Category Archives: Collage

Cosmopolitan Primitive: The Art of Joaquin Torres-Garcia

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Joaquin Torres-Garcia, Construction in White and Black (1938), oil on paper mounted on wood, 31-3/4″ x 40-1/8″; courtesy The Museum of Modern Art, NY

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The following review was originally published in the July 26, 1999 edition of The New York Observer and is posted here on the occasion of “Joaquin Torres-Garcia: Arcadian Modern” at The Museum of Modern Art.

The Uruguayan painter Joaquín Torres-García (1874-1949) is an artist whose work has not been much in evidence in New York in recent years. For those of us who have been brought to a standstill by the cursory picture found in group shows here and there, the fact that Torres-García’s work has been consigned to the storage racks of our cultural institutions is frustrating.

Almost as frustrating is the mini-retrospective of his works-on-paper currently at Cecilia De Torres Ltd. This is not to say that the exhibition, which serves as a commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the artist’s death, contains negligible works of art. Quite the contrary: There’s a lot to delight the eye in this handsome and heartfelt show. It’s frustrating in that the exhibition whets our appetite for a more comprehensive overview of the oeuvre. For what is in evidence is an art that is simultaneously modern and, if not quite anti-modern, then deeply nostalgic for the primordial. That it is so without overt contradiction makes Torres-García an all the more intriguing figure.

Although Torres-García was born and died in Uruguay, his formative years as an artist were spent abroad in a fairly discontinuous manner. Following the trajectory of the drawings included in the exhibition, one sees him traveling from Barcelona to New York to Paris to Montevideo and to Madrid. (He spent two years in Italy as well, a sojourn not documented in this show.) In Barcelona, he assisted Antonio Gaudí, and in New York he enjoyed the patronage of Isabelle Whitney.

 TG #2Joaquin Torres-Garcia, Construction (1931), mixed media; photo: Thomas Griesel; courtesy The Museum of Modern Art

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In 1926, Torres-García settled in Paris and met up with a veritable who’s-who of Modernism: Pablo Picasso, Georges Braque, Juan Gris, Hans Arp and Sophie Tauber-Arp, Jean Hélion, Julio Gonzalez (a friend from Barcelona) and, most significantly, Piet Mondrian. Torres-García’s signature pictographs owe much of their organizing structure to the rigorous neo-plasticism of the Dutch master.

Torres-García’s constructivism was less pure than Mondrian’s and given to pan-cultural symbolism. A wide variety of artistic and cultural motifs–from African masks to Greek amphoras, from the art of Northwest Coast Native Americans to the Eiffel Tower–informs his pictorial vocabulary. Torres-García’s compositional armatures serve as cubbies within which abbreviated, linear symbols are stacked and packed. That architectonic framework takes on the character of a beehive–efficient, busy and dense.

The artist’s iconography is concise and snappy, reflecting his love of the high-end cartoons he discovered while living in New York. Although those emblems carry specific correlatives-in Tradíción (1936), one sees Torres-García graphing out his artistic philosophy–one doesn’t necessarily have to read each piece as a kind of cosmological rebus. His pictures, by turn whimsical and stoic, add up as art even if we remain unsure of their ultimate meaning.

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Joaquin Torres-Garcia, Constructive with Four Figures (1932); photo by Pablo Almansa; courtesy The Museum of Modern Art

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Torres-García’s universalist diagrams, with their melding of the modem and the mythic, bring to mind the stirrings of the New York School. A small pencil drawing, ca. 1937-38, could well be the blueprint for Adolph Gottlieb’s series of pictographs. Of course, there was always something a bit phony about Gottlieb’s primitivist longings and there was, one gathers, a modicum of self-delusion to Torres-García as well. Here, after all, was a worldly and sophisticated man who claimed to be “a primitive.” His paintings, however, transmute such incongruity into an earthy and engaging vision.

“The artist,” wrote Torres-García. “is a moral being.” Such an axiom may seem naive to us today, but that says more about our own culture than it does about Torres García’s encompassing and humane art.

© 1999 Mario Naves



Wuxtry! Wuxtry!


Mario Naves, Fresno (2015), acrylic on panel, 36″ x 48″‘; courtesy Elizabeth Harris Gallery

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I’m pleased to announce that my work will be featured in two exhibitions
opening in December.

