “If my mother comes to my house and is frying schnitzel and telling me a story, that ends up in my work. I want everything I do to be connected in an absurd, funny way.”[footnote=40]

    Reflecting on her mother, Maira Kalman pauses to ask, “Where was her husband? My father, that is. Away, away, away. On business trips that lasted forever.”[footnote=41] From Kalman’s online column, we learn something more: his wife did not love him when they married. In 1952 he fell off a second-floor terrace in Tel Aviv, and though unharmed, he later went crazy “Mein papi war verrukt,” she writes elsewhere.[footnote=42] Pesach Berman’s absence is a disturbing presence in his daughter’s work. Only once in 2001 does she let it rip. It’s in the midst of a newspaper interview. She is one of several New Yorkers asked to recollect how their day began on September 11: “You heard me right, pal. Nazi Germany. I think these thoughts every single day of my life. Why? Because my father survived the Holocaust and his family did not.”[footnote=43] To back up, Kalman says she started the day making a painting of a pickle label followed by a walk in Central Park. In other words, the daily drill, a drill that involved her constantly thinking: “I am a lucky dog because 1. I am healthy and 2. I am not in a concentration camp in Nazi Germany. You heard me right, pal.” These are heaving blessings to count.

    Kalman’s disclosure is a lightning flash onto the impenetrable darkness of a crazy world. It also illuminates a sense of personal urgency in images already fraught with history. Once we get the drift of meaning from her musings on an old leather suitcase – one of ten stacked in her living room, including one that belonged to a man who fled Danzig, Germany, in 1939 – now suddenly all images of suitcases in her work are slammed shut around the story of her father’s family, their persecution by the Nazis, and their death in concentration camps. This story overwhelms everything, which is perhaps why Kalman keeps it tamped down. We hardly need to know because it already informs and even obstructs what we see. I tell you that the dead man in the snow is the Swiss writer Robert Walser, who may have committed suicide in 1956 when he fell asleep outdoors. But in Kalman’s picture, he falls before us, as if he had been shot while running across that snowy field. Following Kalman’s points of connection, it’s almost impossible not to see this fallen man figuring the fate of Walter Benjamin, the German-Jewish writer whose attempt to escape the Nazis ended with his suicide in a Spanish Pyrenees border town just short of reaching unoccupied territory.[footnote=44] In Kalman’s portrait of him, we see Benjamin happy at his desk, where he wrote critical and illuminating essays about the modern conditions of mechanical reproduction, storytelling, collecting. The desk is graced with a vase of flowers.

    Understanding the profound implications of Kalman’s elusive father, we turn with some relief to a straightforward father figure in her art. Mere mention of the name Saul Steinberg gets us back onto maps. In his cartoon View of the World from 9th Avenue, Manhattan appears, then Los Angeles, right next to the end of the world. China. That map is as iconic to the twentieth century as Kalman and Meyerowitz’s New Yorkistan is to the twenty-first. Steinberg’s, too, first appeared as a New Yorker cover, on March 29, 1976. Since the 1950s, his illustrations have been synonymous with the magazine’s sense of erudition and humor. One of Kalman’s earliest drawings, a typewriter surrounded by animated pieces of handwriting, pays explicit homage to Steinberg’s imagery of the desktop as a landscape, a creative terrain staked out by pencils, pens, bottles of ink, paper, postcards, stamps, and even pictures of his own drawings. And so does the exhibition installation of “many tables of many things” echo Steinberg’s sculptural studioscapes, which were constructed from cardboard and rendered with surreal precision to hover between trompe l’oeil and drawing. While the harmony between Kalman and Steinberg begins as something self-consciously studied on her part, it becomes a genuine correspondence between the work of two illustrators who transcend artistic categories. In 1978 the critic Harold Rosenberg organized a major exhibition of Steinberg’s work at the Whitney Museum of American Art. As he lauded Steinberg then, we laud Kalman now, as an “artist of the free imagination.”[footnote=45]

    Freedom of Choice

    The freedom not to differentiate between art and illustration is assiduously exercised by Kalman. Especially over the past decade, the context for her work seems to keep expanding along with its sources and influences. Some have remained constant. Besides Steinberg, she has long been a fan of William Steig (of Shrek fame) and Ludwig Bemelmans, who besides creating Madeline for children was a prolific essayist.[footnote=46] Over the past decade, Kalman’s work has become increasingly painterly in style and editorial in content. As she writes up front of being dispatched by The New York Times: “If someone asks you to go to the couture shows in Paris, you don’t say ‘I have to stay home and darn my socks.’ You go.”[footnote=47]

    Kalman’s editorial assignments have taken her into the worlds of fashion, travel, art, and architecture, and once there, she always makes time for her own pursuits. These pursuits take her off topic but they are tacitly understood to be part of the assignment. In Paris to cover the spring fashion shows for The New York Times, she painted the pink gown festooned with bells that Viktor & Rolf showed in their collection, as well as the Maison de Verre, designed by Pierre Chareau and one of the most exquisitely decorative works of modern architecture. Dispatched by Culture + Travel for a piece on Sissinghurst Castle, she did more than due diligence by the gardens. “You will lose your mind with joy — a very desirable state,” she writes of the White Garden, where all the flowers are white.[footnote=48] She also kept in sight more private devotions. Her love of Winston Churchill is witnessed by a painting of the slippers that once held “his dear little feet.” The object of Vita Sackville-West’s great love is observed in the portrait of Virginia Woolf that sits on the desk in the tower library.

    Kalman’s love of a particular thing or place sometimes appears to have delivered the assignment in the first place. For an online feature on Tel Aviv, her family ties and frequent visits inform an obvious affection for even the most vernacular Bauhaus-inspired architecture.[footnote=49] Dislike is also part of the bargain. When The New Yorker sent her to the Venice Biennale, the citywide exhibition of contemporary art, her take was less enthusiastic: “The ART. There was so much of it you found yourself (and everyone) muttering, ‘I HATE ART.’”[footnote=50] Perhaps it was just the circumstances. Kalman’s travel series for children presents a happy day of contemporary art with visits to see Walter de Maria’s New York Earth Room and Richard Serra’s spiraling sculptures. A trip to Krispy Kreme for donuts rounds out the day.

    When a magazine sends Maira Kalman out into the field, they want her to bring back the digressions and impressions that make her work so singular. “Basically I get paid to be myself – and for my imagination. My job is to be as creative and as eccentric as I can possibly be, and my job changes every day because I’m obsessed with changes.”[footnote=51] Of course, this sounds like a dream occupation, and Kalman readily concurs it is. At the same time, being oneself isn’t easy because it means figuring out who you are in the first place. Says Kalman, who has been at ii for decades: “Not trying to be anything other than who you are. That’s an absurdly difficult thing to do, and it takes many years.”[footnote=52] For her, it all comes down to intuition and storytelling: “Telling a story makes sense to me. It allows for a benevolent relationship to the world.”[footnote=53] Again, easy as that sounds, the work comes “painfully. I don’t want to tell the story that I seem to be telling. I want to tell you the understory. The not-story.”[footnote=54] And as often as not, the not-story is the courage it takes to be individual. When in the course of And the Pursuit of Happiness she visits the Supreme Court, ostensibly to report on democracy in America, we find ourselves sitting down with Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Who knew that her favorite artist is Matisse? Or that her justice robes come from Paris? Or that as the only woman on the Supreme Court, she feels lonely?

    Kalman’s online columns are monumental editorial projects that pitch into relief her process as a whole, in particular the role of photography. (In her essay in this catalogue, Stamatina Gregory discusses their significance within the blogosphere.) Like a reporter on the beat, Kalman develops each column from in-depth research on her elected topic. She does related travel, interviews, and copious amounts of note – and picture – taking. Her work these days is as much about street photography as it is journalism. A walker by habit, she appears ever on the lookout for eccentric outfits, broken chairs, discarded couches, the back of somebody walking in front of her, and other subjects that inspire her humanity. Back in the studio, she keeps these photographs on file to use like preparatory sketches for painting or to corroborate a story: “Sometimes the counterpoint of a painting followed by a photo makes an impact: this is actually what I saw, and not something I made up.”[footnote=55] Indeed, there is something of a double-whammy in seeing a picture taken through Kalman’s lens next to one rendered by her hand. It shows how intensely the world can be experienced through pictures.

    All of Kalman’s work comes from her focus on pictures. As much as she draws from life experience for her work’s subject matter, the work itself is all drawn from reproductions. (In postmodern parlance, she is an illustrator of appropriated images.) And though she uses her own pictures a lot and often depicts works of art taken from reproductions, her art has always shown a marked affinity for seeing the world through iconic works of modern photography. Diane Arbus’s grotesquely dignified portrait of a giant and his parents is echoed in Kalman’s very early, very punk The Guzelofkowitzes Visit Daughter Veronica Guzé (Know Your Roots). Cecil Beaton’s photo of a ballet dancer flying through a room gains an unflappable man, talking on the telephone. Henri Cartier-Bresson’s perfect day in the park, a photo from 1955 titled Frances, Essonne, Near Juvisy-sur-Orge, becomes for Kalman the emblematic painting of “what I want my life to feel like. Light, water, greenery, children at play, children in costumes, people caught in an utterly natural yet ethereal moment.”[footnote=56] To complete the picture, she inserted her own children in it.

    From the sound of it, what Kalman wants her life to feel like is a Matisse painting. And so did Matisse, for that matter. The painter of Luxe, calme et volupté  was an almost neurotically anxious man. He calmed himself down by playing the violin and spent the rest of the time struggling hard to achieve the luxurious sense of relaxation, joy, and participation in life that music gave him. In Kalman’s work, Matisse is a constant. There he is painting a voluptuous model in an armchair. And there goes his painting, The Red Studio, moved across a museum gallery, like a toy in pictorial pieces.

    Matisse is among a number of modern artists Kalman claims through her work. Obviously Marc Chagall, his figures floating dreamily and musically in spaces filled with reference to Russian folklore and Jewish culture, finds accord in Kalman’s work. Charlotte Salomon is a less widely known reference, whose Life? or Theater? A Play with Music gives an ecstatic and visionary account of her life set to song through hundreds of gouache drawings. She began the work while living in exile as a German Jew in southern France and completed it in 1943 shortly before she was taken to Auschwitz and killed. The last lines urgently affirm: “And with dream-awakened eyes, she saw all the beauty around her.”

    Kalman’s affinity for the widely known artist Marcel Duchamp may be less obvious, until you think of Duchamp’s sense of humor and how at home any of his Readymades would be on one of Kalman’s “many tables of many things.” Moving into the present, the Chicago Imagist Jim Nutt, his cartoon style of abstracting the portrait down to a calm and crazy essence, makes sense. Maybe not Fred Sandback, the Minimalist sculptor, who drew with string in space, but then again, think about it. Simplicity and individually are Kalman’s modes of expression.

    In literature, too, her work gravitates toward modern memoirists and collectors. A collector of butterflies, Vladimir Nabokov is practically part of the family. Kalman’s portrait of him as a young boy, sitting in a rattan chair, wearing a tie, and looking up from the picture book on his lap, is presaged by a portrait of Max the dog in exactly the same picture.[footnote=57] That most parsing of poets Emily Dickinson is portrayed with her dog, Carlo. Like an upholstered madeleine, an empty green ottoman stands in for Marcel Proust, who savored cakes and loved his mother, albeit to the extreme. And given that the most endearing term of affection in the Kalman family is “you idiot,” it would be remiss not to mention Fyodor Dostoyevsky.[footnote=58] Look for Kalman’s typed list of names from Part One of The Idiot amidst things on view.

    Milton

    Kalman’s work has continuously moved off the page taking its frame of reference with it. Imagine a world with men wearing the tapestry jacket Kalman created with fashion designer Isaac Mizrahi in 1989, the first of their many collaborations. It would be furnished with sofas upholstered in the “Story of My Life” textile she designed for Maharam. And full of dogs sporting rainwear she created with Kate Spade. Kalman’s work has entered the urban fabric, too, through her mural projects, which Kenneth E. Silver discusses in his essay in this catalogue. In 1995 she dressed the windows of the Sony Building with a diorama populated with the mannequins she designed for the display manufacturer Ralph Pucci. And in 2000 she created a spectacular theater curtain for choreographer Mark Morris’s ballet Four Saints, Three Acts, based on the Gertrude Stein and Virgil Thomson opera.[footnote=59] Now envision all of these things merged into a great theater piece by Kalman, along the lines of how urbanist Jane Jacobs theorized the city as a public dance.

    This is not as far-fetched as it sounds: there is a strong theatrical bent to Kalman’s work — and to Kalman herself  In 1981 she appeared in National Lampoon’s “Unofficial Guide to Fort Lauderdale and Daytona Beach” as Terri Thompson from Asphaltville, Ohio, vacationing with her dentist husband, Timothy. The guide was designed by M&Co, as was the brochure for Kalman’s 1989 Tokyo exhibition, announcing “An Evening with Maira Kalman in Nervous.” And so she appears, dressed up in 1950s diva drag, complete with pillbox hat. Dressing up for pictures was the extend of her performance until recently. In 2005 Kalman appeared on stage (among other nonprofessionals on percussion, keeping time by spinning a Rolodex, typing, slamming a dictionary) with composer Nico Muhly, who created a song cycle based on her rendition of The Elements of Style. While there are no immediate plans for a theater piece, ideas have long been percolating. As Kalman envisions it “The play will be a cacophonous musical tanztheater (with a touch of Pina Bausch) that will tell the story of my family…. It will have Russian songs, and tangos, and other romantic evocative work.”[footnote=60]

    When asked by The New York Times what she would like to see someday in Times Square, Kalman responded with “Milton.”[footnote=61] Essentially an alternative space without a director, Milton would run on a “PITTANCE… because we need small, eccentric places in the midst of the conglomerates.” The program would “change with the proprietor. One week one hat is for sale. The next week someone is doing their ironing. The next someone is playing the violin.” Within Kalman’s work, a number of conceptual, Miltonian events have already been performed. For instance, one afternoon during her first exhibition at the Julie Salu Gallery in New York visitors were invited to stop by and “have a button sewn on any article of clothing.” In the background, there was ironing.[footnote=62]

    Matisse would have approved! Art should be “a soothing, calming influence on the mind, something like a good armchair that provides relaxation from fatigue,” he famously said.[footnote=63] What could be more soothing than the draw of the needle, the press of the iron, domestic tasks quietly abstracted? Like Matisse, Kalman is a connoisseur of decorative distractions and bourgeois pleasures, ostensibly the very things the avant-garde set out to destroy, or at least mock. As late as 1945, an interviewer said to Matisse, “People still have not been given up reproaching your art for being extremely decorative, meaning that in the pejorative sense of superficial.” And Matisse shot back, “The decorative for a work of art is an extremely precious thing. It is an essential quality.”[footnote=64]

    While Postmodernism has done a fair job of making the decorative safe for critical discussion, charm has yet to be recuperated. Or even really touched, since charm is essentially a term of dismissal, denoting something not to be taken seriously. Andy Warhol’s graphic art is charming; his mechanically reproduced silkscreen paintings are not. The polemics of charm quickly rev up to questions of gender and other polarizing issues. But for now let’s slow down and look at moving the compass in a different direction.

    Maira Kalman’s work is certainly charming, even powerfully so, given how loaded a term charm seems to be. So why not take this opportunity to accept it at face value? Like a gift. In his captivating and widely read book The Gift: Imagination and the Erotic Life of Property, Lewis Hyde reckons that art is a gift that cannot be bought or sold, only received. And, as any reader of anthropology knows, gift giving and getting is no passive act but more or less a test of one’s own humanity. Hyde writes: “That art which matters to us – which moves the heart, or revives the soul, or delights the senses, or offers courage for living, however we choose to describe the experience – that work is received to us as a gift is received.”[footnote=65] How can it be said any better? Maira Kalman’s gift is to illuminate that which matters, affirming our own capacity for joy, sadness, humor – and even charm – along with our hunger for those very things, and some snacks.

     

  • “On Dirt.” Dirt on Delight: Impulses That Form Clay. Philadelphia: Institute for Contemporary Art, University of Pennsylvania, 2009, pp. 25-31.

    On Dirt

    These days the annals on dirt flop right open to writings on the informe or “formless.” That principle, as theorized by the French philosopher Georges Bataille, itself frequently recourses to mentions of mud. Mud oozes up around the big toe in Bataille’s rumination on that appendage, which enabled us as humans to stand erect in the first place. Head up to sky perhaps, but feet *and mind) forever mired. Mud is viscous and lugubrious. Smacking of excrement – of excess and expenditure – it is a base material, one of life’s raw essences. And it is home to those poor little earthworms Bataille calls upon to help his readers conceptualize the power of the informe to confer status so low as to be crushable on the spot and made formless as spit. This peculiar power is what makes the informe such a critical operative in recent art history: it undoes a narrative that privileges form, while offering nothing as an alternative. Nothing being everything in the universe rendered formless. In other words, the informe is a noun that performs as a verb. Bataille called it a mode d’emploi. And given what good use he made of mud, the informe seems an excellent rhetoric to employ in a discussion of clay as both material and impulse in contemporary art.

    There is even a guide for the discussion to follow: Yves-Alain Bois’s and Rosalin E. Krauss’s Formless: A User’s Guide. Published in conjunction with their 1996 exhibition at the Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris, this book puts Bataille’s thinking to use by identifying those moments of slippage and rupture that signify the informe at work. Take, for instance, Jackson Pollock’s “allover painting,” a term that comes to sound like a quaint euphemism once you have seen his expulsive squirts and cloudy skeins obliterate the so-called language of abstraction. Likewise desecrating the field of postwar abstraction are Lucio Fontana’s ceramic sculptures with their scatological concreteness and fetishistically fingered surfaces. Dirt on Delight includes a work by Fontana – albeit a relatively more figurative one than the Formless example, which is impressively compared to a “massive turd.” And though it’s not mentioned in the Guide, Pollock also worked briefly in clay. There is a photograph of him in the 1967 Museum of Modern Art catalogue standing over a potter’s wheel. With an apron over his shirt and tie, he looks like a butcher, his hands covered in muck. The wheel belonged to an East Hampton neighbor, one Mrs. Lawrence Larkin, who evidently helped Pollock during the summer of 1949 make several abstract ceramic sculptures. The picture of one squished and spattered examples looks pretty much how one would imagine a rough sketch of the formless in clay would look.

    Since clay was only an incidental medium for Pollock, his work is not part of Dirt on Delight. However, the exhibition is teaming with objects, images, and gestures that resonate with an appreciation of the informe. Pats and piles, drips and smears, pinches and slashes, cuts and holes, squeezes and stretches. The notion of leveling also seems relevant to the exhibition’s general lack of formal distinctions. Whether at thing is kitsch, craft, amateur, folk or art does not signify. It’s all just so much earthworm castings: material to use. In terms of this show, it’s as if clay itself were a leveling medium, a disruptive fieldn of operations in which advancing and refressing are indistinguishable objectives. By the time we have entered the installation and are surrounded, it’s time to drop the Guide. (That is, it if hasn’t already been requisitioned by the authorities.) As useful as it is for making a theoretical approach to this material, it will only carry us so far in actually engaging with the works on view. The informe stops at nothing, remember. Yet, there remains so much dirt to dish. Or wedge.

    The first step in working with wet clay is to wedge it. This involves kneading, slapping and squeezing out any air bubbles that might lead to explosions in the kiln later down the line. Physical and direct, wedging offers a useful demonstration for getting to the material at hand: let’s just pummel the dirt out of clay. Slapped from all sides, as opposed to squeezed through one reading or text, dirt yields up many possible meanings, associations and histories for those who would engage in working with, looking at and thinking about clay. Ever resilient, it punches back with constant hits of delight. Like sex, the physicality and sensuality of which thrum throughout this exhibition, discerning the dirty from the delightful is inextricably intertwined when it comes to a material as elemental as clay.

    “First of all,” observed Rudolf Staffel, “working with clay (as anyone who’s ever touched clay knows), is a primordial experience that is very, very comfortable. I think every infant has manipulated something that was soft and gushy and pleasant to touch.” Staffel’s medium of choice was porcelain, the whiteness of which does not mask the small of the substance of his words. The infantile pleasure of playing with poop is one of life’s many early delights, and one sure to mature into neurosis and perversions if not checked by, say, a healthy interest in working with clay. Psychoanalysts may find much to read into all of the sculptural pieces of shit and fecal matter that dot this exhibition. Freud himself would have stopped for a beard-stroking pause over Robert Arneson’s John Figure: a sculptural toilet all embedded with bodily fragments. Made of stoneware and glazed filthy white, the work, in which a coiling turd figures, completely de-sublimates Freud’s contention that the whish to be clean is inseparable from the desire to be dirty.

    Sex may not be the first thing that comes to mind when one things of Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain, first shown in 1917. A porcelain urinal now enthroned in the permanent collection of the Philadelphia and other museums of art, modernism’s most infamous work of clay sculpture seems the very antithesis of the early, handmade ethos of Dirt on Delight. Except that Duchamp’s cool readymade is never the pure conceptual object it’s generally portended to be. Just look at the artist’s pseudonymous signature “R. Mutt,” scrawled like bathroom graffiti over the face of the shapely vessel, with its feisty little protrusion, to see how dirty-minded a thing it is. To say nothing of the artist’s sense of humor; don’t be hasty to dismiss Duchamp’s role in shaping the work on view. The Dirt on Delight checklist is riddled with titles that pay tribute, however inadvertently, to the master of visual puns, whose great legacy includes plenty of yuks for art. The erotic small sculpture of Kathy Butterly and Ron Nagle, respectively titled Like Butter and Hunter’s Tab, for instance. Clay may even be conducive to piling on the laughs (or smirks) that can kill less resilient works but which are one of the vital signs of the grotesque in art.

