Tag: Surrealism

  • “Slim Volume,” Moyra Davey: Burn the Diaries [a supplement]. Philadelphia: Institute for Contemporary Art, University of Pennsylvania; Vienna, Austria: the Museum Moderner Kunst Stiftung Ludwig Wien, 2014, pp. 7-20.

    Slim Volume

    The most remarkable element of this exhibition is a slim volume that could escape notice – not that books are in any way extraordinary in the work of Moyra Davey, an artist and essayist whose photographs, videos, and writings are full of images of them. This, however, is the first time she has ever made a book as an integral part of a new installation. Think of it as a commission, like that of a sculpture. That’s what I told Robert, my Institute of Contemporary Art colleague, and so we portioned the budget accordingly, dedicating the lion’s share – an amount the museum typically spends to pack and ship existing works of art – to the fabrication of Davey’s new publication.

    When you come across this enticing little 104-page paperback in the museum, it may very well look like someone mislaid it in the gallery. Like a pocket edition, Burn the Diaries is designed to be affordable and accessible. It contains two essays and many color photographs, one of the first of which shows a gamine young woman with bangs, reading a book in a subway car. Many of the photographs show details of books (pages, print, spines) and bookscapes (shelved, piled, scattered).

    Davey started out as a photographer in the early 1980s, but reading has become her medium. She has developed a singular body of work in which photography, film, and writing intertwine with her life in what is both a process and practice of reading. Deeply personal and acutely intellectual, the texts she reads range from the writings of Walter Benjamin and Virginia Woolf to the photographs of Peter Hujar; from the films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder to the taped interviews Davey conducts with family and friends; from bottles of prescription medicine to a clump of psychoanalyst’s bills; from shelves loaded with records and stereo equipment to a dust bunny trapped beneath a dog’s paw. All satisfy Davey’s constant and voracious need for reading.

    In a way that is truly discursive, Davey has engaged fellow readers who respond with pleasure, insight, and often surprising candor. The body of writing created in relation to her art stands as one of that art’s achievements. Art historian George Baker, writer Chris Kraus, and curator Helen Molesworth are among the cultural luminaries who have written, by way of Davey’s work, brilliant essays on photography, collecting, archives, illness, abjection, feminism, queer culture, psychoanalysis, motherhood, memory, and, of course, dust. That these are some of the most potent themes of postmodernism – a movement that began in literature, reading everything in culture critically as text – only makes the reading, and the pressure Davey’s art exerts on the writing that mirrors it, more intense.

    In compiling her selected texts, Davey deploys photography and writing to frame, cut, quote, document, and reference – and to print. Print. She uses text – whether delivered as photograph, film, or actual book – to narrate, illuminate, analyze, interrogate, interpret, and even compose her life as an artist. So where does the reading stop and her life begin? This question gets raised early in Burn the Diaries when Davey quotes Pradeep Dalal, an artist friend who once observed critically of Davey’s work: “A part of me… wants to see… writing or reading, as personal and private and pleasurable…. Not everything we do it for art-making.” Dalal goes on to paraphrase Jean Genet’s advice to artists: “that to deepen your practice, it’s not just by studying writing, that it’s actually the other bits – the music, the theater, the film, and other things that all interlock and move you up a notch or two.” Davey’s response is to pick up the work of the French writer, criminal, and political activist and start reading.

    In Burn the Diaries, Davey details dreams had, music listened to, friends interrogated, films watched, memories unleashed, and other episodes of daily life during her reading of Genet. Her writing is structured, as it often is, through short entries, interspersed with quotations and separated by indexical headings, such as SNOW, SLEEP, DISCIPLINE, LIBIDO, GIACOMETTI, MONEY, ALISON.

    The second essay in the book is by Alison Strayer, a translator and writer living in Paris, who corresponds with Davey about her reading. Resistant from the start – “I scribble like a crank, ‘Why Genet?’” – Strayer responds by reaching reflexively for the work of Violette Leduc, another “blazing” outlaw figure of French literature (her writing was censored for its lesbianism). Leduc’s work cries out to be read: “Reader, my reader… stay with me’ is her clarion call [and] I am defeated in advance by her vigor,” Strayer writes of Leduc.

    Strayer oscillated between Davey’s project and a parallel investigation of her own life and reading. It turns out the two women have known each other since childhood, both having grown up in Ottawa. Meanwhile, the copy of Genet’s complete works that Davey is reading – an old Gallimard edition in French – bears an inscription from Strayer to artist Susan Kealey, a mutual friend who was dying when she gave the book to Davey. By the end of her essay, Strayer has accepted Davey’s Genet-reading project, not least because his language shed a blaze of light onto Susan’s diaristic writings (“her style was precise and vibrant”) and on writings as a vital way of life. “At the end of the day,” Strayer writes to Davey, “the diarist, dreamer, writer… seized the words that gallop ahead, or, as you, [Moyra] write, moves a soft lead pencil across a page.”

    Structurally speaking, Burn the Diaries is in many ways simply a plusher version of Davey’s very first book, a small, spiral-bound volume with a short text followed by pages of photographs. Grainy vintage portraits are paired with cold studies of toes (Davey made the feet of her husband, the artist Jason Simon, appear beastly). The text begins with an intimate fantasy about “the serene and the scatological,” then zeroes in on Surrealist philosopher Georges Batailles’s famous writings on the big toe and the nature of eroticism. A dead ringer for a Surrealist document, Davey’s [ages look like they could have come straight out of a book she was reading at the time: L’Amour Fou: Photography and Surrealism (1985) by Rosalind Krauss and Jane Livingston, revelatory for artists and academics alike, opened up a new way of seeing what radical use the Surrealists made of photography as a form of research – that is, of exploring, indexing, and documenting the uncanny, unseen, and theoretical.

    The written component of her thesis exhibition, Object Choices at the University of San Diego in 1986, Davey’s first book was handed in but never shown. It remains in the artist’s possession, lasting proof that exhibitions are even more ephemeral than the documents they produce. Another lesson to abstract from Davey’s written thesis is one she learned as a teacher herself: “In one of the grad programs where I teach, students are required to write a thesis about their work and process. I notice that their photographs become vastly more interesting to me after I read what they’ve written about them: I like seeing their images shrunken and recontextualized, embedded in paragraphs of descriptive text.” Burn the Diaries, the book, makes discerning editorial use of photography, especially because the relationship between words and pictures here is far more associative than descriptive.

    What should not get lost in all of this reading is a sense of the heft and loft of the work itself. Text-based though her practice may be, Davey is an artist who makes objects and exhibitions. Burn the Diaries is not only the title of a book but also the name of the installation in which the book appears on a table, surrounded by a series of photographs printed on the scale of small posters and pinned directly to the walls of the gallery in which Davey’s new film, My Saints, is also shown. When asked how she would like to present the film – a question that has many ramifications, for a digitized medium can be shown on a monitor (what size? on a pedestal? wall mounted?) or as a projection (what’s the throw? how many lumens?) – Davey, ever pragmatic, specified only that there be a comfortable place for viewers to sit.

    These objects and their arrangement distill an entire household full of tables, chairs, books, screens, and couches. Like most pared-down gestures, Davey’s Spartan art has been years in the building. And since she is an artist who works at home, her rendition of gallery space into domestic space is a double occupation that operates on a surprising number of levels. On one, it is a feminist breach of authority to set up a modest life-work situation within the museum’s high cultural precinct. On another, Davey’s installation, though not exactly cozy, encourages us, as viewers, to make ourselves comfortable in the white cube; at the same time, it enforces a certain discipline. Reading requires concentration; to be lost in a book is to forget where you are and to forget even the object in hand (whether hardbound, paperback, or tablet). Similarly, Davey’s photos, film, and book all stand to disappear once viewers become readers within the volume of the gallery. So, quick, snap a picture. Davey’s show seems made, with provisionality in mind, to disappear – leaving in its wake a collection of documents: a book, a film, a stack of photos.

    The exhibition, Burn the Diaries, like the book, is editorial in construction, though perhaps less obviously. All similarly small in format, the photographs are arranged in a sequence of groupings that float – in a grid, a stack, or a line – with plenty of white space in between. The walls of the gallery stand like the pages of a giant picture essay, from which columns of text have been removed.

    The pictures are those Davey made for Burn the Diaries – including some that never actually made it into the book – plus images from past projects that expand on the book’s thematic lines and perennial preoccupations. Here are the dilapidated walls and dusty corners of Davey’s apartment building; here are cemeteries; here are dogs. The latter – portraits, really – Davey considers something of an indulgence (“I think my dogs have a human face,” she says of Rose and Bella’s sensitive gargoyle mugs). And yet, Davey notes, one often stumbles upon graves in the work of Genet, whose shuddering description of a scrawny dog taking a shit she quotes. Indeed, all the pictures hook back to the larger project of reading Genet, which in turn expands on the chapters of Davey’s own past work.