A new painting will be on display in “Festivus”, a sampling of gallery artists at Elizabeth Harris Gallery. The show runs from December 3-19. The opening will take place on Saturday, December 5, from 3:00-6:00 p.m.

One of my collages will be sharing wall space with myriad artworks at Lesley Heller Workspace as part of the gallery’s annual Holiday Salon Show. The exhibition opens on Sunday, December 13, with a reception from 12:00-6:00 p.m., and continues until December 20th.

I hope to see you at both receptions!

“Intricate Expanse” @ Lesley Heller Workspace

Intricate Expanse

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I’m pleased to announce “Intricate Expanse”, an exhibition I’ve curated for Lesley Heller Workspace.

“Intricate Expanse” features the work of six artists, each of whom creates encompassing compositions without sacrificing a distinct sense of their constituent parts.

Steve Currie, Laura Dodson, Karl Hartman, Tine Lundsfryd, Sangram Majumdar and Maritta Tapanainen don’t miss the proverbial forest for the trees, but embrace both simultaneously–to sometimes tenacious, often ruminative and, at odd moments, comic effect.

The notion of “expanse”, for these artists, includes the physical parameters of pictorial and sculptural space, as well as the sweep of imagery contained within them. “Intricacy” is embodied both through touch and vision, by attention paid to the particularities of surface and process, and the metaphorical allusions that are consequently set into motion.

The resulting pieces unfold and disperse even as they are punctuated by a consistent sense of focus.

The exhibition opens on Sunday, March 15, from 6:00-8:00 p.m. I hope you’re able to stop by.

“Cubism: The Leonard A. Lauder Collection” at The Metropolitan Museum of Art

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The Lauder Residence; courtesy Habitually Chic

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Leonard A. Lauder has one nice apartment. This observation should be fairly self-evident. Lauder was, after all, chief executive of Estée Lauder, the cosmetics giant for which he is now Chairman Emeritus. His digs are likely to be spectacular—and not worth mentioning, particularly in an exhibition review. Still, the issue will be raised for anyone attending “Cubism: The Leonard A. Lauder Collection”: the first items encountered are two huge photographs of the Lauder residence, its elegant environs festooned with myriad blue-chip artworks. Did the Met really need to remind us that the rich lead different lives? This introductory moment of hubris is offset by the exhibition itself and, not least, Lauder’s generosity. Given the supercharged state of the art market, he could have cashed in his collection of Pablo Picasso, Georges Braque, Juan Gris, and Fernand Léger to the tune of—yes, that’s right—one billion dollars. Instead, the Lauder homestead has been emptied of its treasure trove. The paintings, works-on-paper, and sculptures featured in “Cubism,” eighty-one pieces in total, are a promised gift to the Met and the rest of us as well.

Truth be told, our greatest museum’s collection of twentieth-century art has never been that great. The Met’s relationship with modern and contemporary art has been rife with false starts, misguided decisions, and significant bungles. The collection is renowned as much for glaring omissions as for the scattering of masterworks it can rightfully claim. When the Lila Acheson Wallace Wing—the section of the museum dedicated exclusively to twentieth-century art—opened in 1987, the art critic Hilton Kramer, writing in The New Criterion, bluntly asked: “Who needs it?” The Met, Kramer went on, “does not even have the shadow of a twentieth-century collection of the size and substance which this elephantine facility calls for.” As architecture, the Wallace Wing continues to be a Chinese box of pinched and ungainly galleries. Thomas Campbell, the museum’s current director, has rued its museological unsuitability. Still, the Met’s “shadow” collection has gained substance over the past three decades. The Lauder Collection will bring greater credibility to the Met’s dribs-and-drabs take on Modernism. Lauder’s gift is, in fact, among the most significant in the museum’s history.