    When it comes to clay, surprisingly dirtier than shit are figurines. This class of small-scale sculpture has suffered insult ever since one of the founding figures of art history, Joachim Winckelmann, wondered why on earth Europeans had gone to such trouble to discover for themselves China’s secret for making porcelain when it was for the most part used only to produce “idiotic puppets.” Writing during the heyday of royal porcelain production, he considered the taste for figurines by Secres, Meissen, Nymphenberg – the very patronage of which carried the taint of Porzellankrankeit or “porcelain-disease,” a mania that ruined many an aristocrat’s coffer – to be plebian nevertheless. Winckelmann’s own Neoclassical ideals, popularized by the worthy pottery of Wedgewood, were based on Greek sculpture, which he falsely believed to have been pure white. He thus failed to see the artistry (or delight) in polychrome sculptures of peewee courtiers, miniature monkey musicians and tiny troupes of commedia dell’arte actors. Nor would he probably have been amused by Ann Agee’s contemporary twist on this tradition. Elegant figurines, handmade in multiple, are displayed on a table, like the products of some Rococo cottage industry. Forming a random tableau, they present us with an Arcadia in which butchering a pig is as wholesome and essential as burning a bra.

    Prejudices that persist against the figurine grant paradoxical power to those who dare its terms. Aspects of which are expressed by virtually every one of the artists in this exhibition. In turn, their works suggest some similarly dirty works for sculpture: curio, souvenir, tchotchkes and “little Gramma wares.” The last is how Ron Nagle once referred to the work of Ken Price. Said with all due respect and humor, of course, given that Price’s sculptures – their fetishistic finishes and forms – have granted generations of artists since permission to develop their own work along such lines. The dazzling colors and illustrative technique of Nagle’s sculptures comes directly from the hobbyist’s kit and craft of china-painting on prefab porcelain dishes and little statues. Is there anything more proverbially grandmotherly than that? To tally up the score: diminutive scale, decorative surface, exquisite detail, unabashed sentiment and artisanal craft, these are the terms of the figurine. And if they sound familiar, it’s because feminism has made them a generative means for addressing issues of contemporary life through art for decades. Issues of identity and craft, consumption and class, domesticity and labor, sex and beauty lie at the core of Dirt on Delight, and exhibition as feminist in its political tendencies as figurines are feminine in culture – pretty dirty stuff.

    Feminism takes dirt in stride. Think of some of the movement’s iconic works: Mierle Laderman Ukeles washing the steps of the Wadsworth Atheneum; Mary Kelly pressing her son’s soiled diaper into a Post-Partum Document; Anna Mendieta laying down naked in the earth to create an ephemeral Silhueta in the landscape. Plus what a field day artists had with the cliché of the female body as vessel, pulling things out and sticking things into holes that were theirs only to mess with. That said, Joyce Kozloff is one of the few leading figures to have made clay a primary material for her work: patterned tiles installed as carpets of color map myriad decorative arts traditions. And there are plenty of dishes in The Dinner Party that Judy Chicago threw for women throughout history. In both cases, however, clay is more a surface for painting than a material for sculpting.

    Perhaps it was the machismo of clay that used to keep women at bay. One artist in the show recalls encouraging words, heard as a student during the 1970s, from a professor teaching her class how to throw: he said it was good for the bustline! As a student during the 1980s. Kathy Butterly did not see herself working with clay until she saw Viola Frey demonstrate that a woman could. And though Frey’s über figurine sculptures engage with issues of feminism, she did not actively identify herself with the movement. Nor, generally speaking, have more recent generations wanted to ally themselves with a movement that would seem to situate them in the past or a politics that could limit (or put a stain on) a reading of their work.

    And yet, feminism is the context that came up again and again in conversation with artists during studio visits for Dirt on Delight. Or simply through the objects themselves, for instance, Jessica Jackson Hutchin’s kitchen table bedecked and festooned with papier-mâché and ceramic dishes puts family life and art playfully out there (it was originally shown alongside a video of her baby daughter, grooving in her car seat on a road trip). Or consider Jeffry Mitchell’s ersatz versions of traditional porcelain pieces all pumped up with emblems of gay identity. Chalk it up to a postfeminist era, when male and female artists alike deploy strategies first pioneered by women during the radical 1970s. It’s high time feminists called in their debts.

    Not all that glitters is gold, as any prospector will tell. You have to sift a lot of mud to hit pay dirt. Even then it might just be fool’s gold, or pyrite, as is the case with Sterling Ruby’s sinisterly sexual Pyrite Fourchette. Similarly, Nicole Cherubini’s G-Pot with Rocks is a spectacularly raw-looking vessel festooned in fake jewelry and chains. Indeed, there is a lot of mixing of it up between the crudeness of clay and the exquisiteness of jewels in Dirt on Delight. Readers of the informe might find in this imagery a near literal expression of Bataille’s principle of “sumptuary expenditure.” Mud being excrement, jewels being money, both are pure waste; and depending on what one is into, ecstatic transactions in loss. However if extreme transgression is not your bag, there are other, no less sumptuary takes on sparkles in and on the mud. One that Eartha Kitt, the chanteuse singer of “Santa Baby” (and who just died last Christmas) took as her creed. “I’m a dirt person,” she said, “I trust the dirt. I don’t trust diamonds and gold.”

    Since medieval times, sumptuary laws have been used to regulate consumption and keep folks in their place. In Renaissance Venice, sporting gold or silver threads was forbidden to those outside the aristocracy whose social status was signified as much by their freedom to wear what even those who could afford it could not. In terms of dirt, it’s not so much a question of what is forbidden as what is allowed. Working in clay, artists can build for themselves the treasures, relics, and triumphs that signify power, privilege and wealth. Look at all the iridescent and golden effects, the dazzling colors and rich tones on display in Dirt on Delight. See the royal retinue of chalices, vases and other ornamental plate. And look closely. Jane Irish’s vases, for instance may at first appear to be homespun versions of Secres porcelain-robber baron booty for the bohemian set. Until the decorative painting discloses a homeless person’s cart, a hotel maid scrubbing a toilet, and other less than charming scenes of contemporary life.

    Not always so politically overt, dirt is packed with demonstrations of clay’s incipient power to usurp, or at least mess with establishments. The exhibition itself might be seen to represent a major triumph for contemporary artists, who work irrespectively of the old ruling classifications between find and decorative arts, high and low, artist and folk artist. The work of Eugene Von Bruenchenhein seems relatively obscure; yet this visionary artist is one of the great progenerative figures in Paul Swenbeck’s personal pantheon. It was with their actual proximity in mind that Swenbeck created a whole new series of his figurative mandrake-root sculptures for this installation. Meanwhile, at the bitter root of Von Bruenchenhein’s art was the contention that he and his wife were descended from royalty, so he turned their house into a grotto, stuffed with crowns and other trappings of a lost civilization including the requisite jungle growth, all made of clay.

    Dirt is ground and artists have always covered a vast amount of terrain using clay. Indeed, today’s challenge to think globally is one that artists working in clay have acquiesced to for centuries. The authority of East Asian ceramics – its techniques, traditions and aesthetics – is practically a subtext for Dirt on Delight. This narrative could be dished in detail through individual artists and their learned predilections for Ming, Tang, Momoyama, mingei, celadon, blue and white, crazing, blanc des chines and countless other wares and desired effects that originate outside of the European tradition. It could also be summed up in the many references made by various artists to Chinese scholars’ rocks throughout the exhibition. Adrian Saxe’s raku renditions resemble highly aestheticized piles of shit and push the Japanese principles of wabi-sabi and shibui – of beauty in humble, natural forms and slightly bitter taste – to an extreme. But Asia is just one hemisphere of the clay globe, which lets artists travel virtually every place on earth, and throughout time. Unlike oil paint, for instance, clay’s ubiquity seems to make it the stuff of cultural transcendence. So Betty Woodman’s Winged Figure (Kimonio) draws a fluid line from the drapery of Japanese textiles to Brancusi. A line Arlene Shechet makes a thread of her in her sculptures, win which many spouted vessels sitting atop Constructivist bases, merge afterimages of the modernist studio with the many-armed gestures of Hindu deities. Why choose one’s gods at the exclusion of other when clay admits all?

    The question of taste leads to food. Tell someone “Eat dirt” and best stand back. Unless you are in some “geophagic” part of the world, like certain regions of China, Zimbabwe, and North Carolina, where there’s no insult in eating the local clay, just good nutrition. (A recent dirt-themed dinner held at San Francisco’s New Langton Arts featured a terroir tasting.) Building strong bodies is one of dirt’s mythic properties – Adam and the Golem were both men made of mud. Though the classic metaphor of the “human vessel,” turns stale in contrast to all the “flesh pots” on view. From Beverly Semme’s lumpen pinch pots, cloaked-to-choked in robes of color, to Arlene Shechet’s ashen-toned abstract ceramic lungs, Dirt on Delight is teaming with animate form and visceral clay bodies. Like flesh, clay is largely water. Until it’s cooked in the kiln, the ceramicist’s oven. It’s there that the alchemy of turning dirt into such delights as this exhibition holds ultimately transpires.

    And so does this essay, which took off from the notion of wedging, draw to its conclusion with firing. Imagine the smoke curling up from the incense burning in Von Breunchenhein’s “sensors.” The oil in Saxe’s Aladdinesque lamp is lit. Beatrice Wood’s goblets glow with the radiance of their own iridescent magnificence. And the nostalgie de la boue hangs heavy in the air: it’s complicated funk, this “nostalgia for the mud.” And like the informe, it’s another term from the French useful fro thinking about dirt. To speak of nostalgia of any kind invokes a sentimental longing for something that probably never really existed in the first place. Van Gogh went peasant, Gauguin native, in search of romantically simple lives and imagined communion with the earth. To be wistful for mud, however, seems ill advised, even silly. And yet, nostalgie de la boue is not so easily dismissed, given all that it connotes. “That which is crude, unworthy, degrading”: the dictionary definition leaves it at that. But let’s not leave out the lingering allure of the primitive, the authentic, the native, the natural, the simple, the handmade: the very non-civilized conditions that Freud himself said every civilization longs for in its discontent. (Bohemia was built from this boue). However incorrectly they have been deconstructed and disabused within postmodern culture, the critical power of these conditions remains intact.

    At least where clay is concerned, as the artists in this exhibition show, not through any sentimental longing, but by smartly crafting their work to represent those conditions – both dirty and delightful – that seem increasingly absent or remote from contemporary life. Especially in this moment, as we all face an economy that has been thrown down the crapper buy corporate interests that seem to have run the world into a state of ruin. Dirt has long been the bane and boon of a consumer culture built on entire industries devoted to personal hygiene and cleanliness, industries that simultaneously turn a blind eye to the environment, polluting it to the point of climatic meltdown. Dirt is the antithesis of the virtual and synthetic. It takes but a speck to destroy a disk, a chip, a hard drive – to damage beyond repair the highly polished surface of a Jeff Koons bunny or a Donald Judd Stack. And yet, it is in light of the overproduction of things we don’t need, coupled with the avoidance and denial of the stuff that’s just there, that artists‘ use of clay comes to seem not only prescient but also instructive. Dirt is always an option.

     

  • “Preamble and Précis: an atomic introduction to “The Puppet Show”” The Puppet Show. Philadelphia: Institute for Contemporary Art, University of Pennsylvania, 2008, pp. 14-16.

    Preamble and Précis: an atomic introduction to “The Puppet Show”

    It’s apt that “The Puppet Show” is taking place at the ICA in Philadelphia. In 1742 the Pennsylvania Gazette billed “a merry Dialogue between Punch and Joan his wife” (who later became Judy), one of the first such shows performed in America. More recently, when the city hosted the 2000 Republican National Convention, the Philadelphia police seized and destroyed more than three hundred puppets in a preemptive strike against street theater protests aimed at the World Trade Organization. Were the authorities acting on the intelligence of Peter Schumann?[footnote=1] The founder of Bread and Puppet Theater had a year earlier posed the threat of puppets by answering his own rhetorical question:

    Why are puppets insurrectionists? Because nobody but puppets
    could possibly be insurrectionists, because (1) insurrectionism as recommended by the Declaration of Independence is never right
    for the politics at hand, and (2) it’s totally illegal, just ask the dead
    Black Panthers or the John Africa family of Philadelphia.[footnote=2]

    Philadelphia continues to be a hub of radical puppetry – Spiral W. Puppet Uprising, and Ramshackle Enterprises, for instance – as well as innovative and traditional puppet theater. On another historical note, this was the comeback city for Howdy Doody. Beginning with a performance at the university of Pennsylvania on Valentine’s Day in 1970, one of TV’s most famous puppets quit retirement to deliver the Vietnam War generation of draft-age Americans to the safe havens of their 1950s childhood – at least for the duration of one puppet show. Children of the 1960s may remember being served a weekly catch of marionette fishes – Finley Haddock, Doc Sturgeon, Baron Barracuda, Gabby the Clam, et al. – on Diver Dan, a television show filmed through a wall of glass and water that first aired in Philadel—

    Hang on a minute. We’re being interrupted. It’s Mr. Punch, from the first paragraph. He says that before being retired from the page, he has something he wants to say about “The Puppet Show.” And that he will use his stick and swizzle. What’s a swazzle? It’s kind of a whistle, a reed; it’s that thing that makes Punch’s voice squeak and buzz at the same time, like someone screaming through a paper comb. Why the stick? To beat us all soundly with his wisdom, he says. Okay, he’s ready.

    Mr. Punch, what would you – with your centuries of experience actually being one of theater’s great puppets – like to say about this show?

    Mr. Punch: “THIS IS NOT A PUPPET SHOW!!!!”

    Yes, well. This preamble was moseying toward that point. “The Puppet Show” is not an exhibition of puppet theater. Thank you for making that point in the punch line, Mr. Punch.

    “The Puppet Show” looks at the imagery of puppets in contemporary art. Representing the work of thirty artists, the exhibition concentrates on sculpture, photography, and video. Some works involve puppets as figures: marionettes, shadow puppets, ventriloquist dummies. In others, artists perform as puppeteers. And still other images evoke topics associated with puppetry: manipulation, miniaturization, control. These metaphors are explored by cocurator Carin Kuoni in her catalogue essay on agency and alter egos. To distinguish puppets from, say, dolls, the notion of stage asserts itself as signifier. Without some sign of an audience, there is no show, only private play. In her essay, literary historian Jane Taylor conjures the artificial reality of the stage specifically in terms of the voice – the voice disembodied and transmuted through the puppet as translator.

    The exhibition takes as its point of departure a famous episode in European avant-garde history. Alfred Jarry’s 1896 play Ubu Roi, which was originally conceived as a puppet show. The despotic king, who strode onstage roaring the French scatological neologism merdre, sticks to all puppet allegories of grotesque government and acts of puppet transgression. The reiterative nature of this tale, as performed up to the present day, is the subject of art historical Michael Taylor’s portrait essay of Ubu. In my own curatorial essay, I speculate further on sources in art, film, television, and digital media. Read collectively, the essays in his catalogue advance the larger cultural inquiry behind “The Puppet Show,” namely, why do puppets matter now? For matter they do. Throughout culture and politics these days, the imagery of puppets is dense, critical, humorous, and potentially profound.

    As if we as viewers could inhabit this question, the installation of “The Puppet Show” is a work in its own right by the artist Terence Gower. The exhibition opens with a freestanding structure conceived by the curators as the show’s backstage or unconscious. Dubbed “Puppet Storage” (and documented in a picture essay), it is filled with objects contributed by the participating artists, alongside a collection of historical puppets on loan from the Ballard Institute and Museum of Puppetry at the University of Connecticut. To emerge from “Puppet Storage” is to enter into “The psychological terrains. In anticipation of where the exhibition might lead while it was still in development, a workshop discussion was convened at ICA to open up thinking about “The Puppet Show.” Two of the day’s presentations were expanded into catalogue essays, and the other five are represented by the authors’ précis. Reflecting the perspectives of a puppeteer, an artist, a poet, an anthropologist, and a performance historian, respectively, these texts shine light on some of the many angles from which one might approach this exhibition.

  • “Sources.” The Puppet Show. Philadelphia: Institute for Contemporary Art, University of Pennsylvania, 2008, pp. 23-43.

    Sources 

    Dead, Drunk, & Dreaming

    The art of bringing dead things to life is how Kiki Smith, who was once a busker with a Punch and Judy show, relates her work as a sculptor to puppetry. Or half-life, since part of what makes puppets so compelling – and, to many minds, creepy – as objects is that they always appear to be as much dead as alive. Or drunk. Rirkrit Tiravanija was inspired to start using puppets after seeing a little performance in Germany at a men’s social club, where, by the time the show had began, everyone was inebriated, including, by extension, the puppets.[footnote=1] But who wants to see a puppet that isn’t a little not in charge of itself? The puppet that opens its eyes after everyone has gone to sleep is best kept to fairytales, nightmares, and film. Now imagine waking up in a world full of puppets.

    That’s one way of seeing “The Puppet Show,” as an exhibition that, when it first began to percolate more than ten years ago, looked to the margins of culture – to alternative performance venues, to the art history of Surrealism and the grotesque – to find its relatively idiosyncratic subject matter. Now puppets seem to be everywhere. Puppet theater flourishes onstage and in the streets, in countless productions on Broadway, and at Beck concerts, where four puppeteers perform at the front of the stage with a miniature version of the band.[footnote=2] ‘Puppet Cam’ video footage is projected onto a giant screen behind the musicians, showing the puppets making the local scene, checking out the sights, having cheeky banter, trashing hotel rooms, getting trashed, and generally acting out the fantasy everyone has of rock stars on tour – including, no doubt, the hard-working musicians themselves. On the silver screen, puppets star in Hollywood films; in the special-effects studios, animatronic engineers are called “puppeteers.” Meanwhile, their impact across realms of popular culture is fortified by new scholarship and critical thinking: from Eileen Blumenthal’s sumptuous world history of puppetry to Victoria Nelson’s Secret Life of Puppets, in which puppets are conspicuously absent as subjects.[footnote=3] Thus do they represent the supernatural, which is theorized as both a lack and the means of transcendence in a culture as material and secular as our own.

    The current proliferation of puppets and thinking about them is intrinsic to “The Puppet Show.” Even as the ranks of the checklist swelled and closed, relevant new work was being made. Last summer Kerry James Marshall, an avid master of new techniques, took the opportunity of an artist’s residency sponsored by the Wexner Center for the Arts to study Bunraku puppetry in Japan. In this tradition, the puppeteers are both visible and not – appearing onstage in black, sometimes hooded, attire – while operating puppets that are as famous for their ability to change guises and expressions as for the legend of a lifetime it takes to master, or serve, their exquisite articulation. Marshall’s forthcoming exhibition of live performances at the Wexner will fuse the ongoing narrative of his Rhthm Mastr cycle of works, based on African American urban life, African myths, and comic-book superheroes, with one of the most refined images on earth of the puppet as avatar. That Marshall’s puppets will be operated by local youths trained by the artist himself only enhances the Bunraku concept. Indeed, everywhere lately, puppetry seems to be part of the canon of performance, animation, and craft techniques for an emerging generation’s do-it-yourself productions. Thu Tran’s all-puppet (including the food) cooking-show videos have, for instance, been described as Martha Stewart Living meets Pee-wee’s Playhouse. And though this work is not in “The Puppet Show,” it joins in amplifying the exhibition’s claim that puppets signify like never before.

    So where does this imagery come from? What is it that has brought the metaphors of puppets so much life? A life that seems all the more vivid given that puppets, as objects, exist to be animated by the actions and meanings projected through them (puppets can perk things up). This is not to say that they are generic objects. Although in the minds of many, puppets are kept with childhood memories, locked and stowed in a chest to be opened only with anxiety or trepidation, in reality the specific imagery of puppets is dense and layered, historical and evolving, coded. This essay looks to the big picture of puppetry for sources and contexts called forth by the works in the exhibition, finding puppets to be far less peripheral than may have at first been supposed. Perhaps it is only we who have been asleep to their ever-watchful presence and meanings.

    Shit, Shadows, & The Über-Marionette 

    The source of the imagery of puppets in contemporary Western art starts with a geyser of images of puppets in modern European art. Spewing straight out of the bedrock of avant-gardism, Alfred Jarry’s play Ubu Roi either gains or loses its transgressive power when you learn that this allegory of anarchy was originally conceived as a puppet show. Furthermore, by the time King Ubu dumped his scatological first line, “Merdre,” the shit had already his the puppet stage. Not the little guignol theaters that merrily still dot –and dash – with their punch and Judy violence – that parks of Paris, but the cabarets, where puppetry was once a popular “Adults Only” form of entertainment. The stage at the Chat Noir club was inaugurated on Christmas Day in 1885 with a puppet show set in a family-run public toilet. Shortly thereafter, Henri Rivière established himself at the club, entertaining for over a decade the bourgeois and bohemian with shadow-puppet shows.[footnote=4]

    Renowned for its elaborately constructed silhouettes and stages three screens deep, Rivière’s theater was a descendant of the popular eighteenth century Ombres Chinoises, named for the puppets that came, like porcelain (and later gunpowder), from China to delight the French, who especially loved to see the Séraphin theater’s paper guillotine chop heads. Cousin to this shadow puppetry was the Phantasmagoria, a gothic extravaganza in which magic lanterns pitched shadows directly into space, engulfing audiences in a thrilling sense of the beyond.[footnote=5] Couple the two cousins to get the stock of early cinema and, among its most exquisite progeny, Prince Achmed. Considered the first animated feature, Lotte Reninger’s 1926 film is a shadow-puppet show. Long overshadowed by Disney cartoons on the one hand and modernist abstraction on the other, Reninger’s work is currently being revisited.[footnote=6] To watch The Adventures of Prince Achmed is to be struck by the sensuality of the “alarming forward women” on the island of Waq Waq; by the magical metamorphoses of the magician into a bat, a kangaroo, and a man; and by the alchemical experiment of film shot through sand, smoke, and wax. To watch it today, when artists are advancing narrative forms of all kinds – from comic books to miniature painting – is to be struck that modernism would yield one of its radical episodes through the conventions of a puppet show.