    The photos themselves are examples of her signature “mailers”: C-prints, folded and sent through the post. Each bears the marks of its journey – creases, stamps, spots of brightly colored tape, the name and address of recipient and sender written in ink – across the face of the image. Clearly identified as pieces of correspondence on view in the gallery to be read, mailers as a form entered Davey’s oeuvre almost by chance. She credits her Toronto dealer John Goodwin, long a creative catalyst when it comes to exhibiting her work. In 2007, Goodwin was so smitten with the look of some picture proofs he had asked Davey to fold up and mail to the gallery that he reproduced a facsimile of one as the announcement for her show. As works of art, the mailers were codified two years later when Davey, living in Paris on a residency, was invited by the New York gallery Murray Guy to participate in a group show. Daunted by the logistics and expense of shipping and framing, Davey had a liberating notion: Why not just mail the photographs and exhibit them as the pieces of paper they are?

    Davey hasn’t cut frames out of the picture entirely. One need only look at her early installations to see the strong and indelible presence of frames and framing. Regimented rows of gunmetal-blue steel frames turned her 1994 first gallery show at American Fine Arts in New York into a succinct study in museum display. At her final show at the gallery, a group of unframed photographs under glass was clustered on one wall like the elements of a collage that had drifted outside its frame and burst into a cloud of pictures. That was in 2003, the year dealer Colin de Land died and his gallery closed, in the wake of which Davey became a partner in Orchard, the pioneering space on the Lower East Side.

    Cooperatively run, Orchard brought the many activities of its members – art, music, film, performance, and writing – together in a discursive program of exhibitions and events. In 2006, Davey organized Reality/Play, a group show into which she inserted a screening of a new work of her own that marked her return to film. This curatorial experience, along with her experience of the basic dynamism of Orchard’s program – how others thought about space and used it – heightened Davey’s awareness of her work’s almost obverse relationship to space. Her training as a photographer had inculcated her to see everything within the context of the frame; everything outside it, she says, she simply edits out. Likewise, Davey’s approach to installation seems like that of a picture editor – whom we imagine works on a horizontal surface, say, a bog tabletop – sifting, sorting, cutting, pairing, and grouping images not according to their physical format but in terms of their relationship as images to one another.

    Film is all about editing. At ICA, Davey’s My Saints is shown as she prefers: projected in a dark space with a comfy couch – all the better to envelop us for the thirty-minute duration. In My Saints, artists, friends, and family members (many seated on couches) analyze a passage from Genet’s A Thief’s Journal. With each reading, the text – a scene in which Genet, the thief, watches with increasing detachment the mounting hysteria of a soldier searching for his stolen money – appears newly embodied. Each reader has her or his own individual take, and difference itself is manifested on-screen by the reader’s diverse ages, ethnicities, genders, and cultural backgrounds. Throughout the film, reading, subjectivity, and identity are powerfully linked and nuanced.

    In a sketchy reenactment of Genet’s text, scenes show cash being hidden and moved around Davey’s apartment, where her films are mostly shot. The first perp is her son, Barney. Now a teenager, he has been part of his mother’s work since he was born. (Davey’s first published book was the anthology Mother Reader, which she started to edit shortly after giving birth.) In My Saints, Barney stashes the cash in a book, which his mother later rifles through, only to find the money gone. In another scene, a violent game of tug-of-war between Barney’s father and the family dog is witnessed through a shadow play of silhouettes, cast across a bookcase in a sunny rom. The churning light and wild joy are as disruptive as a dream, as love.

    The film is an essay, structured in short episodes separated by titles, like the book with which the film shares narrative passages (Davey reading them in voice-over) and quotes (colorful typography on-screen). All three components – books, film, and photographs – contain overlapping material, though each has its own special scope and thrust. Unique to the film, for instance, are the interviews, which lightly play off a cinematic reference to Roam 666, Wim Wender’s 1982 documentary comprising a series of interviews with various people who respond to the same question about the future of film.

    We could keep going deeper into the processes of looking, cross-referencing analyzing, and interpreting that every frame, picture, and page invites. Certainly Davey’s arrangement – the couch, the table, the chair – has made us comfortable enough as viewers to settle down into the work of reading that she as an artist does every day. But we are almost out of time. We will have to limit our reading to just two passages, both from the film.

    “That was the hook,” Davey says near the beginning of My Saints, shortly after Dalal refers to Genet. Cut to a rickety ceiling fan, blades rotating, a little chain hanging down; enter, from below, Davey’s pale feet, followed by her long thin legs, reaching toward the ceiling then sticking up, midair. It’s just a little yoga, but so much else is there too, not least the artist’s own body. Davey has disclosed that she has been diagnosed with a degenerative disease, making both her frailty and her strength relative signs of the illness she lives with. Then there is the word “hooked,” offering a flash of legs hauled up and a body hanging like meat. To be hooked, of course, speaks of addiction (hooked on sex, drugs, booze, jazz, or Genet), the specific substance largely determining whether we’re talking attachment or abuse. Once you’re attuned, “hooked” is everywhere in Davey’s work, the word itself hooking together references, images, details, and texts into a powerful network, or safety net, holding art and life together by the delicate threads of strenuous reading.

    The second passage comes nearly at the end of the film. Davey and Strayer are on the phone, winding up their Genet reading project. “I kind of thought it was a money and shit thing,” Strayer says. “Can you comment?” The camera pans over black-and-white photographs Davey took in 1984 during a trip the pair made to Budapest, then stops on a portrait of Strayer gazing straight at the lens. Yes, Davey responds, at first she thought her reading of Genet was fairly typical, until she began hearing how much it differed from others’: only then did it “allow me to tap into memories… of my own sadism and my own tightfistedness.” Davey lets go a disarming chuckle, then declares, “You’re the first, Alison, to turn the table on me.”

    But the jig was up long ago. From the start, Davey’s work has depicted a complex imagery of that classic combination of money and shit, imagery that psychoanalysts read (and Bataille wrote about) in terms of excess and expenditure, abandon and control. Copperheads (1990), her uncannily enlarged portraits of old pennies, for instance, could not show lucre to be filthier. Her first film, Hell Notes (1990), starred Simon and Davey in the story of a wife whose money madness turns a couple’s life to shit – a Super 8 mm rendition of Erich von Stroheim’s silent classic Greed. Elsewhere she relates what a shrink once told her about paper and ink (smearing, pulpy, both inherently anal), offers tidbits from a cocktail-party conversation about laxatives, and gives a narrative of the family refrigerator, stocked weekly with nourishment and garbage, that is, frankly, twisted. In short, Strayer’s suspicion/insight seems consistent with Davey’s work as a whole.

    To be fair, it was Davey who first turned the table on Strayer. It may be mock horror, but when Strayer receives Davey’s photograph of a thin slice of a fat biography of Genet on a dinner plate, “with a troubling wash of pink on a napkin,” Strayer exclaims, “Scandale!” It’s Davey’s habit to cut books into portion that will make them more manageable to read, say, on the subway. Strayer may be more reverent, but she’s no less morbid; to illustrate her essay, Strayer sends a snapshot of her unfinished novel lying in state, under a body. Burn, eat, flesh, fuel. Like all writing, diaries consume time, energy, calories, turning life into nourishment for others. Close the book, set it back down on the table, where it turns into a small Surrealist object, a trompe l’oeil stack of books and papers with a plate stashed between the pages. A slim volume, for sure, but make a meal of it.

  • “Portrait of an Art Dealer.” Introduction to Julien Levy, Memoir of an Art Gallery. Boston: Museum of Fine Arts, 2003 (reprint of 1977 original), pp. ix-xxi.

    Portrait of an Art Dealer

    From 1931 to 1949, Julien Levy’s New York gallery played an essential role in the shift of the avant-garde from Paris to America. It championed experimental film and photography and served as a venue for artists fleeing Europe and Hitler. It presented the first New York exhibitions of artists such as Henri Cartier-Bresson, Joseph Cornell, Frida Kahlo, Salvador Dalí, Arshile Gorky, Lee Miller, René Magritte, and Dorothea Tanning, all the while promoting a vision of art at its broadest. There were “idea shows” suggested by such critical thinkers as André Breton and Marcel Duchamp, as well as shows about fashion, design, dance, popular culture (Walt Disney and Gracie Allen both showed here), and even music (including a performance by Paul Bowles). In bridging the gap between Gilbert Seldes’s early modern model of the “seven lively arts” and today’s more academic “visual studies,” the activities of the Julien Levy Gallery spark electric. It is also a place to watch as the identity of the art gallery as a commercial institution takes shape, from a near-curiosity shop (books, prints, and lampshades were among the first wares) to a contemporary art gallery: naked, white, and modern. All this history argues for the need to read Levy’s memoirs afresh. But there remains a simpler reason for picking up Memoir of an Art Gallery: Julien Levy tells it as he lived it, with wit and appetite. This is a book that deals in sensual adventure, which is exactly what you hear in Levy’s voice, whether written or spoken.

    The first time I heard Levy speak was in a WABC radio recording, aired on June 11, 1938, and now in the collection of the Museum of Broadcasting. People who knew Julien Levy often speak of his voice, which I listened for and heard twice in the course of researching the exhibition “Julien Levy: Portrait of an Art Gallery.”[footnote=1] Named after the memoirs now being introduced, “Portrait of an Art Gallery” aimed to conjure the dynamism of a transitional period in American art history through the doings of this maverick art dealer. In the WABC broadcast, Levy was defining the art movement with which his name was synonymous: “Sur-RAIL-ism.” Or so he pronounced it, in a voice inflected as much by his upper-middle class New York upbringing, as by his years doing business in Paris, as well as by cigarettes, cocktails, and a sophisticated sense of culture. In short, it was deep, smoky, and a little affected. The next time I heard his voice, it had aged a few decades, and now when Levy said the word, it was as if a train was rumbling right through the middle of it: surrrrrrrRRRAILLLLLLism. He was narrating a short film called Surrealism Is…, in which he also starred. The film was made as a project with students at SUNY Purchase, where, late in his life, Levy had plans—which never came to pass—to establish a Center for Surrealist Studies. The class appears to have been psychedelic in form: hippyish-looking students conducting experiments in creative automatism outdoors in the open fields around Levy’s house, or playing indoors with his collection of Surrealist art and other curiosities.