Pablo Picasso, Three Nudes (1906), gouache, ink, watercolor and charcoal on white laid paper, 24-3/8″ x 18-7/8″; courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art

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Hyperbole? Hardly—if anything, it’s an understatement. Even in a city with no shortage of Cubist masterworks, “Cubism” is a thrilling reminder of the movement’s primacy. It’s exhausting, too. How many great pictures can a body stand? If there are more than a half dozen so-so works in The Lauder Collection, good luck finding them. Lauder came late to Cubism, acquiring the first pieces in 1976. The “shock of the new” had long since dissipated; Cubism was, for those with the cash to spend, an easy sell and increasingly difficult to come by. That didn’t prevent Lauder from amassing a collection that should be the envy of any museum you’d care to name, including the Museum of Modern Art. The consistency of the Lauder Collection is so unremitting that even the most doctrinaire Picassophile may forgive the absence of a seminal work like Les Desmoiselles d’Avignon. Besides, at a historical moment when MOMA’s permanent collection has been reshuffled for the sake of this-or-that trend—not fatally, mind you, but enough to make one worry about its vital signs—who’s to say The Met, with the Lauder gift in tow, won’t become the go-to stop for early Modernism?

The Lauder Collection includes two studies for Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, as well as Three Nudes (1906), a diaphanous Rose Period sketch for a never-realized painting that may depict a brothel, and certainly evinces a young Picasso beginning to disrupt the conventions of pictorial space. Elsewhere, we see Picasso and his fellow “mountaineer” in Cubism, George Braque, tussle with the pictorial fracturing put in motion by Cézanne, and subsequently watch them disrupt representation without sacrificing it altogether. The exhibition is divided into didactic sections that are light in touch: the close relationship between Picasso and Braque is informatively glanced upon, as is the use of color by a notoriously monochromatic movement. The introduction of collage is given significant space, and there are hints of the Constructivism that would follow in its wake. Picasso outnumbers Braque two-to-one in terms of the number of pieces on display, but the latter artist holds his own—testimony, at least in part, to their rigorous interdependence during Cubism’s formative years. Turns out, Braque needed Picasso’s flash as much as Picasso gained rigor from Braque’s more tempered approach.

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Juan Gris, Still Life with Checkered Tablecloth (2015), oil and graphite on canvas, 45-7/8″ x 35-1/8″

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If Picasso and Braque were the pioneers of Cubism, Léger and Gris were two of its most accomplished practitioners, codifying stylistic innovation in the service of complete and utterly distinct worldviews. Léger’s machine-based aesthetic is seen at its most elegant within the steely gradations of Three Women (1920), and its most muscular in The Smoker (1914) and Houses Under the Trees (1913), “tubist” masterworks that all but rollick off the wall. The gallery devoted exclusively to Gris is something special, if only because he’s given short shrift in New York museums and, for that matter, the standard telling of art history. A classicist in temperament with a deft hand for pearlescent shifts of tone, Gris brought an exacting intelligence to Cubism that mark him as something more—much more—than a mere follower. Gris’s use of collage carries with it greater wit than Braque ever managed and his palette is not only engagingly discordant, but more structurally sure than anything Léger and, especially, Picasso put into order. Thank Leonard Lauder for not stinting on this sly, sleek, and surprisingly eccentric figure. But thank him mostly for a bit of philanthropy that will continue to provide pleasure (and puzzlement) for generations to come.

© 2014 Mario Naves

This article originally appeared in the December 2014 edition of The New Criterion.

The 22 Magazine; Collage

22 Magazine

The 22 Magazine, Volume IV

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The current issue of The 22 Magazine is dedicated to the art of collage and contains interviews with a dizzying number of its practitioners. You’ll find an interview with your humble blogger on page 60. Thanks to Cat Gilbert for her heroic efforts in this venture.

Gallery Talk at The Katonah Museum of Art


Installation View of Remix; courtesy Gail Skudera

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Judy Pfaff, Michael Oatman and I will be discussing the art of collage at The Katonah Museum of Art in conjunction with the exhibition, Remix: Selections from the International Collage Center. The event takes place on Saturday, October 5th at 1:00 p.m. For more information, click here.

A Collage Compendium


Austin Thomas, Round Placed Square (2010), collage with pen and pencil, 42″ x 42″; courtesy the artist

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On the occasion of Remix: Selections from the International Collage Center, an exhibition at the Katonah Museum of Art (on view until October 13), herewith is a variety of links that lead to articles on artists who do the tradition proud, among them John AshberyRomare BeardenJessJosh Dorman, Bruce HelanderLance Letscher, Conrad Marca-Relli and Austin Thomas.

JessJess, Blasted Beauty (1954), collage, 30″ x 24″; courtesy Tibor de Nagy Gallery

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Anyone who talks about collage without mentioning Dadaism or women is oblivious to the history of the medium. And then there’s Joseph Cornell, the outsider sophisticate and mama’s boy from Flushing, who is a genre unto himself.