    Another artist to strategically deploy a fairy tale and puppet show was Sophie Taeuber-Arp, who, like Jarry, was a foundational figure of Dada, but of the Swiss stripe. In September 1918, Zurich’s Swiss Marionette Theater presented Taeuber’s production of The King Stag. With characters named Freud Analytikus, Dr. Komplex, and Urlibido, it was an allegory of contemporary psychology. And while much has been made formally of the totemic figures, relating them to Oceanic art and themes of primitivism, once again it is the imagery of puppets that is so arresting today.[footnote=7] The miniature scale is the conceptual space of the mind that mints the unconscious and dreams. The craft is queerly charming, the costumes feminine, the sets decorative. All those attributes that once diminished the work’s standing now assert its authority. The same might be said of Hannah Höch’s Dada and Alexandra Exeter’s Constructivist puppets: long may they ruffle the modernist canon.

    Fashioned from beads of wood turned on a lathe and cheerfully painted, Taeuber’s marionettes for The King Stag could be kernels for the abstracted human figures of the Bauhaus theater. Designs by Oskar Schlemmer, for instance, mask the body in armor of cones, cubes, and other geometric forms. Appropriately abstracted, performers become cogs in the “Mechanized Eccentric,” as Laszlo Moholy-Nagy expressed the Bauhaus ideal of a theater that dispensed with narrative, characters, and other literary encumbrances in favor of ‘a concentration of stage action in its purest form.”[footnote=8] Man, he continued, “should no longer be permitted to represent himself as a phenomenon of spirit and mind through his intellectual and spiritual capacities.” And indeed, Bauhaus performers do resemble puppets, or at least puppets as they were being theorized in modern drama.

    In his influential writings on the theater, Edward Gordon Craig disparaged naturalism and realism; he advised actors to accept puppets as their superiors and make them their ideal, then to strive to become the über-marionette, a term he coined around 1908. Such detachment also underlies Bertolt Brecht’s theory of epic theater, which he evolved contemporaneously with the Bauhaus in Germany (and which Jena Osman relates to puppet theater in her catalogue essay). Brecht satirized in futurism of the Bauhaus, which in its staged robotics probably would have given Craig, a puppeteer, the pip. For all three dramatists, puppetry epitomized the virtual in art, even then. Without the agency of the flesh or the distractions of feeling, the puppet’s artificial reality may be experienced all the more intensely. Ask any online gamer. The more objectified the experience, the more strings (or digital code) there are likely to be attached.

    Even before he was a teacher at the Bauhaus, Paul Klee started making hand puppets as presents for his son, Felix. Based on the German Kasperl theater – a sort of über-Grimm Punch and Judy – they had soft fabric bodies and hard little heads. And what heads! Made mostly of painted plaster – with bone, nutshells, fur, a tin can lift, and two electric sockets among the bit parts – the heads comprise an assemblage assembly of archetypes and caricatures. Between 1916 and 1925, Klee created fifty of these puppets.[footnote=8] After running through the traditional cast of a Kasperl play (adding a companion for Death, Mrs. Death), he invented a host of new characters: Pure Fool, Philistine, Eskimo, Electrical Spook, Buddhist Monk, German Nationalist. There is a self-portrait puppet, and others bear strong resemblances to Klee’s Bauhaus colleagues. Rendering the artist’s whole tribe, his folklore, politics, and other systems of belief onto ostensible playthings, Klee’s puppets perform parallel to his art’s abstraction into pictures that merely look like the imaginative world of childhood.

    One wonders if playing with his father’s puppets left little Felix Klee behind or ahead of the adult game Baudelaire pondered in his Philosophy of Toys: “The toy is the child’s earliest initiation to art… and when mature age comes, the perfected examples will not five his mind the same feelings of warmth, nor the same enthusiasms, not the same sense of conviction.”[footnote=10] To watch an adult artist grappling with this very dilemma, let your mind play through the well-worn footage of Calder’s Circus. The 1961 film of Alexander Calder animating his assemblage wire circus is filled with as much warmth and enthusiasm as the anxiety of compression. The sight of a big old bear of a man playing with tiny childish objects is a push through a keyhole in time back to 1927, when as a young American in Paris, Calder first performed the puppet show that would come to encapsulate a lifetime’s effort to make art as gratifying as a toy.

    Harking back to pre-Columbian times, puppetry was one of a myriad of folk and indigenous traditions put to the forging of modernism in post-revolutionary Mexico. One of the iconic artists of this movement, and lately an icon in general, Frida Kahlo played with puppets. In a photograph taken around 1950 by Juan Guzman during one of the many prolonged periods of recuperation from the accident that regularly confined her to bed, she operates a group of marionettes while a child looks on. Kahlo is decked out in full Mexicanista. The puppets are both a distraction for this artist’s brutal imagination and part of an overall show of Kahlo’s fiercely crafted identity as a modern Mexican artist. The degree to which this identity was alloyed with radical outside forces is signified by another photographic depiction, this time a series of photographs of marionettes.

    Taken in 1929 by the Italian photographer Tina Modotti, the series constitutes a portrait of the Russian-born puppeteer Lou Bunin’s adaptation of the American playwright Eugene O’Neill’s The Hairy Ape.[footnote=11] The play’s heavy-handed social commentary probably lends itself best to puppets, which could bring levity to the last scene, at the zoo. After an American named Yank realized he will never escape the political and class systems that hold him captive, he releases an ape that gratefully embraces him to death. In Modotti’s most famous photograph from the series, we see only the marionettes’ wooden controls, being operated by Bunin, his fingers tangled in strings. The metaphors of power, control, and manipulation by invisible hands of which puppets have been ever symbolic would become all the more personally and politically charged over time.[footnote=12] Both Bunin and Modotti had been drawn to the Mexicanidad movement. Nationally sponsored, Bunin’s puppet theater was supported in a way that eluded his work after leaving Mexico and returning to the States. In Hollywood, his career suffered first under McCarthyism, then at the hands of Disney. The company enforced a ban on Bunin’s puppet film adaptation of Alice in Wonderland to protect the release of their 1951 cartoon. As for Modotti, a year after photographing The Hands of the Puppeteer, she was deported from Mexico for her political affiliations. Continuing her work with the Communist Party, she moved to Moscow, then Spain, and eventually back to Mexico, where she died in 1942 under clouded circumstances. One might at this point even reflect back on the marionette as a signifier of the European culture that Mexico entertained and then rejected in the proves of becoming independent.

    The impact of Mexican muralism on Abstract Expressionism, its scale and gestures, is one of the scriptures of the American art history: Jackson Pollock participated in David Siqueros’s experimental Fourteenth Street workshop, and there Pollock first flung paint on canvas tacked to the floor. You have to read between the lines to learn that among the things being made at the workshop were giant street puppets that Pollock himself joined in parading through Union Square in a communist demonstration. That was 1936, and though Pollock was never again so explicitly political in his work, there was another brush with puppets. The traces remain clearly cut from a 1948 canvas that Pollock used to make a marionette figure. “It was a figure about eighteen inches high,” the art dealer John Bernard Myers writes, “cut out of wood, one each side of which, canvas was glued. Both sides were gaily painted and the figure seemed to dance as it hung from a string and turned.”[footnote=13] At the time, Myers was making a living as a puppeteer, performing with Tibor de Nagy. When the two opened their gallery in 1951, Myers and de Nagy joined the art world long dovetailed by their marionette theater. The first production was inspired by the Surrealist Max Ernst’s Kachina collection. “It was a Pueblo Indian fairy tale,” de Nagy later recounted, “charming, absolutely, charming, and very philosophical. John Myers played the witch. He may have sold the puppets, I don’t know… We stored all our marionettes at Larry Rivers’s studio on Second Avenue and they were stolen.”[footnote=14] Pollock’s puppet was not part of the Larry Rivers studio heist, though it has subsequently vanished, lost or destroyed by the Rivers children.[footnote=15]

    The Box, Bread, & Adult Theater

    In the creation of art, it is the puppet one makes of oneself that is most important. – Harold Rosenberg

    With Pollock’s lost marionette, the imagery of puppets careens into the postwar period and straight into Pop. So what about Andy Warhol? Besides the caricatures of him presiding over the factory like some evil puppeteer. (For that matter, speed up Hans Namuth’s film of Pollock painting if you want to see a puppet show.) Until his archival artwork of the Time Capsules have been fully processed at the Andy Warhol Museum, it remains to be ascertained if Warhol ever made a puppet. Or if his toy ventriloquist dummy survived beyond the artist’s memories of his invalid childhood: “I would spend all summer listening to the radio and lying in bed with my Charlie McCarthy doll and my uncut cut-out paper dolls.” Warhol definitely owned at least four puppets, a pair of which – his Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew hand puppets – are in this exhibition. And he depicted one.

    Howdy Doody was the puppet namesake of the children’s television show that aired (in color) on NBC throughout the 1950s.[footnote=16] In Warhol’s work, Howdy Doody is one of the American icons in the Myths suite.[footnote=17] Superman, Santa Claus, Mickey Mouse, Mammy, Uncle Sam, the Wicked Witch of the West, Dracula, and, finally, Warhol himself make up the rest of the gang, whose silk-screened portraits scroll repetitively down the canvas like strips of film. It’s a timely work. Just plain “Howdy Doody,” one could say. By 1981, Warhol was seeing himself as more that just an icon of pop culture; he was a marketable commodity, too. In his day, Howdy Doody had endorsed brands of bread, juice, and margarine for a generation of child consumers who, now grown up, were probably more familiar with Warhol as a brand item or celebrity model than as an artist. Nor was Howdy Doody a puppet in the traditional sense, since Buffalo Bob Smith, Howdy’s voice and presumably his operator, was neither a puppeteer nor a ventriloquist. Howdy’s dialogue was pre-recorded, then played back on the air; his handling was a job for professional puppeteers, of whom there were plenty working in television during the 1950s.

    The industrial age of puppetry was well advanced, having dawned on Thanksgiving Day in 1927, when Tony Sarg’s puppet zeppelins joined the Macy’s Parade. A pop-cultural phenomenon in his own right, Sarg is described by fellow puppeteer and former apprentice Bil Baird as follows: “Tony by 1927 was America’s most prolific puppeteer, designer of children’s barber shops and restaurants, bon vivant and lavish party-giver.”[footnote=18] Dubbed by Baird “simply upside-down marionettes,” the floats were made of rubberized silk, filled with helium, and handled with ropes by groundling puppeteers. The first characters were mainly Sarg’s inventions, except for Fritz the Cat, a harbinger of hosts of future inflated personalities. Last year, the artist Jeff Koons’s Bunny joined the parade.

    The parade’s puppet superstar is Kermit the Frog. The creation, nay, alter ego of Jim Henson, Kermit started life as a tadpole purveyor of Wilkin’s brand coffee in a series of television sports that promoted a cup of joe with a dose of violence – guillotines, guns, and existential crisis were all dispatched – that only a puppet could make palatable. Barely. Even before that, Kermit, not yet a frog, was a green sock-shaped character on Henson’s late-night puppet television show Sam and Francis, which ran from 1955 to 1961 and is credited with turning the television screen into a puppet stage. Since Kermit morphed into a Muppet in 1958, he can be seen to have spawned an empire that encompasses everything most readily associated with puppets in popular culture: children’s education (Sesame Street), family entertainment (The Muppet Show), and fantasy films (Dark Star), along with the franchising and licensing that has translated the Muppet idea into a global product.[footnote=19] And in case time (or Elmo) had overly sweetened your sense of Helgen’s work, take a hit of the vintage 1970s stuff to get how true to puppetry’s origins in ribald, populist theater the Muppets are.

    A completely other puppet establishment is Bread and Puppet Theater. Coming out of an art-world context of Happenings and performance art, Bread and Puppet has deeply European roots. As does Peter Schumann, who founded the theater in 1963 shortly after arriving in New York from Germany. Tapping into puppetry’s origins in medieval pageants and mystery plays, Bread and Puppet spreads the faith of the counter culture. It’s signature puppets are larger-than-life in scale, with expressive faces and hands molded from clay; they are borne aloft by puppeteers who, with rods and stilts, use their whole bodies to perform with the figures in staged tableaux and narratives, in street parades and demonstrations. On tour in its 1963 school bus emblazoned with sunbursts and angels, Bread and Puppet Theater arrives like a blast from the past, conveying a whole other set of associations that puppetry holds with humanist culture and leftist politics – associations that might seem to make it too naïve or old-fashioned to be anything more than passing fun at the fair.

    To disabuse us of these clichés, please call on stage “Amy.” Tammy Faye Bakker’s proselytizing Christian puppet, whose uplifting repertoire includes such songs as “God’s Not Dead.” On a far more sinister note, witness the Nazi’s Kasperle plays adapted to indulge German soldiers in their deepest anti-Semitism. Granted, these are extremes, acts to bring on to make the point that puppets don’t stand by a single creed. Though for Schumann, the puppet that fails to rebel against some party line may as well be a person. “People exist as citizens, and puppets are insurrectionists and therefore shunned by correct citizens – unless they pretend to be something other than what they are, like: fluffy, lovely, or digestible.”[footnote=20] If this sounds naïve, note that Schumann’s Bread and Puppet Theater is as much an institution as Henson’s “Muppet Mansion” – so the company’s New York headquarters are known.

    Operating as a commune based on an old farmstead in Vermont, Bread and Puppet was a pilgrimage site throughout the 1970s and 80s into the 90s, when thousands convened every summer for The Domestic Resurrection Circus, a two-day festival in which extravagant allegories of protest – initially against the Vietnam War, and later against capitalist culture in general – were performed to apocalyptic ends and beyond. The Circus is over, but the insurrectionist theater continues.[footnote=21] Bread and Puppet even has its own museum. Filled with objects and ephemera of past performances, the barn is dedicated to the Art of Impermanence. As for digestible, Schumann keeps a daily ritual of baking rye bread in the outdoor oven. All are welcome to a piece.

    Schumann and Henson are almost exact contemporaries, yet it would be silly, as far as the imagery of puppets is concerned, to put in opposition work that is more productively seen within a totality. The general puppet assembly sued to convene biannually in New York for The International Festival of Puppet Theater: a month of performances, films, lectures, exhibitions, and cabarets at venues throughout the city.[footnotes=22] And every time, the Festival played to the same (old) news: Puppets aren’t just kid stuff. Listings were often rated for parents who could probably figure out that Theodora Skipitares’ “A Harlot’s Progress” was not a puppet show for children but might not anticipate the adult subject matter of “Tinka’s New Dress,” performed by the Ronne Burkett Theatre of Marionettes.[footnote=23] Under the auspices of the Jim Henson Foundation, the Festival ran from 1992 to 2000, having been inaugurated in honor of Kermit’s creator, who died in 1990, and his lifelong commitment to preserving and advancing puppetry in all its diverse, traditional, and innovative forms.[footnote=24]

    Grace, Jerks, & Faith

    Contemporary puppet theater thrives. But it’s not what came up in speaking with the artists about their work in “The Puppet Show.” There were exceptions, of course. In the annotated checklist that follows, those references are observed and specific connections are drawn. Significantly, a number of the artists had performed as amateur puppeteers. A few still kept puppets they played with during childhood. And in every case, sometimes when least expected, the imagery of puppets proved engaging subject matter. Paradoxically, it seemed that those artists who had commissioned professional puppeteers in the making of a piece were often the least interested in puppetry per se. Puppets were simply what was needed to convey the ideas and realize the vision of a particular work. It’s interesting to note, in this regard, how much contemporary art has become more analogous to filmmaking than, say, traditional easel painting, and that directors readily take recourse in the imagery of puppets. Ingmar Bergman noted that his whole life’s work started when eh was a child, playing with puppets and a magic-lantern show “(I) created a reality all around me the way I wanted.”[footnote=25] Fellini affectionately regarded the faces in his films as puppets.[footnote=26] More malevolent-sounding is Lars von Trier speaking of the set as “Trier’s puppet show.”[footnote=27] What one might extrapolate here is that no matter what kind of studio you’re working in, metaphors of control loom large when it comes to the art of making a picture.

    In terms of actual sources, one came up fairly consistently: Heinrich von Kleist’s “On the Marionette Theater.” Written in 1810 by a young German Romantic who shot himself in the following year, the essay explains the intellectual impossibility of a return to grace, which, Kleist observes, “appears most purely in that human form which either had no consciousness or an infinite consciousness. That is, in the puppet or in the god.” [footnote=28] However, it is less this Kantian conundrum that Kleist’s deconstruction of the human body that puts “On the Marionette Theater” in the (unofficial) reader for “The Puppet Show.”[footnote=29] The essay begins with Kleist’s astonishment at a friend’s interest in the “marionette theater, which had been put up in the market-place to entertain the public with dramatic burlesques interspersed with song and dance.” Or as Kleist later puts it more succinctly, “this vulgar species of an art form.” The friend, a dancer, proceeds to describe the parabolic movements and prosthetic mechanisms of the marionette – its “lifeless, pure pendulums, governed only by the law of gravity” – in terms that conjure cyborgs, on the one hand, and mannequins on the other. In short, Kleist’s essay anticipates the figurative modes that appear to predominate in art today, of which an important anatomy lesson was demonstrated in a 1993 exhibition called “The Uncanny.”[footnote=30]

    The show was conceived by the artist Mike Kelley as an “examination of a current trend, jumping on the bandwagon, if you will,” of a phenomenon he dubbed “mannequin art.” It showed the work of his peers (including Robert Gober, Bruce Nauman, Charles Ray, and Cindy Sherman) alongside that of historic artists (Hands Bellmer’s Surrealist “poupées,” for instance), with folk, funeral and medical artifacts, printed matter, and documentation. Collectively, these objects were charged to transmit Kelley’s equation of Freud’s uncanny and the experience of art itself. As formulated in the catalogue essay, this is “a somewhat muted sense of horror: horror tinged with confusion… (a feeling) provoked by an object a dead object that has a life of its own, a life that is somehow dependent on you and is intimately connected in some secret manner to your life.”[footnote=31] Puppets were not part of Kelley’s examination, though there is a reference to Max von Boehn’s Dolls and Puppets, published in the 1930s, which remains a classic history on the subject. Puppets’ miniature proportions disqualified them from the artist’s response to works that were directly human in scale or presence. Nevertheless, reading Kelley’s essay in relation to “The Puppet Show” is like wandering with a map to the wrong landscape with similar terrain. The correspondences are uncanny.

    Along the way, Kelley’s essay takes us to the Hollywood Hills, where 30,000 horror, science fiction, and special-effect items were once displayed in the home of Forest J. Ackerman. The collection, along with the intense sense of displacement, scale, and memory that Kelley experienced there, also came up in reference to puppets. It’s a subject Kelley has considered at length. Like Kleist’s interlocutor, he finds the movements of puppets fascinating, if far from graceful. The jerkiness of Jerry Anderson’s Thunderbirds, the 1960s British television show done in “supermarionation,” is characteristic. To master away that excess motion is to forfeit the hold puppets have on the grotesque imagination, a hold that is contiguous with the fear of watching the marionette’s precipitous movements lapse into an awesome fit.

    A Los Angeles-based artist, Kelley asserts puppetry’s claims across film and television.[footnote=32] For him Japanese “rubber suit” monster movies are nothing but puppet shows. Taken a step further or backwards toward puppetry’s sacred traditions, might Mothra and Godzilla be seen as the demons of nuclear holocaust and of industry run amok, performing in the mystery plays of secular culture? This is how Victoria Nelson would divine it: “In our officially postreligious intellectual culture, we miss the idols, too, and we have similarly aestheticized them… The repressed religious is also visible in representations of puppets, robots, cyborgs, and other artificial humans in literature and film.”[footnote=33]

    But puppets have always been instruments for broaching subjects that might otherwise be impossible to fathom or address. A therapist, that priest of our time, may ask a patient to use the puppets to show what happened. And who has not seen a political cartoon in which an imbecilic puppet President George Bush is being manipulated by a Dick Cheney puppeteer? This is child’s play compared to French television’s Les Guignols de l’Info, the puppet-show satire of world news. Credited with having helped Jacques Chirac win the presidential election in 1995 (by turning him into a lovable rube with the slogan “Eat Apples”) only then to turn him into “Super Liar” (the caped crusader of impossible promises), the show depicts President Bush as a babyish bully who lives in his bedroom lobbing beer-can grenades.[footnote=34] But puppet patriarchs can’t hold a candle in the wind of Austrian author Thomas Bernard’s screed against puppet matriarchs in the novel Extinction: “In Germany and Austria there are only puppet mothers, who spend all their lives relentlessly tugging at their puppet husbands and puppet children until these puppet husbands and puppet children have been tugged to death. In Central Europe there are no longer any natural mothers, only artificial mothers, puppet mothers who bring artificial children into the world.”[footnote=35]

    In life as on television, puppets can say things that, for instance, a man with a rubber dog at the end of his arm could not. If you catch “Triumph the Insult Dog” doing his abrasive shtick on Late Night with David Letterman, note how completely the audience focuses their attention on the puppet, even though the puppeteer is obviously standing right there. Curious how puppets hold that power even over ironic hipsters – though perhaps this is the most susceptible target. If you consider Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s television cartoon South Park as a crude hand-puppet show, the all-marionette cast of their movie Team America makes perfect sense. Plus, what more wicked way to put down the Hollywood blockbuster than to reduce it to Thunderbirds, where, for starters, there is no expectation that the acting will be anything but wooden. Moving forward with a current generation, puppetry is technology. Invented by hackers, Machinima is a cross between online gaming and computer animation that is conducted in real time by players who refer to themselves as digital puppeteers. The first major example, Diary of a Camper, 1996, basically put the gore-fest of gaming into a 90-second narrative frame. Since then, Machinima has generated a whole new media in film, one of its characteristics being that without the real time to render the details of every frame, characters appear to have trouble crying, hugging, and sitting. How much like puppets they are.