    Levy presides over the film, a grand wizard imparting his life’s work to a new generation. For that is what his commitment amounted to—much more than just the art of his day, something he sold as part of his job, Surrealism was an avocation to which he was dedicated. You hear it in his recital of the movement’s definitions, poems, and erotic prayers.

    “A little more than green and less than blond,” he intones after Paul Eluard and Benjamin Péret’s 1925 proverbs. “What is Day?,” an indoctrinated student recites from a 1928 dialogue. “A woman bathing nude at nightfall.” You see it in Levy’s surroundings; besides being chock full of art treasures—there are Max Ernst’s collages and frottages, Alberto Giacometti’s sculpture On ne joue plus, and Dali’s painting Accommodations of Desire—the shelves are loaded with the kinds of optical devices, found objects, and natural artifacts through which the uncanny expressed itself every day to properly attuned Surrealists. The movement’s love of games is evinced by a chess board, evocative of the ones made by artists for the gallery’s 1944 exhibition “The Imagery of Chess.” Indeed, Levy liked to imply that where he failed as a businessman, he succeeded as a collector. But this seems too modest an account of the active devotion with which Levy practiced Surrealism during his entire life. “Pop art is a neo-Surrealism,” he concludes toward the end of the film.

    A rakishly elegant man in his youth, Levy in the film appears (and sounds) aged into a regal wreck of the figure described by the dealer James B. Meyers: “Julien Levy reminds me of Antonin Artaud, probably because I had seen a photograph of Julien with a shaved head, which Berenice Abbott had taken years before in Paris. He is intelligent and handsome with a profile rivaling that of the great actor John Barrymore.”[footnote=2] (Note Barrymore’s bad behavior in the memoir to come: he pees on a painting by Max Ernst.) The shaved head also deserves further comment. Levy claimed that he was following a folk wisdom to rejuvenate his scalp by rubbing bear grease into it. He also liked to say that Marcel Duchamp had put him up to it, by saying that shaved heads were quite the thing among the radical chic in Paris in 1928.

    Levy’s devotion to Surrealism was seconded only by what he called his “hero-worshipping” of Duchamp and Alfred Stieglitz, whom he claimed as his godfathers in art. Both men were high priests of early Modernism. Prone to sermonizing and wearing capes, Stieglitz instructed Levy (along with the countless other acolytes who would sit at his feet) to be reverent, especially of photography—then a new medium of dubious aesthetic standing. More profanely, Duchamp inducted the young man into the living pleasures of bohemia when he invited him to tag along on a trip to Paris. On board ship, the two men speculated on the makings of a self-lubricating mechanical woman and discussed plans to shoot a film using Man Ray’s equipment. As told in the memoir, the film was never made, but the trip altered the course of Levy’s life. Both Stieglitz and Duchamp were also artists, dealers, publishers, curators, writers, and lovers of printed matter—all inclinations they passed along to Levy. Besides running a gallery for almost nineteen years, Levy wrote extensively (including a beautiful proto-history of Surrealism in 1936 and monographs on Eugéne Berman and Arshile Gorky)[footnote=3] and helped create exhibitions throughout his life (such as “The Disquieting Muse” at the Contemporary Art Museum in Houston in 1958). All of his own shows were accompanied by brochures that announced not only the exhibition but a high sense of style as well. As an artist, Levy was purely an amateur, but he did make a few short Surrealist-style films in the 1930s, including a romp with Max Ernst set at Caresse Crosby’s mill retreat outside Paris, and exquisite portraits, full of motion, of Mina Loy shopping at the marché aux paces and of Lee Miller.

    Memoir of an Art Gallery proves Julien Levy to be an excellent raconteur as well. He knows the value of exaggeration and elision when it comes to crafting the better story. And this is precisely how the book is constructed—tales of luminaries like James Joyce and Giorgio de Chirico, and incendiary episodes such as “Duchamp’s Kiss” and “Walpurgisnacht Chez Tzara.” Each chapter becomes its own piece in a lapidary account that leaves, as all remembrances do, gaps and fissures. To till in some of these gaps, let’s add a little more family background. Julien Sampson Levy was born in New York on January 22, 1906, the oldest of three, with a brother Edgar (Ned) and sister Elizabeth. His mother, Isabelle Estelle Isaacs, had been orphaned as a child and was raised by an uncle, who would co-found the first English-language newspaper for Jews in America. For generations, the Isaacs had been a prominent Jewish family; Rabbi Samuel M. Isaacs read over Abraham Lincoln’s funeral cortege when it passed through New York. Levy’s father, Edgar, who was also raised in the city, had first studied art before becoming a successful lawyer and real estate entrepreneur. He and his partners, including Isabelle’s cousin Stanley Isaacs (later a borough president of Queens), were among the first to develop luxury apartment buildings along Park Avenue. Later in life, Edgar’s real estate empire would obviously aid his son’s desire to set up shop in Manhattan. Both parents, in fact, seem to have had much to do with Levy’s becoming an art dealer. And though Julien depicts his father as a philistine, the elder Levy collected art and dabbled in painting, and also seems to have had a genuine sympathy for his son’s interest in art. Furthermore, as much as Julien sides against his conventional parent and acts like a bohemian, he never truly rejected Edgar’s bourgeois tastes or values. He was, as most Surrealists were, an armchair radical.

    Julien’s mother doted on her oldest son. When as a boy he contracted rheumatic fever, the family moved to Scarsdale, where Levy attended the progressive Roger Ascham School before enrolling at Harvard University. Harvard, unlike the rest of the Ivy League, admitted Jews; Levy’s mother had attended Harvard’s sister college Radcliffe, where her ties later proved useful in helping her son find his way out of an English major and into the study of art. During the summer of Levy’s freshman year, his mother was run over and killed. According to the local newspaper’s obituaries, “Mrs. Levy, accompanied by a Mr. Jacobson, was walking toward Mamaroneck road when an automobile…bore down upon them, crashing into both. The automobile knocked Mrs. Levy down passing over her.” “As she lingered over her fatal injury, her one concern was the welfare of her husband and children,” another one wrote, “and her sole regret was that they would be deprived of such service and comfort as might have been able to render to them, had she been spared a few years more.” Still a third noted that “Mrs. Levy was a member of the Women’s Club and frequently seen in productions by the Wayside Players and the Fireside Players.”

    Buried in these shards are a woman’s creative aspirations. But what is most glaring is the fact that, however violently it rent through his life, Julien’s mother’s death reads largely as an absence from his memoirs. It’s the absence filled, or at least marked, by the intense attachment Levy formed for his mother-in-law, the poet and painter Mina Loy, whose own glamour and sense of personal drama were part of the mythology of the Paris scene during the 1920s.[footnote=4] The fact that she was the widow of one of Duchamp’s heroes, the Dada poet and boxer Arthur Cravan, who disappeared at sea, only heightened her mystique. More than a muse (and less than a mother), Loy is certainly a complicated figure in Levy’s early life as an art dealer and as a husband to her daughter Joella. During their marriage, Joella efficiently ran the day-to-day operations of the gallery in New York, while Loy (flightily) acted as Levy’s agent in Paris. Nurtured by both, Levy was indulged as a son, lover, boss, partner, and proud father of three sons—until Joella left him in 1937 due to his drinking and philandering. At the time of his death, Levy was reported to have been at work editing the voluminous correspondence he kept up with his mother-in-law throughout the rest of her life.[footnote=5]

    But the story is getting ahead of us. Back at Harvard, after his mother’s death, Levy continued on the path she had set for him, which notably included Paul Sachs’s king-making course for museum professionals, “Museum Work and Museum Problems.” There he met Alfred Barr, Jr., Philip Johnson, and Lincoln Kirstein, all to be affiliated with the Museum of Modern Art, and A. Everett (Chick) Austin, Jr., the future director of the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, among others. Of this institution-bound group, Levy distinguished himself by quitting a semester before graduation in order to try to get a job in the movies (he was besotted with Gloria Swanson). When running errands as a prop boy for Columbia Studios in New York failed to match his aspirations, however, he returned to his initial interest in art. Knocking around the galleries with his father, Levy met Duchamp, who was then acting as Brancusi’s agent. The two formed a friendship, and in February 1927 Levy embarked with Duchamp for Paris on that fateful trip. Returning six months later, he arrived home with his new bride Joella and, among other things, their wedding gift from Brancusi, The Newborn, a bronze head now in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art. Levy’s Paris plunge instilled an ambition to open his own gallery in New York—an ambition that his father agreed to support, provided his son serve a proper apprenticeship. And so from 1928 to 1931, Levy worked as an assistant at the Weyhe Gallery, which specialized in rare books and prints, and where he had his first experience as a dealer, presenting photographs by Eugène Atget.