Joseph Cornell, Madame Mallarme’s Fan (1954), collage on board, 11-1/2″ x 8-3/4″; courtesy The International Collage Center

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Art critic, professor of philosophy and inveterate bloviator Donald Kuspit wrote that “collage . . . involves condensations and displacements, and also seems like a mistake of consciousness, which is why one tends to forget it, confirming its transience–unless one forces oneself to remember it–when one awakens from its spell.” Cornell puts such specious theorizing firmly to rest, as do any number of artists whose collages continue to cast a spell long after our first acquaintance with them.

© 2013 Mario Naves

Collage Comes to Katonah

Mario Naves

Mario Naves, Hopes and Wishes Received (2010), acrylic and photograph on paper, 17″ x 11-1/4″; courtesy The International Collage Center, Milton, PA

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I’m pleased to announce that a work of mine will be on view in Remix: Selections from the International Collage Center, an exhibition at The Katonah Museum of Art. The show opens on June 30 and runs until October 13, 2013. Click here for more information.

By Popular Demand: Hannah Höch

Hannah Hoch 6Self-Portrait by Hannah Hoch, 1926

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Nothing at Too Much Art has received as much traffic in recent weeks as my review of The Photomontages of Hannah Höch, an exhibition seen at The Museum of Modern Art in 1997. Operating under the rubric of “Give The People What They Want”, I hereby present Dada’s “good girl”.

There is a gratifying modesty in how The Photomontages of Hannah Höch at the Museum of Modern Art has been properly, if not perfectly, scaled to its subject. Hannah Höch (1889–1978) was the sole woman artist associated with Berlin Dada, a group known for its strident politics and anti-art stance. In contrast to renowned Dadaists such as George Grosz and John Heartfield, Höch has been, until recently, a modernist footnote. At the time of her death in 1978, she was remembered as the “Bobhaired Muse of the Men’s Club” and, most infamously, the “good girl” of Dada, a moniker given to her by the artist Hans Richter. The exhibition at MOMA attempts to correct this dubious recognition by spotlighting the work for which she is best known, and though the hundred or so photomontages on view are as small in scope as they are in size, they are not negligible. While The Photomontages of Hannah Höch does not reveal a major talent, it does show us why Höch is an artist worth considering in the first place.

This is, of course, seeing the glass half full rather than half empty. Yet at a time when marginal artists are hyped with claims that have little to do with art, The Photomontages of Hannah Höch is, as an exhibition of pictures, the equivalent of straight talk. Indeed, the curators’ focus—which, by its very nature, excludes Höch’s paintings, drawings and watercolors—involves something resembling connoisseurship. Admittedly, the resuscitation of Höch’s career owes much to feminist art history, and the catalogue underscores (in the jargonistic parlance of the times) her “poignant commentaries on the strains and confusions caused by culturally exacted gender performances.” One doesn’t have to be an ideologue to find the “good girl” tag belittling, but politics is never a good reason for salvaging (or judging) art. If a few reputable artists have been rescued from oblivion because of their race, gender, or what have you, then we are less blessed than lucky. So it is with Hannah Höch.

Hannah Höch, Cut With The Kitchen Knife Through The Last Weimar Beer-Belly Cultural Epoch in Germany (1919-1920), photomontage and collage with watercolor, 44-7/8″ x 35-7/16″; courtesy Staatliche Museeun Zu Berlin

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Just how much the revitalization of Höch’s reputation is due to extra-aesthetic matters can be divined from the attention bestowed upon the large collage Cut with the Kitchen Knife Dada through the Last Weimar Beer-Belly Cultural Epoch of Germany (1919–20). With its snipped and jumbled photos of politicians, artists and entertainers, Cut with the Kitchen Knife is a bona fide artifact of the Dadaist epoch. The title alone is fraught with enough symbolism to launch a dozen thesis papers. (Cut with the Kitchen Knife did, in fact, serve as the title of a recent study of the photomontages.) In her catalogue essay, Maria Makela pinpoints the work’s imagery—from Marx and Lenin to Pola Negri and Kathe Kollwitz to a map of Europe that identifies the countries in which women were able to vote—and makes a kind of sense of it, though scant attention is paid to it as a work of art. And, as such, Cut with the Kitchen Knife is a mess. Physically, it has not held up well; the piece’s discolored and mottled surfaces suggest a work that once had graphic power. As it is, Höch’s composition—or, should one say, non-composition—is diffuse. Portions of it are funny, but they don’t coalesce into anything consequential; it lacks the basic armature a good joke requires. What seems a jolting piece of propaganda is, finally, a dissipated rebus. The appeal of Cut with the Kitchen Knife to contemporary taste may be precisely this fragmentary quality. There are, it would seem, few things more validating for a confused culture than a confused work of art.