    Another online phenomenon is “sock-puppeting,” the assumption of a false identity to praise, criticize, or defend a person or position. Last year, an editor at The New Republic was fired when his sock-puppet “sprezzatura” was caught attacking bloggers who challenged his posts.[footnote=36] Might we call on the sock-puppet police to reckon with the giant Levi’s puppet over Reykjavik?[footnote=37] Creatively staged to look like random sightings captures on people’s telephone cameras, this viral ad campaign traveled the Internet as posts sent to personal computers by consumers themselves. Under the enchantment of a helicopter-scaled marionette in blue jeans, it’s easy to miss the corporate puppet plopped in front of the screen.

    Pull the camera back even further to take in the big picture now surveyed. “The Puppet Show” would appear to represent puppets doing today what puppets have done everywhere all along: subverting and transgressing, entertaining and educating, being surrogates and metaphors, conducting rituals and mystery, selling stuff. Yet what is it about the contemporary context that calls puppets so much to life? In the Indonesian wayang tradition, the puppeteer “wakes up” his shadow puppets by knocking on the wooden box from which he removes them to perform. What knocking awakes us now? Or is it more a matter of faith? That most pre-modern of terms made a triumphant return to these postmodern times in 2003 with Modern Procession, a public artwork by Francis Alÿs featuring more than 150 costumed participants led by a 12-member Peruvian brass band.[footnote=38] Like a traditional ritual procession, this one marked the way for pilgrims – pilgrims of culture that is, en route to MoMA Queens during the Museum of Modern Art’s renovation and temporary expulsion from midtown New York. Carrying in effigy modernism’s great reliquaries – reproductions of works by Picasso, Giacommetti, and Duchamp – the marchers were led by the contemporary artist Kiki Smith, who was carried through the streets on a litter like a religious idol.

    Francis Alÿs’s Belgian heritage ties Modern Procession, by a string, to James Ensor’s Christ’s Entry into Brussels in 1889. This colossal canvas of a masked mob of carnival revelers who threaten like dehumanized puppets to crush the messiah in its midst marks another milestone in avant-garde art history. Painted in 1888, just a few years before Ubu Roi stomped onstage, Ensor’s work is packed with caricatures of political and religious figures – as well as the artist’s friends and family, with the artist himself playing the visionary Christ. It was banned from exhibition, not for its radically scurrilous style, but for its symbolism. And here is another connection to Modern Procession, which is part of a sphere of work Alÿs has been developing since he moved to Mexico City in 1987 that he refers to as social allegory. Within this sphere, art’s meanings are conveyed less through images than actions, or scripts read through particular contexts. Alÿs writes, “If the script answers the expectations and addressed the anxieties of that society at this time and place, it may become a story that survives the event itself. At that moment it has the potential to become a fable or an urban myth.”[footnote=39]

    This script is useful to “The Puppet Show.” Not because the individual works in the exhibition necessarily function as social allegories, but because the term throws light, like a phantasmagoria, off the stage and into the audience, pitching into relief what draws us to the show in the first place. It points to certain social conditions – the diminished agency of individuals, the homogenization of mass media, the erosion of civil liberties, the government of corporate interests – that puppets seem instrumental in allegorizing, controlled as they are by unseen hands. Yet still, puppets? This imagery, which appears so antithetical to the complexities and ironies of contemporary life, what gives it such a pervasive hold? Perhaps it is the very directness of puppets as metaphors that signifies. This certainly seems to be a condition of “The Puppet Show”: the desire for allegory itself. With so many stories to tell, with sources accessible throughout time and place, puppets come to use readymade to abstract the dramas, mysteries, anxieties, and personas we might all project onto a shared stage. And in so doing, they affirm the relevant and liberating act of faith is takes artists and viewer alike to bring an image to life.

  • “Mr Expanding Universe: Isamu Noguchi’s Affiliations across the New York Art World(s) of the 1930s” Isamu Noguchi: Sculptural Design, co-author Donna Ghelerter. Germany: Vitra Design Museum, 2002, pp. 66-106.

    Mr Expanding Universe: Isamu Noguchi’s Affiliations across the New York Art World(s) of the 1930s

     

    Isamu Noguchi’s reputation as a master modernist lies largely (and squarely) on his achievements as a sculptor who created abstractions in stone and wood during the mid-to-late twentieth century. Noguchi is also well known for having designed emblematic objects of the twentieth-century decorative arts. Starting in the late 1920s, when Noguchi began his career, his ideas of the artist’s role exceeded the prescribed parameters. This exhibition validates Noguchi as a visionary. Determined to shape every aspect of life, from dishware to public parks. It also raises the question: where does this encompassing perspective originate in the development of his art? The answers to this can be found in a period that Noguchi himself later reflected upon as containing the “uncertainties of the 1930s.”[footnote=1]

    Returning to New York at the age of 25, having just left Paris and his apprenticeship with Constantin Brancusi, Noguchi settled himself into the New York art world. “It became self-evident to me that in so-called abstraction lay the expression of the age and that I was especially fitted to be one of its prophets.”[footnote=2] Noguchi’s prophesies of the 1930s take the form of Brancusi-inspired pieces on marble bases; large drawings using traditional Chinese brushwork; an architectural mural influenced by Mexican socialist artists; stage sets for dance, and proposals for public works. His materials were stone, wood, cement, bronze, iron, zinc, stainless steel, terracotta, magnesite, marble, sheet metal and plaster. He was exhibiting regularly and garnering critical acclaim. Despite the attention, the reaction to Noguchi’s far-reaching approach to sculpture was uneven.

    Of course the 1930s were a period of uncertainty not only for Noguchi but for the world at large. An attempt was made to lessen the effects of the Depression on artists’ lives with the creation in 1933 of the PWAP (Public Works of Art Projects), later known at the WPA (Works Progress Administration). This government-sponsored relief project for artists provided them with a regular salary in exchange for making works to be located all over America. While numerous artists benefited from the programme, Noguchi’s involvement was unsuccessful. His multifaceted approach was ill-suited for creating art that had to conform to governmental guidelines. He fell through the national safety net at a time when art galleried were also unable to provide artists with their conventional means of support. Noguchi was in need of devising his own source of income. To solve his economic problems, he began sculpting portrait heads: “There was nothing to do but make heads. It was a matter of eating, and this was the only way I knew of making money.”[footnote=3]

    Noguchi made his first portrait head in 1925, but it was upon his return to New York in 1929 that he sculpted commissioned portraits. Throughout the 1930s, the portraits appear to have constituted his primary, or at least most reliable, source of income. Almost life-size, these heads present various modes of representation. While such portraits were relatively conventional for a sculptor drawn to the abstract, they none the less allowed Noguchi a chance to experiment with forms and materials. As one contemporary reviewer observed: “His portraits, which are invariably distinctive of his personality and style, are also likenesses and achieve an air of sophisticated modernism. This is arrived at … by emphasizing the sitters’ salient characteristics and by using such materials as seem symbolic or suggestive of their personality.”[footnote=4] Among the many personalities who sat for Noguchi were Clare Boothe Luce, then working for Vogue and Vanity Fair before she became a playwright and politician; Mexican muralist José Clemente Orozco; mime Agna Enters; waitress Ruth Parks, composer George Gershwin; art dealer J.B. Neumann; the Museum of Modern Art’s first president A. Conger Goodyear; architect Ely Jacques Kahn; Hollywood actress Ginger Rogers, and stage actress Helena Gahagan Douglas, once hailed as “ten of the twelve most beautiful women in America” and later a member of the United States Congress.[footnote=5] This body of work was treated in full by the exhibition Isamu Noguchi, Portrait Sculpture, held at the National Portrait Gallery in 1989. In the invaluable catalogue, curator Nancy Grove provides an art history of the portraits and profiles of their subjects. We have selected from these fascinating figures a group that intersected in Noguchi’s life within an expanded environment of 1930s New York culture. There one finds the points of origin for Noguchi’s creative potential. In this world of artists, dancers, architects, gallery owners fashion designers, we start with Julien Levy, the pre-eminent dealer for advanced contemporary art.

    A child of privilege, Julien Levy (1906-81) was part of the generation known as the Harvard Moderns, who attended college together before embarking on careers that would essentially institutionalize Modernism in America.[footnote=6] Just two years older, Noguchi’s background was worlds away from Levy’s. Growing up estranged from his father, the renowned poet Yone Noguchi, Isamu lived with his American mother in Japan until he was sent to America at the age of fourteen. He cobbled together an education, studying medicine before enrolling at the Leonardo da Vinci Art School in New York. Despite these differences, Noguchi’s and Levy’s lives intertwined to a remarkable degree. Both went to Paris in 1927, where they met the writer Robert McAlmon and were inducted into the same circles. McAlmon allegedly introduced Levy to his wife Joella Lloyd, daughter of the poet Mina Loy, whose friend Constantin Brancusi presented the newly-weds with Le Nouveau Né, a bronze sculpture head of an infant.[footnote=7] It was in the artist’s studio that Levy recalls meeting Noguchi: “Brancusi wears a smock and has a white beard and a white dog, and any stranger is shortly rendered indistinguishable by the white dust that falls over him. Noguchi was happy to work there, polishing and cutting stones and listening to Brancusi talk, learning about materials and about form.”[footnote=8] (The lives of Levy and Noguchi share some racier episodes; in his autobiography, Levy recounts a tour he conducted at the behest of Clare Boothe Luce, with Noguchi in tow, of the Paris brothel Le Sphinx.[footnote=9] Both men had affairs with Frida Kahlo – Levy a brief dalliance in New York, Noguchi a love affair that raged in Mexico until it outraged Kahlo’s husband, the muralist Diego Rivera.)

    Levy opened his art gallery in 1931 to promote experimental film and European photography. By 1932, the gallery had presented the first exhibition of Surrealism in New York, codified the ritual of the opening night cocktail party, and become known as the place to see something new. There were premiere exhibitions of photographs by Henri Cartier Bresson and Man Ray; collage films and objects by Joseph Cornell; “snapshots of the mind”, as Salvador Dalí called his early paintings; Alexander Calder’s mobiles; modern day ex-votos by Frida Kahlo; Surrealist paintings by René Magritte; proto-Abstract Expressionist works by Arshile Gorky; plans and models for fantasy architecture by Emilio Terry, even cartoon cels by Walt Disney. This diverse programme was unusually brilliant in its vision, but not in its eclectic embrace. Levy’s gallery was a microcosm of the art world of its day, an art world in which creative people working in all media mingled freely, irrespective of the boundaries that have come to separate them since. An exhibition of paintings by the Neo-Romantic Eugene Berman was illuminated with lamps by the industrial designer Russel Wright. Artists’ sets and costumes for the newly founded American Balley Theater were shown accompanied by the music that was scored for them, including one piece by the writer/composer Paul Bowles. As a phenomenon of the 1930s. this expansive approach to culture suited the restrictive economic conditions. With little money to go around, artists could afford to let their egos relax, pool their efforts, and work as many angles as possible.

    The entrepreneurial Levy had several ploys to earn income for the photographers he represented, including brokering portrait commissions. “It was one of my many ventures – I just tried to hit photography from as many angles as I could think of. Including applied photography. I tried some photographic textiles…”[footnote=10] The portrait venture was well in keeping with the means by which many of Levy’s artists had already reconciled their Modernist ambitions to the exigencies of earning a living. The expatriate Man Ray had a handsome income throughout the 1920s and 1930s as a fashion and portrait photographer. He applied the same compositions and radical techniques – the photogram, solarisation and double exposure – that characterised his most purely experimental works. The sculptor Alexander Calder drew portraits in wire, often on commission. Fleshed out by shadow and space, these directly anticipate the artist’s most important works, the kinetic sculptures that Marcel Duchamp dubbed “mobiles”.[footnote=3] As with Noguchi, the artistic conventions – and, when the work was a commission, the economic incentive – of making portraiture supported and advanced these artists’ respective innovations. Also like Noguchi, their bodies of work portray the larger contexts of the art world and society in which these makers moved.

    Levy showed another Modernist-cum-portraitist, whose life and work overlapped with Noguchi’s, the photographer Berenice Abbott (1898-1991). Man Ray’s assistant in Paris, Abbott had been well trained. When she left him, she opened a rival portrait studio. It was in Paris that Abbott met Noguchi, though he did not sculpt her head until 1929, when they were both back in New York.[footnote=12] Cast in bronze, light nervously pattering over its surface, Abbott’s portrait shows her boyishly bobbed hair massed to a point on her forehead and focuses her being into a pair of eyes that view the world wide open. Documenting the many aspects of the city – its buildings, people and strange empty spaces – is the crux of Abbott’s art, as exemplified by her celebrated work, Changing New York, the urban portrait she created as an employee of the WPA. As a financial sideline, she took pictures of other artists’ works and of gallery installations.[footnote=13] Abbott’s photograph of Noguchi’s 1934 sculpture Death (Lynched Figure) is a complete visual document: it records the image and conveys its impact. From the angle and lighting of this shot, one immediately appreciates the contemporary critic’s disturbed reaction: “If there is anything to make a white man feel squirmy about his color, he has it in this gnarled chromium victim jigging under the wind-swayed rope.”[footnote=14]

    The unnamed critic writing about Noguchi’s 1935 exhibition at the Marie Harriman gallery for the left-leaning journal Parnassus was exceptionally full of praise for this work when it was shown alongside the admirable portrait heads, three models for the public sculptures and some brush drawings. He or she concluded: “But it is when he goes in for sociological ideas that Noguchi seems the freest.” According to the artist, Death was made after a photograph he saw reproduced in the International Labor Defense, and intended to be shown alongside Birth, a work he modeled from life, after watching a woman at Bellevue Hospital endure the agonies of labor.[footnote=15] Objecting to the depiction, Harriman excised this white marble sculpture from the installation, though she permitted Noguchi to show the lynched man. The exhibition was extensively reviewed and, unlike the Parnassus writer, most critics agreed that Noguchi should stick with portraiture. Arch-intellect Henry McBride put it most nastily: he deemed Death “just a little Japanese mistake”. These words were still ringing when, in his 1968 autobiography, Noguchi declared his conviction to seek acceptance for his work outside the conventional art world. “That settled it!” he wrote, after quoting McBride’s review at length, “I determined to have no further truck with either galleries or critics.”[footnote=16]

    Julien Levy had not yet opened his art gallery in 1929 when Noguchi sculpted his head in bronze. He never gave Noguchi a solo show, even though he apparently respected his work; perhaps he found his relationships with other dealers too polygamous. Noguchi’s habit of showing around New York certainly raised eyebrows in the press. Following simultaneous exhibitions at the John Becker and Demotte galleries, a review of Noguchi’s December 1932 show at the Reinhardt Galleries begins: “As if two exhibitions in a single season were not enough to satisfy any artist, Isamu Noguchi displays yet another segment of his talents before the turn of the year.” The reviewer goes on to note “the strange and floating Miss Expanding Universe that has been dangling conspicuously in Julien Levy’s front window this winter.”[footnote=17] The following month, Julien Levy’s beautifully illustrated six-page monographic essay on Noguchi’s work, the first ever published, appeared as the cover story in Creative Art. In it, Levy attributes a “bi-polarity” to Noguchi’s work: “He is always attempting a nice balance between the abstract and the concrete, the relating of fact to meaning, while specifically he exercises a vigorous interpretation of oriental and western aims.”[footnote=18] Levy accounts for Noguchi’s catholic tastes and diverse talents as a search for a singular style. He strongly encourages the artist to follow in the direction of the portrait heads, which he applauds for “applying the formal elements of sculpture to enhance the psychological implications of a portrait” to such a successful degree that “if the portraits were featureless, there should still remain a sort of impression of the subject.”[footnote=19] By contrast, he warns Noguchi against his proclivity for the purely abstract; Levy called the latest large-scale figures in aluminum, including Miss Expanding Universe, “only half-realized, amorphous”. (Here one can detect why Levy hesitated to represent Noguchi fully at his gallery.) The essay concludes: “At first glance, Noguchi appears to have lost connection with the logical continuity of his past progress, but one cannot predict toward what end this tangent may lead.”[footnote=20]

    The Noguchi feature had repercussions over several issues. In March, Creative Art ran a notice to identify the photographer whose pictures “aroused so much favorable comment” as F. S. Lincoln, Massachusetts Institute of Technology=trained biologist and mechanical engineer. His talents as an art photographer were discovered by Buckminster Fuller, when Lincoln, seeing one of his exhibits, offered to make photographs of it as speculation in publicity.[footnote=21] In May a heated round of lengthy letters between Robert Josephy, a designer, and Julien Levy was published. Josephy admonished Levy for his use of the term “style” and admired Noguchi’s attempts to be true to himself: “and if at twenty-eight he has not yet done his masterpieces, there is still no need for him to embrace any such rationalization of artistic sterility.”[footnote=22] Levy defended his position. Josephy rebutted. Levy let his case rest. But the essay and exchange marked Isamu Noguchi as a controversial Modernist, even within the informed art press.

    As Levy confided after seeing Noguchi’s ceramic vases: “one sometimes wishes [Noguchi] would forego some of his more ambitious projects and give us more of these comparative ‘trifles.’”[footnote=23] Levy’s final presentation of Noguchi’s work is perhaps the most significant – though the objects themselves might be considered mere “trifles”. The occasion was The Imagery of Chess, a group show held in 1944 that featured artist-designed chess tables and chess sets. The announcement card was by Dadaist Marcel Duchamp who, as one reviewer described, had “stopped painting when he took up chess and is now one of the leading spirits in the ‘art applied to chess’ movement.”[footnote=24] During the show, Duchamp refereed the event that matched the world champions of blindfolded chess in simultaneous games against players who included the artist Max Ernst and The Museum of Modern Art Director, Alfred Barr, Jr. The sets were more-or-less functional – the Surrealists André Breton and Nicholas Calas submitted a board covered with drinking glasses filled with red and white wine, permitting captors to drink the sweet taste of victory, literally. More pragmatic, Noguchi’s contribution was singled out in Newsweek for being functional and well in keeping with his work as a whole: “The sculptor Noguchi, who is a modernist but no surrealist and has designed playgrounds as well as the panel over the door in Rockefeller Center, created the most beautiful piece in the show – a black plywood chess table of curved design with quarter-size pieces of inlaid plastic to indicate alternate play squares. This table, which would also be nice for tea, can be raised or lowered and the top opens out revealing a pocket to hold the chessmen. Noguchi’s men are angular abstractions of red and green plastic (acetate).”[footnote=25]

    Following the reviewer’s advice, the table went into commercial production: from 1947 to 1949 it was manufactured by Herman Miller. One promotional picture shows it against a bamboo backdrop set for cocktails with a Japanese-inspired arrangement and a sake bottle. Another shows it being used as a sewing table, with skeins of yarn, buttons and pins displayed in the partially opened pockets. The plastic chessmen were not manufactured.

    By this mid-century point, Noguchi was no longer interested in making portrait heads. He had developed his work along lines in which figurative representation, as a form of naturalism, was irrelevant. His decorative arts sensibility had become assimilated into a body of work that included affordable, industrially produced furniture. These provided him with a source of income in true with the vision of his mature art.

    During the 1930s, Noguchi considered his most successful resolution regarding the problems of space and sculpture – problems that essentially had to do with issues of interaction and movement – to be his theatre sets, especially the 21 sets he produced for the modern dancer, Martha Graham (1894-1991). Prior to 1935 Graham had not used sets; Noguchi’s design for Frontier was the first ever to appear in her work. Their collaborations continued until 1966. Noguchi and Graham met in the late 1920s when his mother made costumes; his sister would later dance with the company. In 1929, Noguchi made two portrait heads of Graham. The first she rejected, although the artist always preferred it over the second version.[footnote=26]

    Another portrait subject from the New York world of dance offers an opportunity to explore issues of Noguchi’s identity as they came to bear on the reception of his work during the 1930s and informed one of the most extreme passages in his career. Michio Ito (1892-1967) was a Japanese modern dancer who had trained in Germany. He lived in London, where he starred in At the Hawk’s Well, a play by William Butler Yeats styled after classical Japanese Noh drama. Ito himself was deeply inspired by Egyptian art; his unique dance style was based on definite, almost frieze-like motions. He kept his face still, his features frozen, while he performed. Former student Helen Caldwell recounted: “It was his desire, he said, to bring together East and West in a style of his own. Like a sculptor he worked over every gesture until it meant what he would have it mean. ‘If you cry “Stop!”’ he explained, ‘in any place in my dance, you will find that it is a pose that means something.’”[footnote=27] No wonder Noguchi responded as he did: unlike any of the other heads, Noguchi’s depiction of Michio Ito takes the form of a bronze mask.

    Noguchi sculpted the bronze portrait around the time he had his first foray into theatre, making papier-mâché masks for Ito’s 1926 production of At the Hawk’s Well. Ito had moved to New York in 1916, where he established himself as a leading figure in dance: Agna Enter danced in his Pinwheel Revue in 1922; Martha Graham in his Garden of Kama in 1923. When he moved to Los Angeles in 1929, he played to packed audiences. In 1930, “Michio Ito and his ballet were given a veritable ovation by a crowd that overflowed the [Hollywood] Bowl and filled every standing space on the hillside”.[footnote=28] Ito’s popularity did not prevent him from being interned, along with the rest of the Japanese living on the West Coast, following the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor. He returned to Tokyo in 1942.