    On November 2, 1931, Julien Levy opened his own art gallery with tribute to Alfred Stieglitz and American photography. Following that, he went on to present a basically European avant-garde aesthetic and culture, thereby establishing himself as the middleman between artists and collectors, a pioneering purveyor of wares to the Modernist institutions being developed by his former classmates. Throughout the 1930s and 40s, all of the major museums interested in acquiring cutting-edge contemporary art bought from Levy. It is interesting, then, to take note of the prejudices that attach themselves to Levy’s mercantile enterprise. Writing for Vogue, one journalist described him in nearly Fagin-esque terms: “His keen and almost glittering eye, focused on the Parisian scene, may discover this decade’s Cézanne at any moment—a possibility that keeps him and his clients slightly feverish at all times.”[footnote=6] Written in 1938, this statement serves to remind us that the Germans were certainly not alone in their anti-Semitism. Levy, for his part, resented the secondary status accorded dealers within the echelons of the art world, which clearly benefited from their vision and risks.

    Then again, he himself did not always give credit where it was due. One of his gallery’s claims to fame is that in January 1932 it hosted “Surréalisme,” the first exhibition devoted to the movement in New York. This much is true, but it short-shrifts the importance of Chick Austin’s earlier “Newer Super-Realism,” held at the Wadsworth Atheneum, albeit to less public fanfare than Levy’s show, which won a huge New York audience and national press. The two shows ended up being collaborative in that they shared many (though not all) of the same works. But the fact remains that Austin’s show was its own initiative, and by opening on November 15, 1931, it could rightfully claim to be the first exhibition of Surrealism in America.[footnote=7]

    There are several other claims worth tempering. The first is small and involves Levy’s “discovery” of Joseph Cornell. It’s an excellent story about Cornell—and he probably was a most gray young man—stopping by the gallery to look at photographs, only to become, at the behest of the dealer, the first home-grown American Surrealist. What’s missing, however, is any indication of how deliberate and thorough Cornell was in his haunting of New York’s art world. Perhaps Levy, like most of Cornell’s contacts, had no idea how well-connected this most discrete of artists was. If anything, Cornell may have seen in the dealer a potential advocate for his own interests in photography and collage. Indeed, over time, Cornell worked hard to distance himself from his original identification with Surrealism, which he came to see as a form of black magic. (And he seems to have never forgiven Levy for scheduling all of his gallery exhibitions around Christmas time, the better to flog Cornell’s collage objects as toys for adults.)

    Then there’s Levy’s purported rescue of Eugène Atget’s great photographic archive of Paris. Levy slightly glorifies his early investment in and enthusiasm for the work, at the expense of Berenice Abbott’s essential role. An American photographer based in Paris, Abbott physically prevented this vast collection of plate-glass negatives and prints from being pitched in 1928 into the dustbin of history. Long after Levy’s interest had waned, she continued to make it part of her life’s work to care for and promote the archive, finally landing it a place in the Museum of Modern Art, where it exists as the Abbott-Levy Collection, in 1968. Still, to be fair, Abbott was no less proprietary against Levy’s claims, and Cornell’s championship by Levy was absolutely critical to launching his career, so these revisions to Levy’s memoirs have more to do with tone than with fact.

    And who knows if, as a fledgling gallerist, Julien Levy actually invented the gallery press release and the cocktail party opening? No such patents exist. But the dealer’s claims to priority seem worth defending. Levy’s gallery certainly made art openings, which had hitherto been insular affairs for collectors, into public events that anyone could attend simply out of interest in seeing something new. This is one of the greatest pleasures of Memoir of an Art Gallery: its snapshot depictions of a cultural scene in which, it seemed, anything could happen. Between the wars, not only was the art world much smaller, but with the economy in Depression there was considerably less at stake. There were opportunities for experimentation, and openness in general about what culture could be. Pay attention to all that Levy embarks on, either in hopes of making money or achieving fame. Among his freshest schemes were: Swiss Cheese cloth (his plan to print photographs onto utilitarian objects and materials);[footnote=8] the curved gallery wall (his second gallery location featured an undulating wall upon which works of art seemed to unfurl as viewers moved by them); the gallery caravan (in 1941, Levy took his stock on the road to San Francisco, then Los Angeles, in hopes of drumming up West Coast collectors); Salvador Dalí’s “Dream of Venus” (a Surrealist funhouse for the 1939 World’s Fair); and “The Carnival of Venice” (the gallery’s 1933 exhibition of photographs by Max Ewing of celebrities, socialites, and friends aping in front of a painted Venetian backdrop—Warholian photo-booth-ography thirty years before Pop!).

    On a much darker note, throughout the gallery’s history there are the undercurrents of accident, alcohol, guilt, and depression that appear twisted into this memoir’s silences. Most tragically, in recounting Arshile Gorky’s suicide, Levy isn’t altogether clear that it occurred only a month after he had injured them both in a car crash in which Gorky’s neck and painting arm were both broken. Levy recounts the episode like a cineaste’s dream, starting with chickens and brakes squawking, and ending with the closing of the Julien Levy Gallery in 1949, a year after Gorky’s death. Here, as in some other places, Levy’s account seems too pat, too remote, to convey the true shades of personal memory. It also downplays the downspin of his business, which had been growing steadily out of touch with the latest advancements in art. Uninterested in Abstract Expressionism, Levy stood by Surrealism, to be eclipsed by dealers who maintained more current visions: Pierre Matisse, Sidney Janis, and Betty Parsons among them. But such is the case with good story telling and storytellers—they invite further unraveling.

    First published in 1977, Memoir of an Art Gallery closes with Gorky’s last words, echoed here by Levy in tribute to the history of his gallery: “Good-bye my ‘loveds’.” However, the story hardly ends here. Levy’s 1944 marriage to his second wife, the sculptor Muriel Streeter, ended in divorce. On January 20, 1957, in Bridgewater, Levy married Jean Farley McLaughlin, to whom he dedicated this book, and who remains devoted to preserving her husband’s memory. Until he died in 1981, at the age of seventy-five, Levy remained an engaged emissary of Surrealism. In his later years, he cultivated a Stieglitz-like habit of wearing capes. No doubt he cut a daunting silhouette on his regular visits to New York, where he kept up with contemporary art (he saw Surrealism in the work of artists as diverse as Joseph Beuys and Tom Wesselman) and collaborated with his fellow dealers (including Richard Feigen and Leo Castelli) to show and sell work from his collection. In the late 1970s, Levy was introduced to curator David Travis of the Art Institute of Chicago. Apparently, when the gallery closed Levy had a lot of leftover photography inventory, notably hundreds of works by Jacques-André Boiffard, Lee Miller, Robert Parry, Man Ray, Maurice Tabard, and others. Forty years later, these prints emerged from storage to constitute a virtual missing history—occluded from both photography and Modernism—of Surrealist photography. During Levy’s lifetime, a large number of works were acquired by the AIC to form the Julien Levy Collection. More recently, in 2001, the Philadelphia Museum of Art acquired through gifts by Levy’s widow and Lynne and Harold Honickman all of the remaining photographs from Levy’s estate to establish the Julien Levy Collection of Photographs.

    What became of other effects of the gallery’s history? Key elements found their way to private and public collections: Cornell’s L’Egypte de Mlle Cléo de Mérode cours élémentaire d’histoire naturelle to the Robert Lehrman Collection, Washington, D.C.; Max Ernst’s Vox Angelica to the Daniel Filpacchi Collection, Paris; Dalí’s Persistence of Memory to The Museum of Modern Art, New York; Giacometti’s On ne joue plus to the Nasher Sculpture Center, Dallas; Gorky’s New Hope Road to the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston; Frida Kahlo’s Self-Portrait Dedicated to Trotsky to the National Museum of Women in the Arts, Washington, D.C.; Pavel Tchelitchew’s Phenomenon to the Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow; Dorothea Tanning’s Guardian Angels to the New Orleans Museum of Art, and so forth out into the world.[footnote=9]

    And what of the papers? In compiling his memoirs, Levy gathered his archives around him, including brochures, reviews, and other related ephemera, to work in a small writing studio on his Connecticut property. It’s unclear how the fire began, but much of the material was destroyed either by flames or water. Whatever could be swept up was saved in a storage area attached to the house, and considered basically inaccessible due to its poor condition. This is not to say that all was lost, and indeed, recent efforts to process what does remain have turned up some astounding stuff. By way of example, let me end with my own story. Last year, I was working on a book about Salvador Dalí’s “Dream of Venus” pavilion, a story in which Levy naturally plays a leading role. I had all but completed my research when the treasures started emerging from the nooks and crannies of Jean and Julien’s house. They included such things as a gramophone record called Dream of Venus (labeled as a recitation by actress Ruth Ford and an accompanying chorus for the World’s Fair), a typed manuscript for the same (“Behold! I am Venus! I am the most beautiful woman in the world!”), a list of rejected names for the concession (“Dalí Trance Forms” and “Dalí’s Wet Dreams” among the lamest), and, most astonishingly, photographs of a strange studio session that involved dressing live models in dead seafood for an unrealized photo-mural. And it didn’t all offer itself at once, but as if summoned piece-by-piece, just in time to fuel the narrative I was in the process of constructing.