Cut with the Kitchen Knife is the largest and most overtly political of Höch’s photomontages. Yet both its scale and “content” were alien to her sensibility. Most of the collages are small—“intimate” is not an inappropriate word—and without the vitriol typical of Berlin Dada. A German critic described the photomontages as being “skeptical in an almost tender way” and this seems about right. For Höch never took great interest in expounding an anti-art agenda. “A clear aesthetically resolved statement” (as the artist had it) was important to Höch. It is noteworthy that not until 1929, almost ten years after the First International Dada Fair, did she feel confident in exhibiting her photomontages publicly. During this time Höch was not completely convinced of photomontage’s viability as an art form and exhibited, albeit sporadically, only her paintings and textile designs. Nonetheless she found within its “traditionless” parameters an artistic and imaginative freedom absent from her other work.

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Hannah Höch, Watched (1925), cut-and-pasted printed paper on printed paper, 10-1/8″ x 6-3/4″; courtesy The Museum of Modern Art

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Although the philosophy of Dada didn’t altogether jibe with Höch’s world view, the movement itself was an essential catalyst for her art. She clearly benefited, artistically if not emotionally, from being in proximity to the “men’s club.” Höch’s vision, however, was not fueled by anger or despair. What emerges from the photomontages is a sly and not ungentle intellect with a deft eye for design and a love for absurdist disjunction. She was a quirky miniaturist at the beginning of what seemed, at the time, an impossibly big century. The century turned out to be bigger (and more impossible) than anyone in 1920 could have predicted, and if some of Höch’s collages seem dated it isn’t due to yellowing newsprint alone; the fractured juxtapositions of scale, image, and text in the photomontages have long been a part of our cultural life. The artist (and Höch’s one-time lover) Raoul Hausmann, writing in 1931, griped that photomontage was rapidly being shanghaied by commercial and political interests. In this respect, he was prophetic—more than he could ever imagine, in fact. If the edge in Höch’s work has dulled a bit, her portrayal of the new century—dizzying and open to possibility and paradox—is often still exhilarating. It is impossible, for instance, not to read the rush of overlapping images in The Beautiful Girl (1919–20) or Untitled (1921), with its glamour girl spinning atop a turntable, as anything but paeans, albeit acerbic ones, to a world in flux.

Höch’s works of the early 1920s are impeccably constructed and the best of them is High Finance (1923). Here we are presented with a surfeit of images: an aerial photograph of the Ausstellungsgelände and Jahrhunderthalle in Breslau; British chemist Sir John Herschel; machine parts; a truck riding over a tire clipped, one imagines, from an advertisement; the red-white-and-black striped flag of the empire; and a double-barreled shotgun. With its provocative scraps of imagery, High Finance can be read as a satirical comment on industrialism and power. Yet what makes the collage truly memorable is, for example, how the graphic slickness of the oversized rifle offsets and dominates the grainy photographs of the piece’s two main figures or how the ball bearing at the bottom left corner serves as the collage’s anchor. Höch snaps her units of information into place and the results positively hum. (The dead-on stability and rhythmic counterpoints of the composition would have impressed Mondrian.) High Finance is neither novelty nor propaganda; it is an expertly executed work of art and Höch’s masterpiece.