    As a Japanese-American, Noguchi’s art was never beyond being discussed on racial grounds. Virtually every early review, including Levy’s essay, takes on the artist’s identity as a main subject and/or impetus for his work. Noguchi himself was keenly interested in Asian art and traditions, and cultivated Eastern principles in his work. In 1930, he travelled to China, where he studied brush drawing for eight months; in 1931 he spent seven months in Japan, attempting to renew his relationship with his father, while studying haniwa and Zen gardens and working in ceramics. (He was no doubt attracted to Michio Ito’s dance because of its explicit references to Kabuki and Noh theatre, the latter traditionally performed in mask.) All of these experiences impacted directly on his work. What is objectionable, however, is how broadly Noguchi’s interpreters read his work through his Asian background as opposed to the language of the forms themselves. Attributing the success of a portrait to an artist’s “racial kinship” with his Japanese model is simply racist.[footnote=29] The fact that Noguchi was part-American only increased speculation. A critic wrote of the artist having “that uncanny intuitive quality and delicacy of perception that sometimes seems to come with a mingling of racial strains”.[footnote=30] Again, a quotation from Henry McBride exemplifies the xenophobia that seemed to be part of America’s everyday discourse. Not sure what to make of a talent that presents itself in two exhibitions at once, McBride theorises: “Being essentially Eastern, [Noguchi] may eventually arrive at profundity through this virtuosity of his. We must give him the benefit of that surmise. But if he were Western, on the contrary, we should agree that he could never surmount so much cleverness to arrive at sincerity.”[footnote=31]

    Noguchi spent seven months in 1942 in an internment camp located on an Indian reservation in Poston Arizona. He says that he went to the camp voluntarily, though one wonders why anyone would willingly forfeit his freedom to live under detention. Perhaps he was determined to make the best of what he saw as an inevitable situation. Having been for so many years the subject of press comments that openly alienated him, Noguchi would have been keenly aware of the vulnerability of his status. When the attack on Pearl Harbor occurred on 7 December 1941, Noguchi was staying in Hollywood, having driven out west with Arshile Gorky that summer. He seems to have been actively looking for some kind of patriotic service to perform. In a letter dated 21 October 1941, for example, Clare Boothe Luce advises him to get in touch with a friend in Washington, D.C., who is “looking for someone who could make shortwave broadcasts in Japanese. It seemed to me (knowing where you stood about the horrible war) that you were the person.”[footnote=32] When this and other prospects failed to materialise, Noguchi decided to go to Poston with the intention of improvising living conditions in the camp. His plans included gardens, recreation areas, even a cemetery.
    He had several unrealised public proposals from the 1930s to draw on. From 1933 alone, there was the proto land-work, Monument to the Plow, a pyramid of earth, one mile wide at its base, to be located in Idaho at the geographic centre of the United States, and Play Mountain, the size of a New York city block, a sculpture landscape for sledding, water sliding, and climbing. More recently, on a trip to Hawaii in 1939 to specify a sculpture project for the office lobby of a pineapple company, Noguchi had also, at the behest of the Honolulu parks commissioner, come up with models for playground equipment. Neither of the Hawaiian projects were realised, and nor was Noguchi’s plan for Poston – apparently life in an internment camp was not a subject for improvement.

    Noguchi’s mail from the seven months he spent at the camp is eerily studio business as usual.[footnote=30] There is an order for a piece of pink marble for the portrait Ginger Rogers had commissioned while he was in California. The collector Edward James responds to a request from Noguchi who was hoping to include his portrait head of James in in a forthcoming exhibition at the San Francisco Museum of Art. James had been chasing the apple blossom season up the coast of California and apologises for not getting the letter in time, but he advises Noguchi to obtain photographs of the portrait from Man Ray and send them to a curator at The Museum of Modern Art who, James feels sure, will want to include it in a proposed exhibition. There is a correspondence regarding an exhibition in Cambridge, Massachusetts, organised by the Quakers, of work by Japanese artists in internment camps; the writer looks forward to receiving Noguchi’s contribution.

    When Noguchi first showed his proposals for public works of art in 1935, they were accompanied by his statement that “sculpture can be a vital force in man’s daily life if projected into communal usefulness”.[footnote=34] As Poston, after it became clear that he was not going to be given the opportunity to make such a sculpture, he says he simply took a leave of absence from the camp one day and never returned. Back in New York, his proposal for a war monument stands as a twisted counterpart to a playground model he made just prior to his detention. Contoured Playground of 1941 is an optimistic answer to the city’s call for equipment with no dangerous edges. This Tortured Earth of 1943 is also a contoured landscape, this time sculpted by bombs and other equipment of war. As an image of psychic landscape it is a bleak view. In the light of this, the public monuments and parks that Noguchi did go on to realise appear all the more impressive, their mission of communal usefulness so long in waiting.

    In the course of the development of Noguchi’s political consciousness, he crossed paths with American fashion designer Elizabeth Hawes (1903-71). Innovative and rebellious, Hawes changed her course in life many times, from couturier to social activist. Noguchi sculpted a portrait head of her in the early 1930s when she was an observant young woman intent on changing the system.[footnote=35] Hawes worked determinedly to reroute the origin of styles worn by Americans, who typically favoured Paris for their views on fashion. Her efforts paralleled those of other Modernists who were making New York the new centre of international culture. Today Elizabeth Hawes is remembered primarily by historians who become intrigued with her clothes, the people who wore them and the fascinating life their creator led until she died, destitute, at the Chelsea Hotel.[footnote=36]

    In 1928, Elizabeth Hawes, aged 25, established her first couture clothing business in New York City. It was a time when the mere concept of American fashion was untenable to most participants in this exclusive world. While Hawes focused on fashion in the 1930s, it was always from a broad spectrum encompassing many aspects of the arts as well as the social issues of her day. The name Hawes gave to the clothes in each new collection reflect her interests, concerns and sense of humour: “Prosperity is Just Around the Corner” afternoon dress (1933); “Diego Rivera” crepe skirt and chenille blouse (1933); “Alimony” evening dress (1937); and “Beautiful Soup” tea gown (1938). That Hawes seemed so unconventional to the conservative fashion industry is no surprise, nor is the fact that her ideas found appeal with many artists of the period who became her friends, lovers and collaborators.

    The wave of young talent going to Paris in the 1920s included both Noguchi and Hawes. Arriving in 1925, Hawes held a variety of jobs in fashion, including reporting back to the United States on the latest Parisian styles. For the newly founded New Yorker magazine she contributed communiqués under the pen name Parisite. In 1928, with the help of Mainbocher, then the Paris editor of Vogue, Hawes designed clothes at the atelier of Nicole Groult, Paul Poiret’s sister. Following Noguchi’s arrival in Paris in 1927, he became an apprentice in the studio of Constantin Brancusi by way of an introduction from the writer Robert McAlmon. For both, working in Paris was an interlude. In 1929 the Guggenheim Fellowship that had financed Noguchi’s travels came to an end, and he had to return to New York. For Hawes it was a well thought-out decision to establish herself in New York as one of the first American couturiers.

    The showroom she created in 1930 was fresh and lively. Utilising the talents of friends including Alexander Calder,[footnote=38] Noguchi and the architect Willy Muschenheim, she created an interior for Hawes, Inc. that was unlike any other clothing establishment in New York City at that time. Calder contributed a wire fish bowl and a reclining chair; there was a scroll by Noguchi, and aluminum tables by Robert Josephy (who championed Noguchi to the readers of Creative Art). Wire soda-fountain chairs and re-upholstered second-hand furniture completed the look. The atmosphere at Hawes, Inc. was salon-like, with a deliberate overlapping of New York circles. For the socialites, actresses and other women of means who could afford to buy Hawes’s custom-made clothing (or have their heads sculpted by Noguchi), viewing her dresses in this unexpected environment was certainly a novelty and in marked contrast to the classic luxury of Parisian couture houses.[footnote=39]

    What made Hawes’s establishment even more unconventional were the events that she staged when showing each new collection: “Usually we break the show in the middle with some sort of oddity.”[footnote=40] There was a performance of Calder’s Circus (perhaps Noguchi assisted Calder with the gramophone, as he did on occasion). In 1933 a short film, The Panther Woman of the Needle Trades, was shown. Directed by photographer Ralph Steiner,[footnote=41] the film featured Elizabeth Hawes dramatising the development of her creative life. In 1937, the divertissement was a riotous showing of men’s fashions by Hawes. These clothes, a significant leap from then current styles, tested the sartorial limits of her male friends who modeled them. One, an advertising salesman, wore “sailor pants, laced in back, made of light weight, fine wale corduroy, and a sweat shirt of striped upholstery linen.”[footnote=42]

    Hawes was always eager to travel, and in 1935 she planned a trip: “Like many another questing soul, I wanted to go to the Soviet Union.”[footnote=43] Curious about socialism and wanting to see behind the scenes, Hawes arranged for a showing of her clothes at the Soviet Dress Trust: “I was fascinated with looking at a bit of the beginning of something and they were fascinated with looking at my most elaborate and capitalistic clothes.”[footnote=44] Five years later, following the closing of Hawes, Inc. in 1940, Hawes’s political beliefs become enmeshed with her work. Subsequent jobs included reporting for the leftist magazine PM, grinding screws at an aeronautical plant, and writing for the Detroit Free Press and the United Auto Workers. In 1936, Noguchi, too, desired to see another way of life, particularly a place where artists worked with more freedom than he felt was available to him in New York City. He left for Mexico and spent eight months executing a mural, History Mexico, at the Abelardo Rodriguez Market in Mexico City. Noguchi’s interests in the social and political implications of art led to the rejection of many of his projects by both critics and bureaucrats. One project that was realised was a plaque for the Associated Press building at the Rockefeller Center, New York City. Rendered in a social realist style, the cast stainless steel relief depicts a photographer, a journalist and phone, wirephoto and teletype operators as tireless workers.
    The wooden portrait of Eleanor Lambert (b. 1903), made by Noguchi in 1932, sits today in the foyer of her New York apartment.[footnote=45] Eleanor Lambert is well known for her work as a publicist in the fashion industry, which she began to concentrate on in the 1940s after an earlier period spent handling publicity for art galleries. Her gallery clients, whom she charged $10 per week, included the Wildenstein, Knoedler and Perls galleries, as well as the Marie Sterner Gallery which in 1930 put on the first exhibition of Noguchi’s portrait heads. For an additional fee, Lambert also offered to promote the individual artists. Sympathetic to the financial constraints, she sometimes worked for payment in kind, trading her services for their art. Noguchi was among those who benefited from Lambert’s professional talents and connections for little or no fee; his portrait of her, however, was a commission for which she paid him $150. Admiring the talents of this curly-haired and determined artist, as Lambert today remembers Noguchi in the 1930s, she recommended him to friends – in this way, he came to sculpt Clare Boothe Luce, Suzanne Ziegler and others.

    For Noguchi to have a publicist working on his behalf in the early years of his career provided alternative means of visibility. During this period he had obtained recognition from New York art galleries, but he found the context limiting. As publicist for the newly founded Whitney Museum of American Art, Lambert was involved with the Public Works of Art Project (PWAP), which was headed by the museum’s director Juliana Force. For Noguchi the government programme supplied financial support and allowed him to pursue his views of sculpture as an element of society. Lambert recalls her participation in working with Force to help Noguchi obtain a PWAP grant.[footnote=46] But in exchange Noguchi was unwilling to produce free-standing sculptures, his ideas being far more inspired and monumental. He proposed Play Mountain to be realised as a playground in New York City. But this, and other ideas such as a “ground sculpture covering the entire triangle in front of Newark Airport, to be seen from the air”, were all rejected.[footnote=47] To Noguchi this denied opportunity was an affront that stayed with him throughout his life. He stated decades later: “It was true that I could make some money doing heads even then at the depth of the Depression, but it was not what I wanted to do.”[footnote=48]

    While as an artist Noguchi was in some conflict about portrait sculpture, he did acknowledge that it was “A very good way of getting to know people. Thus it was that I made long-lasting friendships, in particular with Martha Graham and Buckminster Fuller.”[footnote=49] Noguchi and Fuller (1895-1983) met in 1929 at Romany Marie’s, a bohemian café in New York City’s Greenwich Village. Fuller considered Noguchi’s portrait of him, done that same year, as a cohesive act: “he said, could he make a head of me? and I said I’d be glad to have him do it. So posing for him day after day gave us a chance to build up our friendship that went on and on from there.”[footnote=50] Both Noguchi and Fuller were beginning to pursue their visionary ideals, and their immediate friendship influenced events in the early 1930s.

    The chrome-plated bronze portrait of Fuller, made at Noguchi’s studio, which was painted entirely silver at Fuller’s persuasion,[footnote=51] was one of fifteen heads exhibited at the Marie Sterner Gallery in February 1930. Noguchi employed a range of materials and styles. The reflective planar head surface of Fuller’s head strikingly represents this forward-thinking architect of geometric forms. Or, as Fuller describes it: “Completely reflective surfaces provided a fundamental invisibility of the surface.”[footnote=52] It was just prior to their meeting that Fuller had invented his Dymaxion House. A model of the hexagonal house, constructed around a central mast, had been shown in Chicago, at Marshall Field’s House of the Future, show in 1929. In 1930, Fuller’s energies were engaged in promoting the Dymaxion House to architects, possible sponsors, and all those who would listen to his concepts of the future.

    Following the exhibition at the Marie Sterner Gallery, Noguchi and Fuller took to the road with Noguchi’s sculptures and the model of the Dymaxion House packed in the back of Fuller’s station wagon. Their first destination was Cambridge, Massachusetts. For an exhibition at the Harvard Society for Contemporary Art. The Society was founded in 1929 by some of Julien Levy’s fellow Harvard Moderns Edward Warbug, John Walker III and Lincoln Kirstein (whose portrait Noguchi did in bronze). Its innovative approach to exhibiting art included presentations of architectural and industrial design such as Fuller’s Dymaxion House, along with modern paintings and sculpture. The portrait heads by Noguchi, including those of Martha Graham, George Gershwin and Fuller, were unconventionally shown, placed on pedestals made of galvanized furnace pipe.

    For the Society’s exhibition, the model of the Dymaxion House was placed in the courtyard of the Fogg Art Museum. Presumably Fuller’s architectural drawings were also exhibited. These plans contain handwritten, syncopated poetic descriptions of the house’s remarkable features including “pneumatic beds inflating to desired firmness”, “hexagonal pneumatic divan”, “bakelite floor” and a “dish washing machine which washes dried & returns dishes to shelves”.[footnote=43] Fuller also gave a lecture, one of many he was delivering at this time to explain his inventions. Afterwards Noguchi and Fuller drove to Chicago, where a similar exhibition was held at the Arts Club of Chicago.

    Noguchi returned briefly to New York before sailing in April 1930 to Paris for an extended trip in Europe and Asia. Fuller sent him a telegram from Chicago, intended to reach him aboard the Aquitania before it sailed from New York on 16 April. This Buckminster Fuller monologue on their friendship must have befuddled the Western Union operator to whom it was relayed. It concludes with the following statement: “IDEAL ART WHICH IS PROGRESSIVE INDIVIDUAL RADIONIC SYNCHRONIZATION OF TIME WITH ETERNAL NOW THROUGH REVELATIONS NONWARPABLE TRIANGE.” Fuller was dismayed to find out that his telegram, which he had been “at some pains to compose, as complete summary of our philosophic conversation”,[footnote=54] did not reach Noguchi before he sailed.

    Their “philosophic conversation” continued when Noguchi returned to New York: in 1932. While he was away, Fuller had taken over a magazine called T-Square. He immediately changed the name to Shelter, eliminated all advertising, and announced that issues would come out when “I had something I felt deeply in need to saying”.[footnote=55] Shelter, published from 1930 to 1932, was an opportunity for Fuller to incorporate the works, ideas and philosophies of friends and colleagues such as Noguchi, as well as to amass support for his own architectural plans. Back in New York, the first sculpture Noguchi made was Miss Expanding Universe. Fuller supplied its title and placed the piece on the cover of the November 1932 issue, where it hovers in a stunning photograph by F.S. Lincoln.

    The ideological impact of Shelter is evident upon looking at this issue. The magazine claiming to be “A Correlating Medium for the Forces of Architecture”, incorporates progressive, cross-discipline views on architecture, art and even the English language. There is an article by Noguchi, “Shelters of the Orient”; an article on Noguchi’s sculptures, “Colloidals in Time”; Richard Neutra on “New Buildings in Japan”; and C.K. Ogden’s plan for “Basic English” which reduces the number of words in the language to 850. The ideas contained in the pages of Shelter were not passing, momentary notions fixed in the temporal space of 1932, but concepts that Noguchi and Fuller independently pursued throughout their respective careers.[footnote=56]

    In his article, “Shelters of the Orient”, Noguchi establishes a relationship between traditional Asian styles of architecture and modern sensibilities in Western architecture. At its conclusion the correlation becomes a direct link to Fuller: “Translated into modern terms there exists a striking similarity between the ancient Japanese house and Fuller’s Dymaxion.”[footnote=57] Elsewhere Noguchi speaks of a material that plays an important role in his artistic life – paper and its “multitudinous use – diffuser of light, as protection against the wind and rain, lanterns and umbrellas”.[footnote=58] When Noguchi began designing his Akari paper lanterns in 1951, he had considered the role of this material in Japanese life for almost twenty years.

    As an artist, Noguchi did not recoil from verbal philosophies on art. “Colloidals in Time”, which features two other works by Noguchi (a portrait head, Ruth Parks, in the collection of the Whitney Museum of Art, and Draped Torso, an aluminum sculpture at the Metropolitan Museum of Art), includes his beliefs regarding sculpture and its relationship to the universe, “As a result of our contacts with, and feelings for life, art reminds those, whose minds are clear, of truth.”[footnote=59] While Noguchi and Fuller worked in different spheres, overlapping only on occasions, they absorbed each other’s ideals, and their shared sensibilities incorporated far-reaching perspectives on the world. Decades after Shelter, Noguchi saw their relationship in this way: “Our imagination expands as far as our expanding knowledge and beyond. We were already there in orbit, Bucky and I. New York was our city that glimmers in the distance, and we talked of time and cosmic space.”[footnote=60]

    In 1933, using the money he made from Shelter, Fuller applied his Dymaxion principles to transportation, the result being the Dymaxion Car. Working at a factory in Bridgeport, Connecticut, Noguchi made the plaster models for the car and Fuller, with a team of 27 men, had this extraordinary vehicle build. Fuller often transported well-known figures around in the Dymaxion car, including the pioneer aviatrix Amelia Earhart and the writer H. G. Wells. Noguchi was a passenger on one particularly notable trip – on 7 February 1934, he and Clare Boothe Luce, Dorothy Hale and others, drove with Fuller to the premiere of Gertrude Stein’s Four Saints in Three Acts at the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, Connecticut.[footnote=61]

    In a letter of 28 June 1933 arranging their plans for Birdgeport, Fuller imagined that these circumstances might allow Noguchi to realise his art more completely: “It seems to tme that this is the chance that you and I have always looked forward to in the matter of your executing the best of design.”[footnote=62] From these words of encouragement in 1933, Noguchi persevered within the art world, gaining the perspective, discipline and strength to create the range of forms for which he became well known. Perhaps the most complete expressions of his vision are his garden landscapes. It takes only a stroll through Jardin Japonais (1956-58) at the UNESCO headquarters in Paris, his first garden project, to experience the synthesis of Noguchi’s work – finally, a large space, such as he had been desiring since the early 1930s, allowed him to transform an urban area using water, stone, copper, wood, trees, grass and even fish. Employing elements of traditional Japanese gardening in unprecedented modern ways, Noguchi unified his Eastern and Western aesthetics, and integrated sculpture and design into everyday life. Stone sculptures function as seating, within a plan of shifting planes and contours that can be viewed as an abstract picture, or moved through and animated as a useful public setting. This garden in Paris takes us miles from the “uncertainties” and strife of the 1930s.

    (We are extremely grateful to Amy Hau, whose expert knowledge of the holdings of the Isamu Noguchi Foundation was invaluable to our research. All citations from material in the archives are published with kind permission of the Isamu Noguchi Foundation.)
  • “Walking the Dream,” “Locating the Dream.”Salvador Dalí’s Dream of Venus. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2002, pp. 10-29, 30-34.

    Walking the Dream

     

    A small freestanding building, bristling with appendages and cast in crepuscular light, rises under a swag of red velvet. It is an architecture of accretion, a pile of pink and white stucco sculpted into a profusion of niches and protuberances. Framed within its facade is a giant image of Venus: Botticelli’s breezy nude, blown up to billboard height. At her feet, real women wearing late-1930s bathing suits and beach jackets make ballyhoo by waving bamboo fishing rods. Catching your attention, they reel you toward their grotto.

     

    Shapely gams in gartered hose flank a ticket kiosk in the form of a fish’s head. You pass between the legs, poke a quarter through one of the fish’s eyes, and enter the building.

     

    You cannot go into the first chamber that you come to because it is filled with water. Peering through a glass wall, you discern in the depths a weird parlor. A fire roars in a fireplace, despite the aqueous atmosphere, which causes all the telephones to lift off their receivers and float on their cords like seaweed. The ubiquitous piano is open for playing; its keyboard is a supine woman. Suddenly, swimmers flash into view. One perches on the piano stool and tickles the ivory flesh. Another grabs at the phones. Others bring the rest of the room to life by typing on a sunken typewriter or milking a mummified cow, who gazes sweetly through her gauze bandages. The swimmers, all female, are in daring attire with fishnet hose and corselets. Some have spiny headgear.

     

    Next you notice two men in the tank: the body of one is composed entirely of Ping-Pong paddles, the other is linked together from large square chains. Both are anchored to the floor. Like everything else in the room, they jiggle frantically when the ladies dive by. In the distance, Vesuvius erupts: the back wall of the parlor opens onto Pompeii.

     

    The next chamber is long, dry, and occupied by a thirty-six-foot-long bed. Under a red satin sheet lies a beautiful Venus of a girl. While you watch her sleep, you can hear her dreaming, “In the fever of love, I lie upon my ardent bed. A bed eternally long, and I dream my burning dreams – the longest dreams ever dreamed without beginning and without end…. Enter the shell of my house and you will see my dreams.” Her peaceful slumber is protected by another girl, who emerges out of the headboard and puts a finger to her lips. Thus shushed, you notice a figure reflected in the mirror beside the bed. Her voluptuous form is cinched into a wasp waist by a merry widow; her neck is neurotically twitching and jerking, perhaps in an attempt to shake off the massive bouquet at the end of it. The woman’s head is caged in a ball of flowers.