    You might call this surreal and leave it at that: Julien himself evidently cherished such coincidences. The real point is that much remains to be known and written about Julien Levy, about his life, his work, his influence as an important American art dealer, and his far-reaching, often arcane interests. His memoirs only begin to tell the tales.

     

  • “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.

  • “Apres Exquis” The Return of the Cadavre Exquis, ed. Jane Philbrick. New York: The Drawing Center, 1993, pp. 43-71.

    Apres Exquis

    Walter Benjamin, a connoisseur of radical montage, wrote, “The father of surrealism was dada; its mother was an arcade.”[footnote=1] Seen in this light the cadavre exquis, surrealism’s abject offspring is a visual department store disgorged of its goods, an assembly line of absurd–at times, sublime–expressions. So how, one may well ask, do we read it?

    One heeds in the interpretation of original cadavre exquis drawings a caution against too singular a reading, a caution which the works themselves support. With only a few important exceptions, historic cadavre exquis have been exhibited as secondary works, treated within the larger context of surrealist games and automatism.[footnote=2] Much has been written on technique. Famous sessions have been documented, but there is very little in print about individual cadavres. [footnote=3] For the most part, these works exist as uninterpreted records, novel apparitions of point sublime, that spot on the distant horizon where everything–rational and irrational, conscious and unconscious, abstract and concrete–converge.

    One of the first guides to this surrealist arcadia was Julien Levy’s book Surrealism, published in 1936 by the legendary Black Sun Press. Bound with jacket covers by Joseph Cornell, and printed on a rainbow of colored paper, this book sings like a synthetic scrapbook of surrealist precepts and personages. It contains, under headings such as CINEMA, FETICHISM, and BEHAVIOR, everything from the screenplay for the Luis Buñuel/Salvador Dalí film, Un Chien Andalou, to a passage from Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams, from pictures of work by Max Ernst to poems by Paul Eluard. For surveying the aftermath of “The Return of the Cadavre Exquis,” Levy’s approach seems a ready model. Allow the fragments to take issue, to form, and fall as they will, although today these fragments do not coalesce at point sublime.

     

    Surrealism

    In 1916 Guillaume Apollinaire named a poetic spirit adrift throughout the ages “surrealism.”[footnote=4] By its first historical account, recorded in Levy’s books, surrealism claimed amongst its forebears the Marquis de Sade ”in sadism,” Edgar Allen Poe “in adventure,” Rimbaud “in life and elsewhere.”[footnote=5] Others include the satiric illustrator de Granville, the symbolist writer Isidore Ducasse (a.k.a., compte de Lautréamont), the photographer of Paris Atget. Those ordained: the Marx Brothers, and Frida Kahlo, who coyly commented upon her own induction, “I never knew I was a surrealist till André “ Breton came to Mexico and told me I was.”[footnote=6] Working outside Breton’s jurisprudence, David Lynch’s ant’s-eye-view, Angela Carter’s violet pornography, Bob Dylan’s tombstone blues, and virtual reality could also be called surrealist.

    As called forth by “The Return of the Cadavre Exquis,” surrealism’s essence, a montage of irresolute fragments, appears impossible to contain. Teased by Linda Herritt, surrealism’s coif, stiff as shellacked drapery, tumbles down in the luxuriant fall of Millie Wilson’s hairpiece. Its head is buried alive by Jim Shaw under a mound of delicately rendered octopi. (The image of an octopus recurs as legs in a photogram by Kunie Sugiura.) Drawn by Lawrence Gipe  (p.42), the face of a freight train comes to light, only to be extinguished by Lawrence Weiner, who attributes to surrealism no feature at all. Sporting a dirty velvet cumberbund, courtesy Maurizio Pellegrin, with Kavin Buck’s body of text, surrealism’s sex in indeterminate, but–as Don Ed Hardy would have it–voracious, or, even–according to John Wesley (p. 49)–orgiastic. Standing back for the panoramic view, surrealism’s style is both elegantly calligraphic and compulsively blunt. Language colloquial. Surrealism is humorous, certainly sports a tattoo, may have served time in prison, frequently stalks on animal legs.

     

    Surrealisms

    Author of the movement’s polemics, André Breton was surrealism’s inspired leader and tyrannical prince. It’s ironic and indicative of surrealist spirit that Breton, who attempted to encode it, define it, even determine its politics, was ultimately eluded by it Enervated by Salvador Dali’s remarkable imagery and exasperated by his behavior, Breton dispelled Dali from the ranks of the surrealists in 1934. And yet in the popular mind it’s Dali who is most closely linked with historic surrealism. In retrospect and of late, Georges Bataille, now seen as surrealism’s critical author, has similarly displaced Breton.[footnote=7]

    Whereas Breton’s surrealism distills itself into objects–a bowler hat, a biscuit, a woman’s glove–Bataille envisions it as an image of diffusion, an excess of energy that obscures containment. He called this the “informe,” and ascribed it with the “job” of rendering the formed object, idea, emotion or sign into a state of formlessness.

    Formless is thus not merely an adjective with such and such a meaning but a term for lowering status with its implied requirements that everything have form. Whatever it (formless) designates lacks entitlement in every sense and is crushed on the spot, like a spider or an earthworm.[footnote=8]

    The surrealist movement governed by Breton tends to reside resonantly in particulars–clocks, dolls, and found objects–which are themselves dated in appearance. However, as conjured by Bataille, surrealism is transgressive. It exceeds the parameters of time, the strictures of space, and is thereby elusive.

    Both surrealisms have come into play during the course of this game. Sometimes as direct bodily evocations. After Man Ray’s famous photographic portrait comes a drawing Breton’s by Steve Wolfe of André Breton’s head. Cindy Bernard uses the text of Bataille’s “Big Toe,” which declares this appendage to be the most human part of the body.

    Other times, these two surrealists appear as oblique points of reference: Bretonian collage, displacement, found objects are drawn together with Bataille’s tattoos, scars, animism, diaspora, and pictures of spiritual ecstasy. The former is captured in a drawing, rich with nostalgia, by starts with a poem and ends with collage on little cat feet. Elements of the latter surrealism are lodged in the hectic, scribbled drawing which hovers over an image of mannequin legs akimbo in the cadavre by Alan Turner, Carroll Dunham, and Laurie Simmons.

    At its most poetic, this game remains as Breton intended it–and Bataille may have played it–with critical spirits expelled on holiday, an informal evocation of surreal transforms Bretons game of cadavre exquis into a post-modern possibility.

     

    Games

    Play might be considered the discipline of this century. Voicing every thought that came to mind, Sigmund Freud played by the rules of free-association to enter into the realm of his own unconscious and thereby formulate a modern picture of the mind. Likening their exhilarating progress to mountain picture of the mind. Likening their exhilarating progress to mountain climbing and aviation, Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso worked closely and competitively to invent Cubism, opening pictorial space up to radical speculation and abstraction. Albert Einstein called it relativity. Accomplishing a similar feat in the field of linguistics, Ferdinand de Saussure–himself an avid anagram player–re-envisioned the structure of language after the game of chess by equating words with game pieces, each dependent on the play of context for meanings mutable and strategic. For Foucault, this notion of language as an object of knowledge open to historical change and arbitrary deformation marks the inception of the modern era.

    Consider the knight in chess. Is the piece by itself an element of the game? Certainly not. For as a material object separated from its square on the board and the other conditions of play, it is of no significance for the player. It becomes a real, concrete element only when it takes on or becomes identified with its value in the game.

    -Ferdinand de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics (1906-11)

    Play is the essence of abstract thinking and creative invention, a form of behavior with no anticipated goals or results other than pleasure itself. In the wild, young animals frisk about as a way of learning how to behave. For almost the exact opposite reason, we humans continue to romp as adults in order to refresh our minds and bodies from the restrictions of routine approaches and activities. As an alternative to the conduct that led a world to war, dada gambled on misbehavior in order to transgress all etiquette and establish a new cultural (dis)order.

    With the [surrealist] movement firmly entrenched, we met nearly every day at each other’s homes or in cafés chosen in the least artistic or bohemian quarters of Paris, to discuss future activities and publications…There were questionnaires on various subjects: sex, love, what was the most fateful encounter in one’s life, etc. Sometimes a poet would go into a trance and write automatically, producing astonishing phrases full of anagrams and puns. Or we would simply play games, everyone participating. – Man Ray, Self Portrait, 1963

    Applying themselves more systematically to this project, the surrealists adopted games as a form of experimentation. They played hard at scores of word and picture games in order to escape what they knew and discover what could be imagined.[footnote=9] Making art in this vein, Alberto Giacometti constructed his series of sculptural game boards in the thirties. Max Ernst’s late sculptures are iconic chessboard figures. Disciples of the European avant-garde, the American abstract expressionists also dutifully played surrealist games.

    Not exactly a team player, Marcel Duchamp allegedly abandoned art–with all its knowable forms–for chess. It is interesting to note that in formulating a theory of games, the mathematician John Neumann discounted chess. As it relies on tactics that are short term “if” actions, with calculable results, it doesn’t resemble those real games we constantly play in life, which are based on strategies or more open-ended “what-if” abstractions.[footnote=10] Though very few people play chess these days, such enigmatic strategies have endured. Aleatoric, what-if abstractions structured art of the sixties and seventies, making it spontaneous and lifelike. Daring silence, John Cage invited chance to play in the midst of his piano performances. Jean Tingley’s self destructive sculptures played themselves to death. Games such as these moved art into real time and space.  

    [During the Twenties] There was a great vogue for games of all sorts…crossword puzzles, mahjongg, and innumerable card games. There was also a vogue for “tests.” One of the most popular of these consisted of turning up a woman’s handbag and describing her personality from the heterogeneous contents. -Armand Lanoux, Paris in the Twenties, 1960

    As so evidently portrayed here, the artworld’s facture has grown increasingly dispersed, its community decentralized and insular. As we so well discovered during the process of this project, ferreting artists out of their studios all over the world, there are no cafe-headquarters. In turn, the nature of play has changed. Presaged by such (surrealist) examples as Claude Cahun’s gender-bending photographs and Leonor Fini’s performance-art approach to life, these games seem based more on role-playing and autobiography than on movements and conquest The big games are now, in fact, small ones, inspired by those private (often childish) forms of amusement one tends to pursue alone, like dress-up, dolls, and make-believe. Forfeiting the utopian, or merely grouped-minded, aspects of earlier pursuits, players today scrimmage, not by prescribed rules, but according to personal whim and individual preference.

    L’huitre du sénégal mangera le pain tricolore. The Senegalese oyster will eat the tricolor bread. –cadavre exquis

    So why, less than ten years short of the new millennium, do we reenact this early twentieth-century game? In retrospect of “The Return of the Cadavre Exquis,” experimental intentions come forward, but initially we played in pious keeping with orthodox surrealism. Because it’s fun.

    If there is one activity in Surrealism which has most invited the derision of imbeciles, it is our playing of games…Although as a defensive measure we sometimes described such activity as “experimental” we were looking to it primarily for entertainment, and those rewarding discoveries it yielded in relation to knowledge only came later. — André Breton, 1954[footnote=11]

     

    Collaboration

    “All our collaborators must be handsome so we can publish their portraits.” –Réné Magritte[footnote=12]

    As a joint venture, collaboration defies logic: the whole is not equal to the sum of its parts. The total picture stands to topple over if the cadavre exquis is all earrings or individual organs fail to communicate. Rather, collaboration is a dialectical process. What is shared counts as much as that which has been withheld? The creative outcome of a successful collaboration is a new work, independent of any single contribution. In a collaboration by Christian Marclay, Olivier Mosset, and Alix Lambert, a pair of sutured lips, two green stripes, and a pair of legs cemented into one clay foot yields an image of thwarted expression, an evocation of censorship not one of its parts belie (p. 55).

    So good-natured by name, collaboration is not entirely generous in spirit.[footnote=13] Like Lex Luther, it calls for the death of the artist-superman. Listening for the collective voice, collaboration reproduces the interpretive and communicative aspects of art at the very level of its creation. Authenticity also takes a flying leap. Trespassing time and authorship, Marcel Duchamp drew a moustache on the Mona Lisa, making Leonardo da Vinci an unwitting accomplice to this collaborative work of art. Here we find Aubrey Beardsley, Constantin Brancusi, Gustave Courbet, Ezra Pound, and unknown Rajasthani artist as well as Duchamp himself, among the many drawn into cahoots with the creators of contemporary cadavres exquis.

    Bypassing the author can create quite a snarl. The challenge in collaboration is striking that delicate balance between retaining containment and relinquishing control. Ironically, the mechanism which seems to keep collaboration healthy is competition. It is, in part self-conscious measure that accounts for the metamorphosis of the surrealist cadavres exquis from the pure noodlings that first appeared in the October 1927 issue of la Révolution surréaliste into the considerably more engaging works of art that these collaborations eventually produced.[footnote=14]

     

    Collage

    Collage was the surrealists’ umbrella aesthetic, sheltering a diversity of practices, from painting and poetry to the cadavre exquis. As a collection of things jumbled and juxtaposed, collage captured the experience of an aimless wander through crowded city streets and desolate alley ways. But collage was not about getting lost. Rather, it was a practice that required the purposeful selection, arrangement, and affixing of images. Collage-making was about looking, about locating the dream-image in the everyday.

    Although faithful in spirit to the principle of collage, the surrealists often bypassed the process of affixing images for the seamless effects achieved through photography, either in-camera or during the printing process. Compositions of trimmed snips of paper, whose cut edges openly displayed the marks of their making, were more expressive of the cacophony of dada. The surrealist, on the other hand, effectively subsumed collage within the technology of photography. As the given automatic eye, the camera offered a range of techniques through which an image could be altered, for example, by doubling, flipping, and solarizing the negative. While the dadaists were indifferent to the power of photography’s apparent objectivity, the surrealists were seduced by the uncanny “realness” generated by the manipulated photography.

    Le vapeur ailée séduit l’oiseau fermé a clé. Winged steam seduced the locked up bird. – cadavre exquis

    Relegated to the periphery, hands-on collage nonetheless remained a central and reigning principle of surrealist practice. It became integral to the popular surrealist diversion cadavre exquis. Early examples of the game, composed entirely of drawing, were superseded by more elaborate works augmented by the addition of bits of paper and ephemera clipped from magazines, catalogues, and photographs. Cadavre exquis was a curiosity to the surrealists precisely because it laid bare the workings of collage. In the preface to an exhibition catalogue of Max Ernst’s photo collages, Breton described the process of making collage as “attaining two widely separate realities without departing from the realm of our experience, of bringing them together and drawing a spark from their contact.”[footnote=15]

    Governed by chance, cadavre exquis playfully tested collage, fanning a gentle breeze to the match struck between images. Failures were as instructive and as pleasurable as successes.

    Although not a technique commonly practiced in contemporary art, with this most recent round of cadavre exquis, collage has returned with a vengeance. To appreciate this recourse to collage, it is helpful to consider cadavre exquis, collage has returned with a vengeance. To appreciate this recourse to collage, it is helpful to consider cadavre exquis’ origin as a word game. Read top to bottom, some of the drawings suggest the completion and closure of sentences. Such is the case with a drawing by Julie Ault, Cindy Sherman, and Marc Tauss, where the composed of a snapshot of a rocket, grows the body of a sinuous card-playing nude. To this body, ready to test the winds of fate, is grafted a pair of ponderous go-nowhere feet. More often, the drawings are open-ended, as in the cadavre by Curtis Anderson, Joseph Nechvatal, and Rosemarie Trockel. Unified by a common media, –nineteenth-century scientific illustrations and maps–meaning here resides in the loose, rhyming association of the combined parts.

    Interestingly, the technology of photography, the linchpin of the surrealist collage aesthetic, remains ever present in the contemporary game. Despite the advent of the computer, it is the technology of the camera that still dominates. Noted additions to the camera’s repertoire include Xeroxes, both color and black and white. In fact, photocopies have overtaken the collaged clippings of the past-pieces of yellowed newspapers and magazines have given way to the mundane shadow of the Xerox image. But like the surrealists’ embrace of photography, contemporary artists have been quick to make use of the potential of new technologies. In the drawing by the Critical Art Ensemble and Faith Wilding, a computer-generated head and torso is attached to collaged Xeroxes of repeating legs of armor. Processes common to surrealist photography, such as doubling, are now easily obtained through the use of the photocopier or the computer.

    These contemporary works, however, rarely engage the everyday urban detritus that so fascinated the surrealists. Rather, present day cadavres exquis logically quote a range of styles characteristics of contemporary art. Today artists caught playing a game which in all probability is not central to their practice, reach for a bit of he familiar. Still, others responded by suspending their usual practice. Many of the collage images they created are consciously dated, depicting outmoded machines and ghostlike grainy images from the past. Although the surrealists themselves were attracted to the forgotten and slightly out of fashion, contemporary artists have resorted to the past out of nostalgia. Whether seamless printouts or elbow-deep in clippings and glue, these images pay homage to the surrealist collage aesthetic.

    -Elizabeth Finch

    Grotesque

    This is the other art history. Accompanied by Boschian bagpipes, the Grotesque tracks a bloody footprint on the road to Calvary, farts, eats off Archimbaldo’s plate, burps, drinks from Meret Oppenheim’s tea cup, shits, dances to Goya’s capriccios, fucks and sleeps to dreams of H.C.Westermann’s death ship. Shock and schism are its means, rupture its golden rule. The cadavre exquis, playing on all of the Grotesque’s styles and strategies, is its Adonis, Venus, Marilyn, and Mickey.

    Traditionally, the Grotesque appears heaped to either side of the Renaissance, in its overwrought aspirant–the Gothic–and aftermath–the Baroque. In style and content, both canons are highly visible here. With a medievalist’s eye for the minute, Meg Belichick lifts images of potato eye and astral bodies for a torso made using found printer’s plates (p.38). Her partner, Joanne Brockley, depicts the sacred “temple of the mind” as a ruin of industrial architecture. A horny male dog’s haunches, drawn by Peter Cain, completes this Boschian hybrid on a low, animalistic note. Conflating human attributes and natural imagery is a device of the gothic grotesque brought up to date by Hachivi Edgar Heap of Birds, Claire Pentecost, and Eve Andree Laramee. The tension between the head’s explosive burst of color and the body’s shackled cornstalk is poised–like Baba Yaga’s house–on a giant pair of chicken legs, collaged from road maps. This image suggests that, at its best, nature’s meeting with culture is an ambivalent one.