     

    Walking towards the foot of the bed, you notice that the coverlet is dotted with small beds of hot coals surrounded by lobsters and bottles of champagne. Above this aphrodisiac spread, and continuing out into the corridor, hundred of black umbrellas are hanging, like bats, from the ceiling. Most of the umbrellas are open. Some have hanks of human hair or a telephone receiver dangling from their tips.

     

    The corridor is a gallery. But instead of hanging on the wall, the pictures – which are made of actual paintings and objects – are inside of it. There are two enormous tableaux, each filled with strange people and furniture. In the first tableau stand a male mannequin sporting a leopard’s head; his body is dotted with shot glasses. The drinking straws make him look like St. Sebastian pierced by arrows. The second scene is dominated by a seated gentleman in hat and cape and cloaked in at least one mystery: why is his body a birdcage? The lips on the nearby table lamp are mute on the question.

     

    And so are your gallery guides: a pair of smiling girls dressed like the ones you saw swimming in the parlor. Not wanting to appear to ogle, you look in the direction they are pointing, at the fantastic backdrop that unifies the two tableaux: a blasted desert landscape pained in raking perspective. Lugubrious pocket watches drape and drip in the foreground. Roaming giraffes explode into flames. A woman runs screaming in terror – though not in the direction of the doorway, a monumental arch that looms obliquely in the distance of this illusory space.

     

    Obviously, you cannot go there either. So you press on to the final chamber, where a New York taxi cab, a vintage Cadillac, is parked. The cabdriver is yet another sexy lady, this one in skintight attire. Her passenger is a dour figure whom, for some reason, you recognize to be Christopher Columbus. The cab is festooned on the outside with branches of ivy and more giggling ladies. Inside the cab it is raining.

     

    Locating the Dream

     

    The most fantastic thing about this fantastic experience is that it occurred at the 1939 New York World’s Fair. A total surrealist environment, Salvador Dalí’s Dream of Venus pavilion was an assemblage of images, objects, paintings, and sculptures, all erotically animated by seminude female performers and housed in a small stucco building that looked like a tangled, bleached mass of beach debris. In every way, from its antediluvian birthday cake of a facade to its mazy interior plan, Dalí’s pavilion appears the overwrought, anxious antithesis of the fair’s better-known architecture: the Trylon and Perisphere, the gleaming white obelisk and orb that left indelible impressions on collective memory. Abstract and streamlined, these geometric monuments embodied the sense of optimism for which the 1939 fair is famous. Alternatively, Dalí’s pavilion expressed a complex iconography based on avant-garde art and psychoanalytic precepts, showing a world turned upside down and backwards – the ruins of classical Pompeii submerged in an oneiric living room. How out of step with “Building a World of Tomorrow,” the World Fair’s official theme, could a pavilion be?

    Of course, in 1939, a kind of Vesuvius was about to erupt. The contrast between Dalí’s Dream and the official fair architecture might also be emblematic of the paradoxical nature of the World’s Fair itself. Staged to kick-start the national economy out of ten long years of depression, the New York fair promoted a vision of American capitalism triumphant despite fascism’s international rise to power. In 1939, world war, not prosperity, lay around the corner. Nonetheless, it was only after the question was put to a vote that planners prudently decided against a Nazi pavilion and prohibited Germany from participating. The reality of Hitler hit the fairgrounds after the Nazi invasion of Czechoslovakia turned that country’s pavilion into spoils of war. Orders from Germany to destroy the building went unheeded in New York, where a massive fundraising campaign enabled the pavilion to open, along with the rest of the fair, on April 30, 1939, as a symbol of unvanquished national spirit.

    Another fantastic thing about Dalí’s Dream was its location. Dalí was an internationally acclaimed artist whose face had already emblazoned a 1936 cover of Time magazine. And art was everywhere part of the fair’s plan of specific zones. In the Communications Zone, buildings were devoted to exhibitions of masterpieces of art, historic works on loan from international collections and contemporary American art. Thanks to New Deal government-sponsored relief projects, murals and sculptures appeared on facades, in fountains, and in gardens throughout the fair. Even so, Dalí’s pavilion rose outside any of art’s prescribed areas: it was an attraction in the Amusement Zone, which boasted every imaginable form of entertainment. The odd zone out (many plans designate it an “area” since it lacked an ordained focal point), the Amusement Zone was a fair apart, almost equal in acreage to all of the other zones combined. On a map it appears a looping dogleg to the rest of the plan, which was a beaux-arts scheme laid out in neat symmetry on an axis with the Trylon and Perisphere, and bordered by busy roads. An underpass carried visitors beneath World’s Fair Boulevard (later the Long Island Expressway) into the amusement section. Upon emerging, one was hit by the smell of “melted butter used for popcorn, mingled with that of the crowd.”[footnote=1]

    Besides plenty of “torrid cooch,”[footnote=2] the Amusement Zone included everything from the Famous Chicken Inn (and barroom), to the Wall of Death (a motordome), to Strange as it Seems (where the Man with the Iron Eyelids could be found). Its Cuban Village boasted a “completely nude girl in its voodoo sacrifice routine at the first show of opening day.”[footnote=3] Even Coney Island was out-voodooed, out-freaked, and out-peeked. (Coney inherited one of the fair’s most popular rides, the 250-foot Parachute Drop, after it closed.) The zone’s Fountain Lake was the site of the Aquacade, Billie Rose’s syncopated swimming extravaganza, the legendary entertainment of the 1939 World’s Fair and a focal point if there ever was one. In short, the Amusements Zone was a carnival midway. A surrealist spectacle in its own right, it was the fair’s unconscious, libido, and alter ego all rolled into one. And with “Dalí’s Living Liquid Ladies,” as the chlorines were called, and its bizarre tableaux, the Dream of Venus naturally fit right in. It was located at a busy intersection across from Sun Valley, where ski jumping, ice skating, and 5,000 artificial icicles were to be enjoyed under the summer sun.

  • “Alchemy of the Gallery.” Julien Levy: Portrait of an Art Gallery, ed. Ingrid Schaffner, Lisa Jacobs. Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 1998, pp. 20-59.

    ALCHEMY OF THE GALLERY

    I love stupid paintings, decorated transom, stage sets, carnival booths, popular engravings, old fashioned literature, erotic books with non-existent spelling, the novels of our old grandmothers, fairytales, children’s books, old operas, silly refrains and naïve rhythms.

    -Arthur Rimbaud, Alchemy of the Verb, 1873 (translated by John Ashbery)

    Gallery-hoppers once made beelines to the Julien Levy Gallery. It was the place to see advanced contemporary art, according to the collector and Museum of Modern Art curator James Thrall Soby. As Soby reminisced in his unpublished memoirs: “[Julien Levy] was for a long time the only New York dealer who handled the work of the Surrealists and Neo-Romantics…. Nor did he neglect some of the best younger American painters, sculptors and (a very rare inclusion in the early 1930s in New York) photographers. It was at his various galleries in the 57th street area that I first saw the paintings of Ben Shahn, the photographs of Atget and Walker Evans and of many other artists whose names now seem secure in art’s ever-changing constellation.”[footnote=1] Upon arriving in New York from Paris in 1941, Leo Castelli recounted, he “immediately got involved with people who were, like me, interested in the Surrealists, who were very fashionable, the latest thing.”[footnote=2] At the top of his list was Julien Levy.

    In October 1937, the gallery opened at the second of the four locations it would have during its eighteen years in New York. Leading into the space was a magnificent curved wall, “the shape of a painter’s palette.”[footnote=3] Vogue enthused: “The newly-planned walls are broken up artfully, dipping and waving and straightening out again. The rug is dark wine, the walls white, the effect naked and modern.”[footnote=4] Pictures hanging on those walls took on a cinematic sequencing, directed by the dealer. Accelerated by the viewer’s advance, the curve rapidly dissolved one image into another, like frames in a film screened through a projector. A gallery press release announced that pictures “present themselves one by one, instead of stiffly regimented as they would be on a straight wall.”[footnote=5]

    Films and photography had been regular features at the gallery’s first location. Not classic American photography – moments frozen on the straight side of realism – but rather an avant-garde and European aesthetic. Levy’s taste was experimental, the images he chose often blurred by passages of movement and time, the very properties of cinema. Since his college days, the movies were Levy’s first love: in 1927 he sailed across the Atlantic with Marcel Duchamp, intent on making a film with Man Ray. And in 1941, lured by the siren call of Hollywood, he took his gallery on the road with a “caravan” series of exhibitions for a season on the West Coast. In a cast that over the years included Joseph Cornell, Salvador Dalí, Max Ernst, Alberto Giacometti, Frida Kahlo, René Magritte, and Dorothea Tanning, who all debuted in New York at Levy’s gallery, the star of the gallery’s final location was one of Surrealism’s most decisive harbingers of Abstract Expressionism, Arshile Gorky.

    In light of its contemporary reputation and this montage of achievements, Levy’s enterprise during the 1930s and early 1940s can be seen to anticipate the great New York art galleries of the late 1940s and the 1950s, those under the direction of such dealers as Sidney Janis, Sam Kootz, and Betty Parsons. In league with Peggy Guggenheim, Pierre Matisse, and Curt Valentine, Levy promoted the European avant-garde and Internationalism in America; his successors, in turn, promoted an American school of art, Abstract Expressionism, to an international audience of museum directors, collectors, connoisseurs, and critics. What Vogue admired in 1938 as Julien Levy’s stylishly modern good taste in white walls became the de rigueur backdrop for serious painting and sculpture. Betty Parsons recalled the stark white interior of her gallery when it opened in 1946: “In those days galleries mostly had velvet walls and very Victorian decoration. I decided to hell with that…. When you’re showing a large painting by Jackson Pollock, the last thing the work needs is a plush velvet wall behind it.”[footnote=6] Levy codified the rituals of contemporary gallery commerce, from sending out press releases and snappy announcement cards, to throwing opening-night cocktail parties. The gallery routinely published brochures with essays by famous writers and critics, who established an instant context for an artist’s works. Levy created a buzz that attracted the smart set, collectors, curators, press, other artists, who then generated reviews, gossip, speculation, and – most significant for the artists whose work was on view – interest and sales. In short, the Julien Levy Gallery made art lively.

    But it wasn’t all famous names and tasteful surroundings. There emerges another image of the gallery, this one less modern, retardataire, even. For each naked white wall, Levy’s gallery also had is scarlet side, with a “Harvard red room which took the place of red velvet…. I’ve always kept that color for painting.”[footnote=7] In such a room, Levy would show old American theatrical posters, American folk art, drawings for interiors by design students, costume designs for the ballet, and would sell books and periodicals. In pursuit of commercial opportunities for his artists and himself, he kept portfolios of portrait photography with hopes of landing paying sitters. He sought mural commissions for decorative interiors by his artists. He even offered a line of his own photo objects, trompe-l’oeil wastebaskets and lampshades.

    These “kinick kinacks,” as Levy called them, hark back to the historic origins of art dealing, to the curiosity shops and antiques trade. An eighteenth-century French dealer’s card exemplifies the diversity of interested that captivated early collectors:

    Gersaint, jewelry merchant…sells all of the latest metalwares and objects of taste, jewels, mirrors, cabinet paintings, pagodas, Japanese lacquerware and porcelain, seashells and other artifacts of natural history, pebbles, agates, and all kinds of strange and curious merchandise in general, in Paris, 1740.[footnote=8]

    Two hundred fifty years later, this bricolage of bric-a-brac seems closer to the marché aux puces than to the Leo Castelli Gallery.[footnote=9] But for Julien Levy in the 1930s and 1940s, such a display was evidently surreal. And although he may not have gone so far as to deal in bijoux and bibelots, he did show the work of Joseph Cornell, whose collage boxes are filled, like miniature Wunderkammern, with just such a world of “strange and curious” things.

    Levy’s was quintessentially a Surrealist sensibility, undivided in its affections for high and low art and artifacts. As Soby remarked, “Indeed he was as close to being an official Surrealist himself as one could come without signing one of André Breton’s guidelines to the Surrealist faith.”[footnote=10] But Levy’s personal identification with the French art movement does not fully explain the paradoxical position of his gallery. Simultaneously forward- and backward-looking, the gallery is emblematic of shifts taking place in the arts world and in art commerce just before the boom of the American postwar period. This essay will consider Levy as both a singular and a representative art dealer in America between 1931 and 1949, when galleries changed from upholstered enclaves and salon-style sanctuaries to fashionable forums with an expanded public, when contemporary artists began to have the cachet of old masters, and when dealers gained new authority within a system of showing and selling directly related to museum collecting and exhibiting. It will also consider Levy’s particular affinities, ambitions, and legacy, and what made his enterprise unique.

    The Economy of Art Dealing

    Like the rest of the economy during the early 1930s, the American art market was in a depression. In August 1931, just months before the Julien Levy Gallery opened, The Art News reported rhetorically: “Today there is a slump in the art trade of Great Britain and American brought about by large numbers of collectors who are in the habit of buying art [who are] temporarily ceasing to make purchases.”[footnote=11] An art gallery is by nature an expensive proposition. Aside from its dealing in luxuries, there is the basic cost of rent. Here, Levy had an indisputable advantage in that his father, Edgar, was a powerful New York real estate developer, who during the Depression had many primary locations available to let. On April 3, 1931, Julien wrote to his mother-in-law, Mina Loy, who would serve as his Paris agent during the first years of his gallery: “I have found a beautiful location, size about 20 feet x 50 feet, with a good show window, very bon marché because of the depression, and I am on the point of signing the lease.”[footnote=12]

    Having secured a space, the dealer pays the cost of shipping, insurance, framing, if not outright buying works of art, and then of photographing, and printing announcements, catalogues, and press releases. On top of this, there are “optional” expenses of a gallery assistant’s salary, opening-night parties, artist’s stipends, and professional fees for outside writers and curators. From sales income, the dealer stands to make fifty percent if the work comes directly from the artist, but only a portion of that if another dealer is involved. Although no comprehensive gallery records survive, it seems that Levy’s policy was to collect from the artist a work from each exhibition for his private collection, in addition to which he frequently purchased another work or two.[footnote=13] When, as in the case of Alberto Giacometti and René Magritte, there were few other sales, Levy would be his own best client.

    Price tags from the 1930s indicate that the business prospects for the Julien Levy Gallery could not have been less auspicious. An insurance checklist from Levy for loans to the Harvard Society for Contemporary Art in January 1932 values Atget photographs at $10 apiece, Moholy-Nagy photographs at $15, an Ernst painting at $250, and a Dalí at $450. The high end of Levy’s market was represented by Picasso – two tiny paintings at $1,800 each – and Pierre Roy – a $1,500 painting – which Levy had on consignment from other galleries. In the best of times, Levy’s income from any of these sales would have been nominal. With the market in recession, a gallery specializing in contemporary art seems to have been an insupportable venture.

    And yet it was a time for wealthy young men to embark on visionary ventures. Alfred H. Barr, Jr., was the first acting director of the Museum of Modern Art; Arthur Everett (“Chick”) Austin, Jr., as director of the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, established the Avery Memorial Wing for modern Ballet. All were expressing ambitions to institute the avant-garde in America. Even the Whitney Studio Club changed its identity, becoming the Whitney Museum of American Art in 1931. As reactions against the old cultural establishment, with its spectacularly failed investment in the status quo, these efforts might even be seen as an extension of New Deal aspirations. At the very least they indicate how opportune it was to try something new, perhaps because there was so little to lose. By his own account, Levy, a young man from New York’s upper middle class who had been happily seduced from family business by bohemia, was in it for fame.

    Atget and Ambition

    Julien Levy’s first inklings of becoming an art dealer can be traced to one body of work, the golden-toned photographs of turn-of-the-century Paris by Jean-Eugène-Auguste Atget. “You remember the photos?” Levy wrote to Mina Loy on March 12, 1930. “Of every concievable [sic] subject in or around Paris, doorways, stairways, brothels, courts, trees, street vendors, fairs, shop windows, corsets and umbrellas. All taken with beautiful quality, selection, and composition.” Levy had been introduced to Atget during his 1927 Paris trip through Man Ray, who lived near the photographer. At the time, Levy purchased as many prints as Atget would sell, and as many as he could ferret out at antiquarian booksellers’. In 1930, Levy suddenly had more Atgets than he knew what to do with, having just acquired a partial interest in Berenice Abbott’s archive of more than ten thousand prints and nearly two thousand glass-plate negatives.

    After the photographer’s death in August 1927, Abbott, who had been Man Ray’s assistant, rescued Atget’s oeuvre from the proverbial dustbin of history by acquiring all of the material that remained in the studio from Atget’s friend André Calmette. One of her first projects with the material was to coordinate a monograph in French on Atget, which she brought with her to New York in 1930. Levy was then working as an assistant to Carl Zigrosser in the upstairs print room at the Weyhe Gallery, and presumably because of his established interest in the work, Abbott took the book to him in hopes of finding an American publisher. She got that, and more, according to Levy’s news to Loy:

    [Bernice] will tell you that I have arranged an exhibition for next year of her Atget photos. And I have also bought a part interest in them. They will be hard to exploit as the public in America is decidedly not photo-minded, but I think they are very beautiful, the kind of work of genius that doesn’t appear every day, and the problem of managing them to the best advantage will mean two years fun at least. And if they are half as successful as they deserve to be, my reputation as a person, a connoisseur, an art dealer, man in public life, etc. will be made. Also Berenice’s reputation as a photographer will be more than merely boosted, and she should make a tidy sum of money. IF they are half as successful as they desrve [sic] to be.[footnote=14]

    In Levy, Abbott found the support to secure financially the Atget archive that was in her keeping. As a photographer, she had already assumed the artistic charge that she would maintain over the archive, organizing the material, making prints, and storing the glass negatives. She further expressed her deep affinity for Atget by lecturing extensively on his work and, even more explicitly, by undertaking in 1929 a project to document Manhattan, as he had Paris, in photographs. Through Abbott, Levy had found the start of a career, and he set out to make his mark as a New York art dealer representing the work of Atget.

    As detailed in his correspondence with Loy, Levy’s experience coordinating the Atget show at the Weyhe Gallery is a preview of coming attractions, expectations, and disappointments at the future Julien Levy Gallery. The summer her spent making selections for the Weyhe exhibition was a period of intense fulfillment, of rapturous engagement. What familiarity he had with Atget’s work promptly developed into greater intimacy; he “cheated” on his wife, Joella, who was living in Scarsdale until the young couple’s New York apartment was renovated, to “work at [the photographs] evenings, staying in town overnight about twice every week. Always discovering new and exciting ones.”[footnote=15] To his mother-in-law, he happily confessed, “My photographs are giving me a heavenly summer…. There is nothing I could ask for better than to roll myself between sheets of Atgets, each new one I find (and there are thousands) is a revelation.”[footnote=16] Years later, when an interviewer suggested that Atget was essentially a Romantic, Levy snapped to the defense of his first love in photography: “I don’t know whether you mean it in an insulting way or what”; but he conceded that Atget “probably was.”[footnote=17 Levy then proceeded to describe with vivid clarity “this monumental effect, in nothingness,” in Atget’s original prints, as he had come to know them more than forty years before.

    At Weyhe, while arranging the photographs along the bookshelves, Levy found the prints as “beautiful [as] most paintings,” if not more so. But seeking to promote the work in advance of the exhibition led to one of Levy’s first professional disappointments. The editors at Hound and Horn, the literary magazine founded by Lincoln Kirstein, were enthusiastic. Unfortunately, however, as Levy explained to Loy, “when Mr. Kirstein heard of the project he flatly said NO. He had only just then decided that nothing but American contributions would be accepted in the future.”[footnote=18] Levy did manage to place Atget’s work in Ezra Pound’s literary magazine Pagany.[footnote=19] The next sign that selling French photographs in American was not going to be easy came from the Museum of Modern Art. During the summer, Levy feverishly fantasized to Loy of Atget’s incipient fame: “Even if I am left without one in my possession, I dream of saying 20 years hence ‘I once had them all alone in my room, and now they can only be seen in a Museum (or morgue).’”[footnote=20] Alfred Barr shared Levy’s admiration for Atget and advocated photography as an art in its own right, worthy of museum exhibition and collection. And yet early autumn found Levy faced with a cooler reality. He wrote Loy, “The only set-back being that the trustees of the great Museum of Modern Art have refused photography in general as art. Had counted on a promise from the director to show my Atgets. And that cursed museum has come to dictate the taste in contemporania of most of N.Y. and even of Am.U.S.”[footnote=21] In 1969 the same “cursed museum” would purchase the entire Abbott-Levy collection of Atget’s negatives and photographs.

    Impatient for some evidence of recognition, while constructing dream galleries in the air, Levy joked to Loy, “I am perpetually irritated that things take three of four days to materialize. As soon as I think of the project it should be done, rise whole and sweet from the mental energy I generate. I am already spending the money we haven’t gottened, and tomorrow I will be a suicide because nobody comes into the gallery we haven’t yet gottened.”[footnote=22] His reluctance to develop a project, to nurture an artist’s reputation over time, would prove among Levy’s foremost professional liabilities. As a dealer, he was too often ready to lose interest in those things that did not garner instant support, as Atget’s photographs did not. Where his vision was radically was radically ahead of the market, Levy succeeded as a collector, not a dealer. After two early shows at his gallery failed to popularize Atget’s prints, they were essentially consigned to storage. (This would be a source of bitterness for Abbott, whose active and steadfast responsibility toward the work led to its sale to the Museum of Modern Art; she resented having to share the proceeds with Levy.[footnote=23]) Such was the fate of photography in general, which was soon supplanted by painting and sculpture as the Levy Gallery’s focus. Unlike Alfred Stieglitz, for example, Levy was unable or unwilling to commit himself to the long-term project of preaching, proselytizing, and performing the little miracles that it takes to challenge resistance, alter perceptions, and create public acceptance of new art. He experienced a rush of irritation toward potential Atget customers, as he told Loy: “Everybody admires [Atget’s photographs] but nobody seems willing to pay a price for one. The feeling is that any photograph is just a snapshot and only worth its association value, no more than that. If you concieve [sic] of a promising sales program, do communicate.”[footnote=24]

    It was not all dark premonitions. Although he was not as successful as he had hoped, Levy did experience the first thrill of sales in his introductory exhibit of Atget’s work. In late July, even before the Weyhe show officially opened, he boasted to Loy that “the first primed and mounted specimens were delivered to me here at the gallery, and within an hour I had sold 10 TEN, to two utter strangers (or almost utter).”[footnote=25] Midway through the exhibition, he reported: “This week we received rather good publicity and the photographs have begun to boom. I have made back all expenses in the two weeks, no profits yet, but expect sales to multiply as the days go on, and that will be all profit as there are no further expenses to expect.”[footnote=26] There is no account from Levy tallying the score of the Atget show. By the end of the exhibition, on December 6, he had, according to his correspondence to Loy, at least broken even, received some good press (“Really of course in these days of depression praise rather than shekels is the best one should expect”) and made some new connections (“I am having my quota of amusement and meeting many important personages through the exhibition”).[footnote=27] The experience buoyed him sufficiently that he could announce to Loy his intention to open a gallery. On January 2, 1931, less than a month after the Atget show ended, he wrote: “I enter upon the money my mother left me – Jan. 22 at the age of 25. I am seriously thinking of taking a chance on my immature inexperience because the state of affairs is too opportune to pass up. I may invest the money in buying pictures, objects, etc. to stock my destined Arte Shoppe. Perhaps I may leave Weyhe.”

    A Bid for the Future

    Dear Mr. Stieglitz,

    Greetings! I have so much to tell you, and to ask you, and many pictures to show you. I am more anxious for your approval than that of any man I know.[footnote=28]

    Shortly after coming into his inheritance, Levy quit Weyhe. He wrote confidently to Loy on March 16, 1931: “I plan to open a gallery of my own, called the PLACE OF LEVY…. I am concentrating chiefly on photography as the ‘supreme expression of our epoch’ always a secret passion of mine, i.e. any supreme expression, but I am glad to take anything else that may be cornered.” And again in April: “I do not plan to have only photographs, but pictures, sculpture, and even kinick kinacks. But photographs are a bid for the future, for uniqueness and publicity.”[footnote=29] Levy’s vision was not unique. Sharing her husband’s ambition and informing his plans, Joella Levy encouraged him, in an undated letter, that it was time to act on the opening of a photography gallery. (From her tone, it seems that photo galleries were the rage among the aesthetically inclined of Levy’s generation.) She advised him of her choice for the best location – 602 Madison Avenue, at Fifty-seventh Street – and urged him to sign the lease.

    On November 2, 1931, the Julien Levy Gallery opened at that address, with American Photography Retrospective Exhibition. Announced in the brochure as a “concise restatement of work since the daguerreotype,” the show was a tribute to New York’s high priest of photography and art dealing, Alfred Stieglitz, whose work was displayed along with that of five of his artists. Levy was too young to have experienced Stieglitz’s Little Galleries of the Photo-Secession at 291 Fifth Avenue, “291” for short. Between 1905 and 1917, the gallery had hosted a roster of ground-breaking exhibitions: of photographs of Alvin Langdon Coburn, caricatures by Marius de Zayas, New York studies by Francis Picabia. During the late 1920s, however, Levy had made routine visits to Stieglitz’s successive spaces, the Intimate Gallery (1925-1929) and An American Place (1929-1946), whose name one cannot help hearing echoed in the mock “Place of Levy.”[footnote=30]

    The interior of Levy’s gallery was modeled in part on Stieglitz’s immaculate aesthetic. The front room was painted white, but instead of hanging the pictures on plaster walls that would require maintenance after each exhibition, Levy installed an inventive system of wooden moldings designed to hold photographs sandwiched between reusable sheets of glass. This would obviate the costs of framing and touch-up. The back room, reserved for paintings, was painted red. This touch of the old in the midst of the new perhaps reflects on his previous employment at Weyhe, an altogether different type of gallery. The evenings at Stieglitz’s may have been inspirational, but the days at Weyhe provided Levy with practical experience. “It made an apprenticeship for me,” he later said of the years he had worked under the print connoisseur and future curator at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Carl Zigrosser.[footnote=31] During Levy’s employment at Weyhe, there were shows of woodcuts by Alexander Calder and watercolors by Rockwell Kent; the mainstay there, though, was books.

    Books and periodicals played an important role also at Levy’s gallery, attracting their own public, Bothered by browsers, gallery assistant Allen Porter interrupted himself in a letter to Agnes Rindge, the Vassar College art historian who was part of the gallery’s inner circle of clients and collaborators: “This is all very disjointed on account of I’m here all alone and I have to keep getting up and answering sill questions like are those books for sale. My God, do they think this is an educational institution?”[footnote=32] There were buyers. Levy’s reputation as a dealer seems to have been as much for art as for books, whose prices at the time were comparable to those of photographs. He sold issues of La Révolution Surréaliste ($7.50 a copy) to Harvard University, and poetry and prose to his colleague Pierre Matisse, who purchased Louis Aragon’s Le Paysan de Paris ($3.00), René Crevel’s Le Clavecin de Diderot ($2.00), and Paul Éluard’s La Rose Publique ($2.75).[footnote=33] Levy was a distributor for Minotaure, the art magazine that launched Skira as a high-end fine-arts publisher. And when Camille Dausse, a physician in Paris who exchanged his services to artists for books, decided to sell his substantial library of Surrealist material, he approached Levy to act as his agent to the Museum of Modern Art.[footnote=34]
    Stieglitz had diversified interests, too. He was a photographer, an art dealer, and a publisher. (Among Levy’s papers was an undated brochure from Weyhe announcing that, in collaboration with Stieglitz, the gallery would carry back issues of his journal Camera Work.) For all its personal adaptations, Levy’s opening program and plan remain essentially an homage to Stieglitz. It was wise strategy for the twenty-five-year-old novice to affiliate his enterprise with the established authority in the field. After an exhibition of paintings buy the popular portraitist Massimo Compigli (whose sales were intended to compensate for photography’s negligible market[footnote=35]), Levy presented the historic French photographers Atget and Nadar, both of whom were still little known in America.[footnote=36] Atget earned the highest ordination when a reviewer for The Art Digest compared his art to Stieglitz’s.[footnote=37] If Levy’s first step as a dealer was to stand on the shoulders of this art world giant, his next several shows marked strides in new directions.

    Fame, Fashion, and Film

    Having staked his opening bid for “uniqueness and publicity” on photography, Levy was granted both, when, in January 1932, his gallery presented the first exhibition of Surrealism – titled in the French, Surréalisme – in New York. Featuring painting, sculpture, collage, photography, and books, the show instantly earned the Julien Levy Gallery the distinction of being the place to see sensationally new art. And with the first New York appearance of work by Salvador Dalí, there was publicity galore.[footnote=38] Dalí’s Persistence of Memory was reproduced in virtually every review, with one perplexed critic at The Art Digest going so far as to poll New York’s psychiatric community: “The limpness of the clocks, one of them found, expressed impotence. Another felt that it was an excellent rendition of potence, because time … meant power, which could be transformed into anything, even saddles on which one might mount and ride off to victory in the distant hills.”[footnote=39] Writing on a “bewildering” exhibit, the critic for The New York Times demurred: “One of the most entertaining exhibitions of the season (possibly the most profound) is in progress at the Julien Levy Gallery.”[footnote=40]

    The public success of the show gave Levy the fame that he prized over fortune, and plunged the young dealer into activity that turned the next years at the gallery into an extended definition of Surrealism. The course had been inadvertently forecast by Chick Austin, whose Newer Super-Realism at the Wadsworth Atheneum was in fact the first exhibition of Surrealism in the United States, having preceded Levy’s by two months.[footnote=41] Austin asserted: “Sensational, yes, but after all the paintings of our present day must compete with the movie thriller and the scandal sheet,” and added, “We do not hesitate to dress in fashion because we fear the next year the mode will alter…. These pictures are chic. They are entertaining. They are of the moment.”[footnote=42] Over the years, Levy’s gallery would make art fashionable, and take him to Hollywood.

    During the 1930s and 1940s, the arts mixed freely. Perhaps, again, with fewer rewards at stake, artists, dancers, dress designers, and choreographers could risk losing their identities in collaboration. Representative was the 1937 exhibition, organized by Lincoln Kirstein and held at the Levy Gallery, of the Ballet Caravan Collaborators of the School of American Ballet. The exhibition showcased set designs by Paul Cadmus, choreography by Lew Christianson, and music by Paul Bowles and Virgil Thomson; and displayed a Sears, Roebuck catalogue, from which costumes had been ordered, and a seventeenth-century commedia dell’arte engraving, which inspired one dance’s imagery of Harlequin. Amid this creative hubbub, one can see the period as a throwback to pre-modern culture, when fewer distinctions separated high from low, art from decoration, beauty from pleasure. Austin, for instance, observed the liaison between Surrealism and fashion. Levy also represented the now almost forgotten, but then fantastically popular, Neo-Romantic figurative painters, who merged Picasso’s Blue Period with classical de Chirico to conjure an attractive ambience of pathos and ruin. They were also available for mural commissions. Eugene Berman turned James Thrall Soby’s dining room into a theatrical setting, an at-home version of a folly at Versailles. The cultural ideals were in many other respects elitist, dictates by young barons such as Kirstein from their privileged, and self-made, posts. For the amount of hybridization, this cultured imagery could even be called baroque. At the same time, the general readership for the arts seems to have been quite sophisticated. Open a contemporary issue of Harper’s Bazaar or Vogue and you will find an essay by Jean-Paul Sartre, models posed in a tableau by de Chirico or photographed by Man Ray, ads for Elsa Schiaparelli designed by Dalí, and items about the Julien Levy Gallery, where there was always something amazing going on.

    Where else could you view paintings by Gracie Allen with such titles as Behind the Before yet Under the Vast above the World is in Tears and Tomorrow is Tuesday, or Eyes Adrift as Sardines Wrench at Your Heart Strings?[footnote=43] Where could you shop for prints by Picasso and constructions by Cornell, commission a photographic portrait from Edward Weston, George Platt Lynes, or Lee Miller, and see Frida Kahlo, dressed in full Mexicanista, installing her first exhibition in New York? Where could you buy a Magritte? And when Pavel Tchelitchew’s Phenomena, a sensational allegory of the contemporary cultural universe, studded with miniature portraits of Gertrude Stein, the poet Charles Henri Ford, and Joella Levy, to name merely a few luminaries, traveled from Paris to London, where did it stop in New York for one week only, but at the Julien Levy Gallery?

    Carl Van Vechten, Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Rockefeller, and George Gershwin were among those who RSVP’ed to a private screening of Un Chien Andalou held at the gallery on November 17, 1932. This was the second evening of film hosted by Levy that fall, when he also took office as president of the first Film Society of New York. Modeled after clubs in France, the Society sent out a prospectus in the summer of 1932:

    Beginning in January, THE FILM SOCIETY will show to its private membership on one Sunday evening a month… motion pictures of excellence, not ordinarily to be seen even in little playhouses, or forbidden for public performance by the censors, and revivals important to the history of the motion picture.

    The first program, held on January 29 of the following year at the Essex House, included an animated color cartoon by Walt Disney, an abstract film of light waves produced by music, and G.W. Pabst’s Die Dreigroschenoper in a French version. Four more equally diverse programs appeared through May, with the American premiere on March 19 of Luis Buñuel’s L’Âge d’Or, “the first surrealist film of feature length.”[footnote=44] In preparation for this event, Levy contacted Mina Loy: “If Bunuel gets in touch with you bargain with him…. Impress on him [that] I probably can do better than our offer by renting them to other similar organizations which are in process of appearing like mushrooms these days, and sharing the profits with him.” After a successful screening, Levy reported to Loy: “Presenting L’Âge D’Or was most exciting. We didn’t know if our show would be the success of the year, or if we would be run out of town. The former proved true and the film is still the only topic for dinner conversation all about New York.”[footnote=45]

    The Film Society folded after its first season. Levy continued to show artists’ films at his gallery, most notably Cornell’s Rose Hobart and Goofy Newsreels, collaged from found footage the artist was buying by the pound from distribution warehouses in New Jersey. The short-lived Society was officially reincarnated in 1937, when the Museum of Modern Art appointed Iris Barry, founder of the London Film Society and formerly on the board of directors of the New York Film Society, to head its new Film Library; this would eventually become the Museum’s Film Department.
    Museum Versus Gallery

    This progression of events demonstrates the dynamics between gallery and museum. Although Alfred Barr had included both film and photography departments in his preliminary plans for the Museum of Modern Art, his board initially opposed these areas of collecting. One can imagine that the reputation of photography at the Museum was significantly besmirched through association with the ill-fated Murals by American Painters and Photographers exhibition of 1932. Organized by Kirstein, who asked Levy to curate the photography section, the show was an invitational that turned disastrous when several advisory committee members resigned in objection to perceived leftist imagery; one contributor, for instance, had “mixed ticker tape with pigs and financiers.”[footnote=46] Not until 1937 would the Museum seriously broach the subject of photography again, with a major survey curated by Beaumont Newhall. Levy lent several works to the show, which covered much of the ground he had explored in the early years of his gallery.[footnote=47]

    With his Surreéalisme of 1932 and many subsequent solo shows of Surrealist artists, Levy’s activities laid the groundwork for the Museum of Modern Art’s 1936 exhibition Fantastic Art, Dada, Surrealism. Compare his New York premieres of Dalí and Tchelitchew in 1933 with the museum’s exhibitions of their work in 1942; his 1933 Cartier-Bresson show with the Museum’s 1947 exhibition; his 1945 Gorky show with the Museum’s 1962 exhibition; or his 1932 Cornell Show with the Museum’s 1980 retrospective. The list could go on, as so many of the artists Levy responded to as emerging talents would become the subjects of major museum surveys. But this is the role of the gallery, a fast and light operation with easy access to artists and the work insider their studios. The ponderous machinery of a museum, with its labyrinth of departments and administrations, its public and fiscal responsibilities, moves slowly and cautiously, and ruminates on what happens in the galleries. Levy, ever outspoken about his aversion to museum bureaucracies, may not have been exaggerating when he said that Barr was “jealous” of his freedom as a dealer.[footnote=48] Barr’s brilliance was often encumbered and embattled by opposition from inside and outside the museum. When key works in the Fantastic Art exhibition were suspected of being communist, for example, Barr had to defend to his colleagues their inclusion in the subsequent tour of the show.[footnote49] On the other hand, a museum has the power and resources to grant an artist the public and historic interest that takes time to establish. And in this respect, although Barr may have envied Levy’s independence, Levy would have enjoyed the acknowledgement a museum receives for consecrating subjects that his gallery took the risk to originate. If the museum exhibition, which takes a minimum of a year to organize and which can fill entire floors, is a full-length novel or an encyclopedia, the gallery exhibition is an essay, composed in a relatively compressed time and space. Still, the number of shows Levy produced each season is remarkable, especially since they were so brief in duration, often only two weeks; today, gallery exhibitions run usually for at least a month, sometimes two. One museum man of Levy’s generation operated with the light speed of a gallerist and the historicizing vision of a curator. As director of the Wadsworth Atheneum, Chick Austin moved on a maverick course that, in relation to Levy and Barr, stands outside the usual dealer/curator/director constructs. Austin was a magician. (In truth he was, performing as Osram the Great to benefit the Atheneum’s art classes for children.) He pulled ideas, brilliantly full-blown, out of his hat almost faster than they could be contained by his trustees or absorbed by the public. Austin’s museum was his theater: in 1929 he screened silent movies to foster interest in film as an art form; in 1930 he showed photography; in 1931 he premiered the Neo-Romantics in Five Young Painters and Surrealism in Newer Super-Realism; in 1934 he held the first American retrospective of Picasso. And that was just the beginning. Austin even managed to scoop Kirstein, when, in October 1933, he brought George Balanchine from Paris, eventually to found the School of American Ballet in Hartford. It lasted only a few days there before bursting like a bubble, having floated too far from the rarified atmosphere of New York, where it would thrive under Kirstein’s aegis.

    During the 1930s, Levy and Austin shuttled art and exhibitions between New York and Hartford. The dealer regularly borrowed works from the Atheneum and the director made major acquisitions through the gallery – most significant, in 1933, the Serge Lifar collection of ballet sets and costume designs. (Their correspondence reveals another aspect of Levy and Austin’s transactions, with Levy frequently resorting to humorous desperation, “Dear Chick: I must have some consideration given to our bill or I’ll take an overdose of Luminol. Wasn’t I empathetic enough when I spoke to you verbally?”[footnote=50]) The exchange was more than mercantile; Levy credited Austin, for instance, for adding a touch of theater to one of his exhibitions by proposing a black wall as a backdrop for the pictures.[footnote=51]

    As the art world in Levy’s day was much smaller than it is today – there were probably fewer than fifteen galleries in New York at any one time in the 1930s, and only three or so concentrating on contemporary art – the boundaries between dealer and curator, gallery and museum were more fluid. Several of Levy’s exhibitions toured to (or from) public institutions: Eight Modes of Painting, curated by Agnes Rindge, appeared at Levy’s gallery on a tour organized by the College Art Association; Abstract Sculpture by Alberto Giacometti traveled to the Arts Club of Chicago; Constructions in Space: Gabo went from the Wadsworth to Levy to the Vassar College Art Gallery; and Documents of Cubism appeared at the Wadsworth Atheneum and the Smith College Museum of Art.

    Hollywood

    In the late summer of 1941, Levy took his gallery on the road, with what he called in his autobiography “a traveling gallery, a caravan of modern art.”[footnote=52] He headed west, and set up shop first in San Francisco at the Courvoisier Galleries, the official dealer for Walt Disney’s animation art. Levy had already presented Disney’s cels in New York, in a series of very successful shows. In San Francisco, he presented a dealer’s version of Duchamp’s traveling boîte-en-valise: highlights from his New York stable, including group shows of Neo-Romantics and Surrealists. The next stop was Hollywood, where he established himself on Sunset Boulevard and opened with Dalí. The show was tantalizingly framed by the gallery announcement: “These paintings are to be shipped to New York for exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art and will be available in Hollywood for one week only.” To Soby, on the receiving end of Dalís, Levy wrote that so far “Hollywood is exciting and the Gallery is alive and selling.”[footnote=53] He also confided his financial motivation in leaving New York: to save on rent and sell off some of the old gallery stock.

    Banking on glamour to attract publicity and customers, Levy next organized a Hollywood show of work by the Art Deco modernist Tamara de Lempicka, Baroness Kuffner.[foonote=54] Eugene Berman, who was in Santa Barbara preparing an exhibition of his work for the city’s Museum of Art, reported acidly to Soby: “We’re having a heat wave and the temperature is near 90˚. Julien opened his gallery a few weeks ago with a terrible exhibition of Lempicka and big opening party and terrific crowds. Now it’s the Neo-Romantic show, much less flashy and not so swank, but it’s a good exhibition and on the whole Julien is doing much better than expected, since Hollywood is such a difficult place for business.”[footnote=55]

    Levy was not the only New Yorker attracted to the local industry and industrialists of celluloid dreams. Out West, he met many colleagues from back East. Imagining that Hollywood might naturally respond with enthusiasm to his experience with photography and fashion, Man Ray spent the war years in Los Angeles in exile from Paris.[footnote=56] The Dada collectors Walter and Louise Arensberg had been living in Los Angeles since 1921, attracting Duchamp for visits in 1936, 1949, and 1959, as well as a steady stream of curators and museum directors hoping to land a bequest of the couple’s collection.[footnote=57] (René d’Harnoncourt won, for the Philadelphia Museum of Art.) In 1941 and 1943, Chick Austin was in Hollywood to found Gates Theatre Studio with Edgar Bergen, Charles Coburn, Walter Huston, and others. Salvador Dalí went there to stage the dream sequence for Alfred Hitchcock’s 1945 movie Spellbound, and again in 1946 at the invitation of Walt Disney to collaborate on Destino, an unrealized animated film based on a Mexican ballad. In 1945, MGM tapped twelve artists for a competition, won by Max Ernst, to paint a Temptation of Saint Anthony as a prop for the movie Bel-Ami. Despite these flirtations between art and film, artists and actors, dealers and directors, when William Copley went west in 1947 and exhibited the work of Cornell, Ernst, and Man Ray, he could not sell a thing.[footnote=58] His gallery closed the following year.

    Gallery Versus Gallery

    In 1938, Vogue profiled seven Fifty-seventh Street galleries, each with “a personality as sharp and distinct as any movie star.”[footnote=59] The lineup reveals Levy’s colleagues and competition at the peak of his gallery’s success, beginning with Durand-Ruel, the gallery “that sold the French Impressionists to the Americans.” The walls were “covered in dull brown velvet,” which the writer found “curiously soothing,” as were “the same Negro attendants who have been opening the doors” for great collectors for years. Alternatively, there was Wildenstein, behind a Louis XVI façade, “brought, stone by stone, from France,” where “a gallant Frenchman escorts clients the length of the marble hall into a beautiful Louis-Quinze room… furnished to what would have been Marie Antoinette’s taste.” At Marie Harriman’s, the surroundings went ignored, because of the “best-looking art dealer…best skier and best bowler on Fifty-Seventh Street”; but the fare was strictly School of Paris. Levy’s specialties were “Surrealism, the photography of the mind,’ and Neo-Romanticism, ‘the camera of the soul.’” His gallery was “principally for the sophisticated and the young,” in marked contrast to the neighboring (and no doubt intimidating) bastions of conservative art commerce.