    On the march with Brockley’s automaton, a proliferation of cadavres exquis have been scrapped together by idolatrous engineers, who gleefully tinker with the machine of human anatomy. A drawing (p. 17) by Tony Oursler, James Casebere–both corroborating with mechanical modes of reproduction–and Charles Golden, recasts the model of classical perfection into a dehumanized pile a junk. Oursler’s photograph of a television antenna mounted atop Casebere’s image of a prison-cell toilet, set on Golden’s biomorph of fabric flocking, portrays the body as a dubious technological wonder.

    Matching the standards of postmodern culture, manufacture has taken on grotesque possibilities. Today, we all stand ready to be made into Exquisite Corpses. Pump it up. Suck it off. Tear it out. Reconstruct. Be all you can be, with the help of plastics, polymers, personal training, and, of course, the knife. Because the body is yours for the making. Constructing its destiny cell by cell, the Exquisite Corpse realizes the ultimate, post-human fantasy of the flesh.

    By giving way to grotesque displays of feeling, the corpse often upsets the equilibrium of emotions held in check by intellectual control. An agitated cadavre headed by Dottie Attie shouts and twists itself into a dramatic contrapposto, rendered by Mark Tansey, so that legs, by Steve Mendelson, seem to buckle under the impact. Conflating spiritual to be the ephemeral contents of a mind swirl above collage contributions by James Elaine and Peter Gilmore of a martyred Saint Sebastian set above a miasma of organic matter. Emotionally acute, humanly critical, heaven-kissing and ground-hugging, the cadavre exquis cultivates its energy and imagery from outside the classic mainstream of art history to encompass the often otherwise inexplicable excesses and margins of existence.

    Indeed, the grotesque corpse seems patterned in direct opposition to what Alberti, “the very founder of the theory of art, called convenienza or conformita.” As Erwin Panofsky elaborated, “It would be absurd if Milo the athlete were to be represented with frail hips of Ganymede with limbs of a porter, and ‘if the hands of Helen of Iphigenia were aged and knotty.’”[footnote=16]  This kind of physical comedy is the very meat of the cadavre exquis, just as mockery and satire present grotesque standards upon which the cadavre visibly thrives.

    A traditional underpinning of painting, the cartoon has long since slid out on its own subversive mission. This might be simply comic–like the (tee-hee) he-man by underground comic artists, Mark Beyer and Charles Burns, with artist Peter Saul (p. 63). Or given more pointed caricature, a lampoon attack. In a cadavre (p. 62) concocted during the 1992 election campaign, Robin Tewes turns the Republican ticket (Misters Bush and Quayle) into a two-headed hydra, which Megan Williams endows with a whirling dervish of breasts. Gary Panter adds a fecund female body, which Elliott Green finally carries away on a pair of fishy wet feet. Laughing itself to hysterical tears, a cadavre exquis by Jim Shaw, Sue Williams, and Nicole Eisenmann (p. 61) amplifies satire to a level of such ridiculous absurdity it verges on tragedy. Shaw’s caricature of one of the kings of comedy, Jerry Lewis, emits a gaseous cloud drawn by Williams, which erupts over a field of destruction, landscaped by Eisenman.

    Aching with the absurd, the Grotesque rips a hole in the sides of both conventional and conventional response, through which the Exquisite Corpse easily passes. The corpse emerges on the other side as a transcendent being, whose body performs the rituals of life–including death–with vigorous regularity.

     

    Sex

    Biomorphic, polymorphic, hermaphroditic, transsexual, homosexual, heterosexual–the cadavre is well-sexed. Perhaps it was simply the circumstances–a group creative effort–which started these juices flowing. Or else it was the perspective of surrealism–whose environs are the uninhibited unconscious mind–which elicited such licentious responses. Erotic energy courses through the collaboration of Bay Area artists, Brett Reichman, Caitlin Mitchell-Dayton and Peter Mitchell-Dayton (p. 67). A writhing bulb of gothic ornament, dripping with the oily patina of temps perdu, precipitates over the ample, bending, body of a late Marilyn, who, in white bikini, hands on hips, steps out of a bed shared with Betty at an orgy with other Archy comics, and even with just regular folks. Jughead’s crown is on the bedpost.

     

    The Corpse

    Leveling humanity to its organic essentials, flesh, excrement, and organs prove all equal in the eyes of the coroner. A veritable morgue, “The Return of the Cadavre Exquis” details an autopsy of spilt blood and gore. In a cadavre by Chicago based artists Story Mann, Mary Lou Zelazny and Roderigo Avila, a portrait image of Abraham Lincoln is abolished to a slurry of guts and animal matter. In adjacent operating room, Annette Lemieux performs an ink transfer upon an anatomical study of a head. This is joined to a photo-based image, by Doug and Mike Starn, of the body of Christ (certainly the most famous cadavre exquis), and blasphemously polished off by Timothy Greenfield-Sander’s photographic fashion-plate.

    I opened my bedroom closet. A half-dressed feminine corpse sagged into my arms..It’s a damned screwy feeling to reach for pajamas and find a cadaver instead. – Spicy Detective, July 1937

    There are also plenty of skeletons filling the ranks of the cadavre exquis and even a couple of x-rays. With death so near at hand, in both the name of the game and the images the game evoked, it is interesting to note that these spectators are patently metaphoric. The plagues inflicted by the AIDS virus and breast cancer, which constitute such an urgent component of today’s cultural politics are–almost without exception–not named here. Such omission sheds light on the true nature of the cadavre exquis as a cathartic being, whose imagery and activity envelopes the particular into a raucous, transcendental body.

     

    Time and the Body

    In the two years that have elapsed during the course of this game, the Exquisite Corpse marked time. Imagery based on the 1992 presidential election has already been mentioned in regards to the Grotesque. As if in response to the campaign button which read, “Elect Hillary’s Husband,” Bill Clinton does not appear here, though his wife, in a collage contribution from Laura Fields. The national hoopla celebrating Christopher Columbus’ arrival in America some five hundred years ago is quietly noted in the margins of a drawing by Moyo Coyatzin. (Marching backwards in history, this cadavre’s torso by Douglas McClellan is a collage homage to Chairman Mao’s colon.) “The Return of the Cadavre Exquis” also straddles the American Year of the woman. Coincidentally her body is here–with and without precedent–one of surrealism’s most graphic physical sites.

    Piquant femme-enfant, man-eating sphinx–surrealism appears obsessed with fantastic images of women. Equating sexual and creative freedom, the surrealists subscribed wholeheartedly to the psychoanalytic concepts of eros and the libido as liberating life-forces. Arousing muses of (heterosexual) love, women stood as communicating vessels between men and the marvelous. Yet there was very little place accorded her in the movement’s everyday membership, despite the participation of girlfriends and wives in cadavre exquis. [footnote=17]

    This unique woman, at once carnal and artificial, natural and human, casts the same spell as the equivocal objects dear to Surrealists: she is the spoon-shoe, the table-wolf, the marble-sugar that the poet finds at the flea market or invents in dream…

    -Simone de Beauvoir The Second Sex, 1949

    Here, with the cadavre’s return, women artists play in near equal numbers to men. Her body moves outside the bounds of a privileged male gaze, into the realm of a desiring or defiant female subject. Pantyhose legs contributed by Maureen Connor run to exhaustion and snarl with rebellious savagery. A simple slit cut through a torso-section by Siobhan Liddell turns up the acme fetish of castrating female. And there are abundant snippets from stories of “O,” among them David Humphrey’s girlish inquiry (p.42). On the other hand, many depictions comply with a traditional feminine cast. Within the framework of cadavre exquis,  these old parts were often handled to critical or comic effect. In a drawing by artists Bradley Rubenstein, Andrea Champlin, and Daniel Wasserman, a sinuously turning odalisque spins to a halt between her blandly bisexual head and jerry-rigged spring base.

    Sex, difference, death, beauty, birth, and ugliness, are embodied by this grotesquely gorgeous being whose vertiginous flip-flops between male and female, animal and object, culture and nature, sensual and cerebral, confound readings based on reason. Leading well beyond the point sublime, or bypassing it entirely, there is no svelte zeitgeist lurking within “The Return of the Cadavre Exquis,” though there are plenty of demons. Preying on the bugbears of an exclusive and synthetic approach to art, this inclusive body of work culminates in the antithesis of modernist principles. Collective and complicated, as opposed to singular and reductive, the cadavre exquis transgresses against the traditionally masculine construct of modernism and listens for a postmodern feminine ideal.

     

  • “In Advance of The Return of the Cadavre Exquis” The Return of the Cadavre Exquis, ed. Jane Philbrick. New York: The Drawing Center, 1993, pp. 15-23.

    In Advance of The Return of the Cadavre Exquis

     

    Le Cadavre exquis a                                            The Exquisite Corpse has 
    l’honneur de vous fair part                                the honor of inviting you
    de la réouverture de la                                       to the reopening of
    Galerie surréaliste                                               la Galerie surréaliste
    16, rue Jacques-Callot                                        at 16, rue Jaques-Callot
    qui aura lieu                                                         taking place
    le lundi 10 Octobre 1927                                    Monday, October 10, 1927
    à 3 heures de l’aprés-midi.                                at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.[footnote=1]

    Making one of his first appearances, le cadavre exquis was the subject of the reopening exhibition of la Galerie surréaliste, in Paris in 1927.[footnote=2] Had we attended this event, we would have experienced the surrealist movement in its heyday and found le cadavre exquis in his prime. An honored guest at any gathering, the Exquisite Corpse was the enfant terrible of surrealist games: a metamorphic being, cropping up not only at exhibitions but at café tables, in hotel rooms, even once strolling the Ramblas in Barcelona, where, artist Marcel Jean recollects, “crowds filled the café terraces until late at night, clapping hands to call the waiters so that we imagined that they were cheering us as we passed by.”[footnote=3]

    SURREALISM, n: Pure psychic automatism by whose means it is intended to express verbally, or in writing, or in any other manner, the actual functioning of thought. Dictation of thought, in the absence of all control by reason and outside of all aesthetic or moral preoccupations. -André Breton, Manifeste du surréalisme, 1924[footnote=4]

    Exquisite Corpse, among the most widely enjoyed of the surrealists’ many games, sought to unleash the unconscious in a merry chase of the imagination. Realized through automatic drawing, a technique–nearly synonymous with surrealism–which charted the irrational, unstoppable flow of words and images that channels through thought without conscious reflection, and assembled by chance, there is not a rational bone in le cadavre exquis. Culled from the minds of more than one individual, he emerged as though from a dream. Indeed the Corpse’s generally grotesque appearances bespoke an alternate beauty, of a harmony in rupture. As a figure of revolt that drew the surrealists together through collaboration, le cadavre exquis provided the common ground upon which these artists waged their assault on sobriety and logic.

    Since those youthful salad days, the Exquisite Corpse has retired to a relatively reclusive life amongst artist-friends and children-until April 1991 and “The Return of the Cadavre Exquis.” Opening this current round, The Drawing Center invited artists from all conceptual orientations, at all points in their careers, from all over the world to join in the game. As word the project spread, foundling corpses began to appear on The drawing Center’s doorstep. To date, the initial list of some two hundred participating artists now counts at least twelve hundred players, and their drawings number more than six hundred.

    Poetry must be made by all, not one. – compte de Lautréamont, Poesies [footnote=5]

    The cadavre is a single sheet of paper, divided according to the number of players into segments that roughly correspond to the human body, i.e. head/torso/legs for three players, or head/chest/trunk/legs for four players. Many artists introduced their own variations. Ellsworth Kelly (who first played cadavre exquis as a young artists knocking around Paris with the surrealists) and Win Knowlton made a four-part cadavre by playing two rounds each. Another tiny corpse was carved into ten small but satisfying portions. As the game is played, each artists, working in turns, completes a section and conceals the work before passing it on to the next artists. When all the sections are finished, the drawing is unfolded and the Exquisite Corpse is born.

    The cords that bind this present-day manifestation to the original Exquisite Corpse are only loosely in the hands of its originator, André Breton. The element of automatism–so critical to the original players and impossible to reproduce in any pure sense–is almost entirely absent today. Equally indistinct are surrealism’s claims to marry everyday reality and dreams, although the imagination still reigns supreme. Exerting their considerable presence on this most recent round are Marcel, Duchamp, with his conceptual approach to game-playing and object-making, and Georges Bataille, with his energetic aberrance for rules and taboos. Add to this skein of historical influences the contemporary threads of psychoanalysis, deconstruction, and anthropology–all closely bound to surrealist practice and worked into the complex analytical fabric of postmodernism.

    Art movements are simply not recursive. These new cadavres were not cultivated through cryogenics. Contemporary artists with their own inventive insights have participated to create a body of work which is vigorous and intuitive precisely because it is not corseted by the past. In lieu of the mainstays of Breton’s game comes an unprecedented expansion of the definition of drawing itself, a practice that now appears to encompass everything from pricking to poetry. What remains essential, because it can be replayed, is the game. Precisely because of its value as play, Exquisite Corpse continues to offer a means of sidestepping reason and foresight to move towards chance and unpredictability. Ultimately, as a collective revelation of artistics imagination, “The Return of the Cadavre Exquis” still answers André Breton’s eternal appeal to artists: “Speak according to the madness that has seduced you.”[footnote=6]

    Players of the contemporary game were at liberty to paint, paste, clip, jot, scribble, and sculpt according to their own predilections on paper.The were also encouraged to consider the “body” as a metamorphic point of departure. In Exquisite Landscape, a variation of cadavre exquis the surrealists took similar license.[footnote=7] Here, players contributed to a horizontal floe of objections and images that unfolded like a map onto psychic space or dream reality. Playing the game in 1975 with colleagues Anna Boetti and Roberto Lupo, Meret Oppenheim adapted the anatomy of the body (head/trunk/legs) to the structure of a chair (back/seat/legs) to create a series of unusual cadavre exquis.[footnote=8] Nevertheless, most of the contemporary cadavres exquis adhere to the conventional structure of the human body.

    As postmodernism’s most prevalent subject and site, the body has been used by contemporary artists to explore issues of identity and gender, public health and private pleasure. It is complicate realm, inscribed with sexual and cultural codes that catalogue human difference as opposed to universal experience. The body can no longer be mirrored in an impervious white model handed down from antiquity, nor in the hirsute primitive archetype called forth by modernity. Sweeping these old ideals aside, the Exquisite Corpse, with his collective and composite physique, flaunts a relevant contemporary image of the body.

    The cadavre is also an appealingly social creature. His appearance in the wake of recent political events stands to link members of a cultural community still reeling from battles over censorship and support. The conservative backlash against government aid for the arts–a curious election-time diversion from real moral and economic crisises–has left artists and the public each wary of the other’s capacity to appreciate or simply enjoy art. As he engages the art world at large in constructive creative act, the cadavre is a Pollyanna assembled by Dr. Frankenstein advocating the primacy of visual practice, however conceptual, in art.

    …(we studied) Mystery, Ancient and Modern, Seography, and the Drawling–The Drawling Master was an old conger eel that used to come in once a week: he taught us Drawling, Stretching and Fainting in coils. –”The Mock Turtle,” Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

    Participating artists were given the choice of either selecting their own partners or allowing The Drawing Center to choose for them. While the first option more closely matches the surrealist practice of sitting around a table with like-minded colleagues and passing round the cadavre exquis, the latter invites a further element of chance. Apparently some of the more intimate sessions really took off, as we received entire sheaves of cadavre exquis from some self-made groups. A number of artists played with their assistants, casting at least one studio into an uproar of anxiety until the game turned from an employee’s nightmare into an impromptu part. Approximately half of the players allowed The Drawing Center to select their partners for them. In general we aimed to create unified bodies, however discordant the parts.

    To facilitate the project, we created a Drawing Kit with a set of rules instructing artists how to play the game. Seemingly antithetical to artistic practice, rules can actually clear the way for chance and liberate the imagination. Playing within prescribed parameters, one surrenders the pull of reason to the pleasure of adhering to (and breaking) rules. Not surprising, we learned from some honestly dishonest players that many of the visual coincidences which occur in these drawings were not the outcome of what Breton divided to be “tacit communication–merely by waves–among the players.”[footnote=9] The riddles of concurrence are often signs of cheating. However, as Mary Ann Caws and Charles Simic each suggest in the essays which follow, bending the rules of chance is also part of the tradition of surrealist games.

    Included in the kit was a paper sleeve (printed with abridged guidelines) that concealed the nascent cadavre while disclosing a slender reveal. This edge, a perceptual point of orientation, served as a prompt or segue into the players’ unconscious. Two differently sized sheets of paper were provided, although artists could and did use their own supports. In one case this was sandpaper and in another a string of nineteenth-century maps. Drawing materials were even more various, including everything from lipstick to operative light-bulbs, from pot holders to x-rays. Likewise, applications coursed from stitchery to photography, from slashiing to burning. Several cadavres were machined with the aid of computers. And still, many unexpected images came by the traditional (graphic) route of pencil on paper.

    In New York, all the works generated by the “Cadavre Exquis” were exhibited at The Drawing Center and nearby gallery space. In addition, a selection of historic cadavre exquis were on view at The Drawing Center, including drawings by original players, Valentine Hugo, Marcel Jean, and Yves Tanguy. Latter-day cadavres by Joseph Beuys, Lucienne Bloch, Ted Joans, Frida Kahlo, Konrad Klapheck, Wifredo Lam, Roberto Matta, and Gerhard Richter, among others, attested to continuing vitality of the Exquisite Corpse.[footnote=10]

    Certainly, not all collaborations work. Simone Collinet wrote of the literary version of cadavre exquis that: “Some sentences took an aggressive. Let us not forget it.”[footnote=11] At The Drawing Center, this editorial apparatus did not come into play. Even with overwhelmingly exquisite results, the degrees of and reasons for the success of these collaborations are as diverse as any other aspect of the project. Some drawings are cursive and comic, other are rendered and wry, with the bizarre, horrifying, overwrought, satiric, disgusting, beautiful, fragile, boisterous, delicate, goofy, brutal feminist, misogynist, political, precious, and poignant all putting in appearances. As spectators, may we be ravished by the pleasures of looking at so many ways of seeing. Or, at least, mindful of André Breton’s charge, “Beauty will be CONVULSIVE or will not be at all.”[footnote=12]