    Not on Vogue’s shortlist was the Pierre Matisse Gallery, which opened just before Levy’s, in late October 1931, with an exhibition of Georges Braque, Jean Lurçat, and Georges Rouault. Having served his apprenticeship at the prestigious Valentine-Dudensing gallery of modern European art, and as son of Henri (whose Museum of Modern Art retrospective opened one month after his son’s gallery), Pierre had impeccable credentials. And while Levy had to “adopt” his patrimony, claiming Stieglitz and Duchamp to be his godfathers (“I didn’t bring them into the church. I just, in my mind, said, ‘I want theiur belssings,’ and I consider them my inspiration”[footnote=60]), Matisse was a blueblood, who would establish the first blue-chip gallery of modern art in New York. The two dealers operated within different, at times overlapping, echelons. Matisse showed only established figures; Levy took his chances. Many artists who had a start in New York at Levy’s gallery, including Calder, Giacometti, Matta, Tanguy, and Gorky, went on to enjoy sustained careers and become the new old masters with Pierre Matisse.

    “Idea Shows” and Duchamp

    Compared with Matisse’s gallery, with its museumlike program, and from today’s perspective, Levy’s seems more an alternative space than a typical commercial gallery. In the early 1930s, he established diversity with forays into film and photography and with innovative group shows. Later on in the decade, he relied on an increasingly conceptual program and featured a number of what he called “idea shows,” some curated by artists. In 1938, Levy organized Old and New “Trompe l’Oeil,” mixing F.G. da Bibiena and William Harnett with Berman and Dalí. One of his favorite writers, Henry James, inspired The “Picturesque” Tradition in American Painting of the Nineteenth Century, a 1943 show of landscape paintings. The same year, Through the Big End of the Opera Glass focused on miniature works by Cornell, Duchamp, and Tanguy. For the 1944 Imagery of Chess exhibition, Levy commissioned boards and pieces from the artists, several of whom also participated in a competition at the gallery. This was something of an early Happening, with the reigning “World Champion of Blindfold Chess,” George Koltanowski, scheduled to play in simultaneous matches against (blindfolded) Barr, Ernst, Levy, Dorothea Tanning, the architect Frederick Kiesler, and Dr. Gregory Zilboorg. (The champion beat everyone but Kiesler, who managed a draw.) And in 1945, Objects of My Affection featured works by Man Ray selected by Man Ray.

    Looming large behind these projects was Marcel Duchamp: from the trompe-l’oeil of his Rotoreliefs, to the museum-in-a-suitcase of miniature reproductions of his own art (the boîte-en-valise), to his binary intrigue with the conceptual play behind a game of chess and a work of art. In addition, Duchamp advocated specific artists to Levy, such as the painter Gar Sparks and the sculptor Maria Martins, who was also the model for the supine female figure in Duchamp’s last work, the tableau Étant Donnés.[footnote=61] Levy had known and admired Duchamp (he blatantly called it hero worship[footnote=62]) since 1926, when Levy persuaded his father to buy a sculpture by Constantin Brancusi, whose interests Duchamp was representing in America. Like Stieglitz, Duchamp impressed Levy as dealer, artist, and impresario. And just as Stieglitz had influenced the first years of the Levy Gallery, so would Duchamp inspire its second phase.

    Duchamp had been an active member of the Dada movement in New York throughout the teens and twenties; during the forties he functioned as a spiritual presence, detached yet omnipresent. The city was full of his European colleagues, among them artists and intellectuals who had fled the German occupation: Berman, Breton, Ernst, André Masson, Amédée Ozenfant, Kurt Seligmann, Tanguy, Ossip Zadkine. Breton, who never learned to speak English, presided over the Surrealists in exile, with the Euro-centric Levy Gallery serving as his base of operations. (The scholar Anna Balakian recalled that when, as a graduate student, she wanted to meet Breton, Levy provided the introduction at his gallery.[footnote=63]) Duchamp, a Surrealist sympathizer, contributed to Breton’s projects – he designed the catalogue and created an extraordinary installation from one mile of string for Breton’s 1942 First Papers of Surrealism exhibition, for instance – without ever being the initiator.[footnote=64] Even in the midst of Levy’s most Duchampian exploits, the artist’s involvement was indirect. When the matches were on during the Imagery of Chess exhibition, Duchamp declined to play, preferring to act as referee.[footnote=65]

    In his unpublished memoirs, Soby paid a retrospective visit to the Julien Levy Gallery, where he found Levy engrossed in yet another game of chess with Duchamp, the implication being that this was the dealer’s most cherished diversion.[footnote=66] A perceptive assessment, for it does seem that, more than the satisfaction of running a business, what Levy enjoyed about being an art dealer was his interaction with the players, the challenge of coming up with successful strategies for exhibitions, the pleasure in handling the pieces themselves – particularly if they were artworks by Man Ray, Ernst, Atget, Tanning, Gorky, or Dalí.

    Abstraction and Architecture

    That the Pierre Matisse Gallery survived the 1940s and the Levy Gallery did not is more than just a tribute to Matisse’s greater business acumen. It also reflects changed that Matisse’s powerful gallery effortlessly weathered but that would compromise Julien’s “Arte Shoppe.” Levy’s identity was inextricably linked with Surrealism as a contemporary art movement, and by the 1940s its hold on current imagination was beginning to wane. Its passage and substitution occurred essentially in one place, Peggy Guggenheim’s Art of This Century. The New York heiress’s museum and gallery opened in October 1942 with a landmark exhibition of Surrealist art, made iconic in the photographs taken of it by Berenice Abbott. Important works by Ernst, Duchamp, Giacometti, and Paul Delvaux were installed by Frederick Kiesler in a custom-designed interior. Paintings were hung projected on the ends of baseball bats, against radically concave wooden walls. Biomorphic furniture – Kiesler’s specially designed “seven-way units” – served as everything from sculpture pedestals to seating for viewers. What is not apparent from photographs of the exhibition are the kinetics: spotlights on timers flashed on several pictures simultaneously, while the rest were plunged into a darkness periodically pierced by the amplified sound effects of a train screaming through a tunnel. At the time, Levy was out of commission; he had enlisted in the army, and his gallery’s interests were being carried on at Durlacher Brothers by the dealer Kirk Askew, whose passions were the Baroque and Neo-Romanticism. (Upon Levy’s return to business, in March 1943, many of his artists, including one of his biggest sellers, Tchelitchew, would defect to Durlacher.) Guggenheim was the new Surrealist on the block, and her electrifying fun house blasted away most recollections of Levy’s elegantly curved white walls.[footnote=67]

    Art of This Century produced the next wave of change, in 1943, with a Spring Salon for Young Artists, selected by Barr, Duchamp, Mondrian, Soby, and others. This included work by a young painter who was visibly wrestling with what appeared now to be the European old guard of Surrealism. In November, at the bejest of her advisor Howard Putzel, Guggenheim gave Jackson Pollock his first one-artist show. The brochure essay by James Johnson Sweeney charged American painters to follow Pollock’s lead and “risk spoiling the canvas to say something in their own way.”[footnote=68] Clement Greenberg’s review saw in this artist an end to Picasso, Miró, and even Mexican mural painting as overpowering influences: American art had finally achieved a new, native influence.[footnote=69]

    Of course things are never that simple. The first artist of the New York School, Pollock, arrived at his innovations not, as Greenberg suggested, through esoteric study of “that American chiaroscuro that dominated Melville, Hawthorne, Poe… Blakelock and Rider,” but through avid appreciation of Surrealist automatism in the works of Matta, Ernst, and Gorky, those exiles from abroad who established themselves in New York through the Julien Levy Gallery. Levy opened at his final location in March 1943 with an exhibition of drawings by Matta (the Chilean artist’s second show at the gallery) and gave Gorky his first New York show there in March 1945. André Breton’s brochure essay for the latter, entitled “Eye-Spring” (after a complex metaphor of time that turns a watch spring into a “wire of maximum ductility” located inside an “opaque case”), echoed Sweeney’s claims for Pollock. In Gorky, too, there was “an art entirely new… the proof that only absolute purity of means… can empower a leap beyond the ordinary and known to indicate… a real feeling of liberty.” Yet while Pollock’s abstraction was being touted locally in terms of an emerging American cultural nationalism, Gorky’s was being advanced as a last victory organized by the general himself, Breton, who, allied with Levy, was determined to defend the dwindling ranks of Surrealism.

    In March 1947, Town & Country published a veiled portrait of the Julien Levy Gallery, written by a gallery assistant, Eleanor Perényl.[footnote=70] She plays “Frances” to Levy’s “Mr. Jellicoe,” a man who “generated a constant tension. With his pale, ascetic good looks, he made Frances think of a perpetually fallen angel.” Illustrated with a cartoon by Saul Steinberg, Perényl’s essay describes a day at the gallery during its declining years:

    Just now, they were in the doldrums… The opening had been successful. Mr. Jellicoe’s friends, who went to all the openings anyway, liked and understood the kind of dreams and magic he was so unsuccessful in selling to the general public. But in the next day or so, the atmosphere had slowly flattened. Boiled down, the sales amounted to one or two drawings, kept in a portfolio in the office, and an almost-sold small painting in the exhibition itself.

    Legacies and Monuments

    Peggy Guggenheim closed her gallery in May 1947, having given Pollock four solo exhibitions. Levy, who had given Gorky five solos, closed in 1949 (not quite a year after the artist’s suicide). Curiously, despite so many brilliant shows involving so many famous and infamous artists (to say nothing of writers, curators, dancers, filmmakers, and just plain personalities), Levy’s achievements have been subsumed by Peggy Guggenheim’s Art of This Century. Perhaps this is due to her quick, succinct transformation of her program, in just five seasons, from Surrealism into Abstract Expressionism. Levy, his former openness to possibilities notwithstanding, was adamantly a Surrealist to the end.

    Both Levy and Guggenheim were passionate collectors, but the scope of their acquisitions was distinctly different. Working with a string of advisors over the years (most notably, the English art historian Sir Herbert Read), Guggenheim amassed a world-class collection of modern art, primarily from the postwar period. In 1949 she opened the doors of her Venetian villa as a public museum. Levy’s vision for his legacy took form in the late 1970s with a proposed Center for Surrealist Studies of Alternative Thinking and Expanding Experience, whose nerve centers would be the Levy collection and library. He proposed the package as an endowment to the State University of New York, Purchase, where he was teaching a seminar, “Surrealism Is…” The Center called for an ambitious and imaginative interdisciplinary program, involving art (for a “Surrealist Contemplation Room,” students would create a “constantly changing exhibition of two separate surrealist paintings, one classic and one recent”); literature (“in connection with the French department the Center will undertake the translations of key surrealist works [to be] serialized in the Quarterly”); cultural studies (one planned symposium was on “The Image of Woman in Surrealist Art”); psychoanalytic studies (readings in Freud and Lacan); theater (staging Les Mamelles de Tirésias, Ubu Roi, and other plays); film and video (Buñuel, Cornell, and Hans Richter, as well as Robert Altman, Judy Chicago, and William Wegman). The program’s agenda set out to prove that, far from being dead, Surrealism had never lost its vitality. The course “Surrealist Behavior” would study “the development of certain actions as art,” from Arthur Cravan to Joseph Beuys.[footnote=71]

    The architecture and language of Levy’s proposal can be seen as elaborations of an earlier project undertaken with Ian Woodner Silverman for a Surrealist House, an installation for the 1939 New York World’s Fair. The 1970s Center proposal opens: “Step right up and get inside your mind, and meet yourself crossing the frontal LOBE… seeing is disbelieving. Conceive before you think.” The carnival barker likewise beckoned to the 1939 World’s Fair pavilion: a “’Funny House’ from a new angle,” featuring “whispers,” a “pneumatic wall,” “Hallucination,” and “Rocking Floors.” Upon reaching the top of an “Audible Staircase,” visitors would experience the “Sensation of Falling.”[footnote=72] This idea in particular (“the public will be catapulted”), with its specter of imminent lawsuits, may have discouraged Fair sponsors from adopting the plan. In any case, the house was replaced by Dalí’s Dream of Venus pavilion, with Levy in close collaboration as the artist’s dealer and representative in New York.[footnote=73]

    The Surrealist Center had no such apotheosis after the project was scrapped, for a murky complex of reasons.[footnote=74] Levy’s art went to his Connecticut home, upon his death in 1981, the bulk of his collection was dispersed at auction., leaving no marker or monument. There is one important exception. During the 1970s, Levy’s sleeping beauty of a photograph collection was acquired through purchase and gift by the Art Institute of Chicago. Amid the famous – Atget, Imogen Cunningham, Walker Evans, André Kertész, László Moholy-Nagy, Paul Strand – were the then virtually unknown Ilse Bing, Jacques-André Boiffard, Francis Bruguière, Lee Miller, Roger Parry, Emmanuel Sougez, Luke Swank, Maurice Tabard. (There was not a single print by Stieglitz.) For the curator, David Travis, researching the collection for the Institute’s 1976 exhibition was rewarding detective work that disclosed an alternative history of photography conditioned on the intervention of Surrealism and film.[footnote=75] With its original vision intact, Chicago’s Julien Levy Collection remains the dealer’s greatest legacy.

    Gentle Fadeout

    Balancing fashionable fare with less known works, offsetting shows that sold poorly with sure hits, Julien Levy kept his gallery in business for almost twenty years. During the Depression and then during wartime, with neither collectors nor cash in abundance throughout, it was necessary constantly to invent and reinvent a market. In this respect, Levy’s mercurial program, and his forays into decorative arts, commercial and portrait photography, and the entertainment industry, were resourceful efforts to keep his shop open. These activities also had the advantage of being newsworthy to the popular press. In addition to receiving constant notice in The Art Digest, The Art News, and The New York Times, the gallery received regular coverage in Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Life, Newsweek, and Time. The December 1940 exhibit of cartoonist Milton Caniff’s original drawings for Terry and the Pirates fetched full-page illustrated features in Life and Newsweek, both boasting of Terry’s tony affiliations with “the swank New York gallery of Julien Levy.”[footnote=76] There one was as likely to spot a Gorky as a Kahlo, a Cornell as a cartoon, a ballet dancer as a blindfolded chess champion, all participating in a transformative history of the gallery by “one of New York’s most fashionable art shops.”[footnote=77]

  • “Ellsworth Kelly” On Paper: The Journal of Prints, Drawings, and Photography. ed. Faye Hirsch and Diane Waldman. New York: Fanning Publishing Company Inc., 1997 (reprint of 1996 original), pp. 50-51

    Ellsworth Kelly

    Essays by Clare Bell, Roberta Bernstein, Carter Ratcliff, Mark Rosenthal, and Diane Waldman. Exhibition history and bibliography by Josette Lamoureaux.

    The timing this fall for the Ellsworth Kelly retrospective, organized by curator Diane Waldman at the Guggenheim Museum, couldn’t have been better in terms of concurrent exhibitions around town. To begin with, there were the Antonin Artaud and Jasper Johns shows at the Museum of Modern Art. Perhaps unexpectedly, Waldman’s catalogue essay indicates that Kelly, who spent his formative years as an American in Paris on the G.I. Bill, had there discovered and admired Artaud’s cursive art. Part writing, part drawing, part magical spell, these obscure and affecting images may appear polar opposites to Kelly’s optimistic abstractions. However, affinities do arise in the privileges each artist accorded the work on paper and processes of automatism associated with Surrealism. The Jasper Johns retrospective afforded an assessment of near-contemporaries–Johns was born in 1930, Kelly in 1923. At various points in their careers, both artists have been associated with the popular movements of the day–from Pop to Minimalism–at the same time that each has eluded labels to pursue his own highly classical, rigorously refined and aesthetic vision of contemporary art. More insights into Kelly’s art could be garnered from the brilliant exhibition of Max Beckmann’s late paintings at the Guggenheim SoHo. In 1948 Beckmann lectured at the Boston Museum School, where Kelly studied and where he may have first been formally introduced to the expressive quality of line that emerges as an organizing principle in his art.

    Before addressing the contents of the Kelly catalogue, words of appreciation are in order for the production of this exceptionally handsome book. As an object, it’s substantial and square, rather like one of its subject’s famous compositions. Kelly’s work is served well by traditional, tripartite organization: essays/pictures/cataloguing details (as opposed to the more integrated approach that characterizes many recent catalogues). But don’t be fooled by this stolid formula. The texts move at a clip, a pace matched by well-edited picture sequences that flow like short films from page to page, in generous margins. These effectively arouse one’s curiosity to ask what, exactly, Antonio Gaudí’s smashed tile work has to do with Kelly’s placid forms, or whether Kelly really designed the fabric for the fabulous Pierre Balmain creation. (Answers to be found in the essays: Gaudí’s use of fragments, which Kelly sees as a significant precursor to Cubism, shaped his own monumental Barcelona public sculpture of 1987, and yes, in 1951 Kelly worked for a Swiss textile company.) There are also, interspersed throughout, some very telling portraits of the artist’s various domains throughout the years, where his collections of indigenous artifacts, from North American birdstones to New England millstones, manifest what he has dubbed an “aura of shape,” a notion that proves key to appreciating Kelly’s own aims.

    In short, these pictorial asides do much to tell the story of Kelly’s art, making recognizable the imagery and issues that significantly inform his approach to abstraction. Five essayists speculate in depth, starting with Waldman, who surveys the artist’s entire career. She places special emphasis on Kelly’s formative years in Paris (1948-54) and on his fellowship (1956-70) with other Coenties Slip artists, including Johns, Agnes Martin, Robert Rauschenberg, and Jack Youngerman. Both factors proved to distance Kelly from the dominant American art of the period, Abstract Expressionism. In France, Kelly had discovered the work of Jean and Sophie Tauber Arp and adopted some of their chance techniques to compose a breakthrough series of collages. Having torn his own drawings of brushstrokes into shreds, Kelly tossed the papers into the air and let them fall into place. Translated into paint, the results were some of the artist’s first important works: CitJ and Mechers (both 1951), whose bold certainty of color and hard edges do not reveal their uncertain inception in the play of chance.

    Waldman considers another somewhat surprising inspiration for Kelly’s art: photography. In the exhibition, Kelly’s black and white photographs stood in relation to the main body of his art like hard evidence. They make the sources of his abstraction explicit: a certain curve refers to the snow-covered crest of a hillside; an acute angle is the pitch of a barn roof. The tattered patchwork of a beach cabana turns into shards of color on a blank ground. (Also surprising was a series of collages that prove how punchy a little torn paper on a postcard can be.) Kelly’s faculty for simplification and containment of images is, similarly, the essence of his contour drawings. As Waldman points out, this comparatively well-known aspect of his oeuvre–his outlines of flowers and foliage are classics in the realm of contemporary works on paper–has been a staple of Kelly’s art since at least 1949, when he limned the form of an old canvas tennis shoe.

    Having covered most of Kelly’s career, Waldman’s essay is followed by Roberta Bernstein on Kelly’s multipanel paintings as they relate to this format in general during the second half of the century. Beckmann is cited–monumental triptychs were the mainstay of his period of exile–and so is Matthias Grünewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece, as fueling Kelly’s own long-standing interest. (Coincidentally, Grünewald’s masterpiece also serves Johns’ art.) However, for the most part, Bernstein sticks closely to the dialogue between Kelly’s sketchbooks and his paintings. Rich and detailed though the paintings may be, formalist art discussed in such overly formalist terms makes for somewhat tedious reading. This reader preferred the fact-riddled, super-minutiae of the author’s 74 footnotes.

    Carter Ratcliff and Mark Rosenthal contribute shorter thematic essays, Ratcliff on curves and Rosenthal on the notion of presence in Kelly’s art. Looking for the “freedom and separateness” that Kelly claims for his art, Ratcliff finds it in spades in the artist’s big, monochromatic curves. Indeed, these works appear to bust out of the pictorial frame of the rectangle and to claim the wall on their own terms. One might read Rosenthal’s essay as a further step along this trajectory, investigated in terms both metaphysical and concrete. Given the idea of separateness, on what ground do we stand as viewers of these presences? Offering Matisse’s Dance I (1909) as a precedent to Kelly’s work, one that broke into the realms of movement, color, and craft, Rosenthal makes a good suggestion: “In contemplating a painting by Kelly, what is required of the viewer is an aesthetic gaze, that is, eyes willing to look upon the artwork and be moved by its mere description.”

    The final essay, by Clare Bell, examines a book project entitled Line, Form and Color that Kelly conceived of in 1951. Based on a series of 40 ink and collage drawings on paper, the textless book was “to be an alphabet of plastic pictorial elements…[It] shall aim at establishing a new scale of painting, a closer contact between the artist and the wall, and a new spirit of painting to accompany modern architecture.” So Kelly wrote in his grant application to the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation in New York. (He hoped that the book project would help distinguish him from the rest of the painter candidates. It may well have: the foundation turned him down.) The publication was never realized, but as Bell points out, the series and its conceptualization proved critical to Kelly’s successive achievements. Through her essay covers ground strangely similar to Waldman’s, Bell’s discussion of Kelly’s art in terms of International Style architecture and her poetical insights into his expatriate experience are valuable. Outside the catalogue, Kelly’s architectural aspirations were indeed well realized in the installation at the Guggenheim, where his work played hard against Frank Lloyd Wright’s idiosyncratic architecture in a brilliant match.

    All of the authors go to unusual lengths to establish Kelly’s contribution to postwar art. We are told in such authoritative terms and in so many ways why he’s not everything from a Cubist to a Minimalist, and why his art is quintessentially American despite the artist’s expressed affinities for Europe. The protest begins to sound suspiciously loud. (Throughout, no one pays any attention to the relationship that exists between Kelly’s abstraction and the work of another francophile compatriot, Alexander Calder.) Perhaps the real point is that labels and movements are by their very nature limiting terms that shouldn’t b expected to define a productive artist’s oeuvre over the course of an entire lifetime. But why split more hairs? Whatever he is, or isn’t Kelly’s art has recently proved the stuff of an exceptional exhibition and catalogue.