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Hannah Höch, High Finance (1923), photomontage, 36 cm. x 31 cm.; courtesy Galerie Berinson, Berlin

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High FinanceThe Beautiful Girl, and The Coquette I (1923–25), a sardonic depiction of courting that has the delicacy of a Persian miniature, all have Dadaist overtones. But the movement, such as it was, petered out in the early 1920s. Höch drifted away from her Dada contacts but not from the avant-garde. Friendships with Lazlo Moholy-Nagy, Kurt Schwitters, Theo and Nelly van Doesburg, and Hans and Sophie Tauber Arp provided Höch with an artistic community more conducive to her temperament. “Hans Arp and Kurt Schwitters …” said Höch in a 1959 interview, “were rare examples of the kind of artist who can really treat a woman as a colleague.” (The Dadaists, more often than not, condescended to her.) Yet, the strongest influence—if that is, indeed, what we can call it—on Höch’s post-Dadaist work may have been National Socialism. The Nazi rise to power, and its concomitant antagonism toward “degenerate art,” were felt early on by Höch: a planned 1932 retrospective of her photomontages at the Dessau Bauhaus was canceled when the local wing of the party closed down the school. In 1939 Höch, keenly aware of the threat to “cultural bolshevists,” moved to Heiligensee, a suburb of Berlin, where she lived and worked in relative isolation until the end of the war.

It is little wonder, then, that Höch’s work of the 1930s and 1940s becomes increasingly private and prone to Surrealist reverie. These works are problematic in that Höch’s chopped up and rearranged figures had already become routine, rarely rising above the limits of a good formula. (There are, perhaps, one too many mismatched sets of eyeballs here.) While the work of this time is not as tight as the Dada-inspired collages, cumulatively, it makes Höch’s pressurized world felt. There are numerous moments of arresting weirdness—the floating, disembodied legs of Never Keep Both Feet on the Ground (1940), for example, approach the magical. The best of this group, The Accident (1936), however, is atypical. While it uses recognizable motifs—wagon wheels, baskets, and polka dot fabric—The Accident is, essentially, an abstraction. Its clunking, circular rhythms create the pictorial equivalent of a perpetual motion machine. Höch would work abstractly again, primarily during the 1950s, but she never equaled the off-kilter beauty of The Accident.

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Hannah Höch, The Dream of His Life (1925), cut-and-pasted hand colored photographes and printed paper on paper, 11-3/4″ x 8-3/4″; courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art

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The mistake the curators make is in trying to revamp Höch as a contemporary artist. It is surprising to learn that an artist associated with the Weimar Republic was also a contemporary of Robert Rauschenberg, and one sympathizes with Höch when, in 1976, she wearily states: “I’m sick and tired of Dada.” Many artists are unfairly stuck in historical brackets that limit our appreciation of their life’s work, but Höch is, well, fairly stuck. The most unsettling aspect of her postwar collages isn’t necessarily that they are bad. On the contrary, works like Synthetic Flowers (Propeller Thistles) (1952) and Burst Unity (1955) are accomplished, handsome, and utterly bland. Whether abstract or pseudo-Pop satires, the late photomontages are without bite or artistic necessity. Höch may well have flourished best in an artistic and historical context that made demands of her gifts. At a time when the heritage of Dada was being mainstreamed—courtesy of Rauschenberg, Pop, et al.—Höch was, at best, coasting. It is sad that the most “memorable” work here is also the most embarrassing, simply because it breaks out of the final gallery’s monotony. Homage to Riza Abasi (1963)—which juxtaposes the head of an Audrey Hepburn look-alike with the ample body of a belly dancer—is so simple-minded it would make a sophomore art student blush. It isn’t Dada-inspired so much as it is Dada-lite. Surely, the exhibition would have been better if it had ended with Dove of Peace (1945), a scary and incredulous take on world events, but such are curatorial prerogatives. Instead, we get a finale that is beside the point.

Despite the anticlimactic nature of the final gallery, The Photomontages of Hannah Höch is a welcome exhibition. If Höch’s work doesn’t elicit the intense pleasure we associate with the greatest art, its unassuming pleasures should not be dismissed. “Höch-watchers,” including the catalogue essayists, may use terms like “genius” and “dazzling” in describing the work, but these words are too strong for what is, in the end, a pretty good artist in a pretty good exhibition. Such a statement may be interpreted, in some quarters, as the merest chauvinism. Yet it is entirely possible to be a feminist and deplore the politicization of art. Privileging ideological intention over aesthetic fact results in little more than political placebos and diminished art—results, I daresay, Höch herself would have found questionable. Hannah Höch’s contribution to twentieth-century art is modest and solid. The crowds I attended the exhibition with seemed to be having a good time. We should take our cue from them and leave the proselytizers to fend for themselves.

© 1997 Mario Naves

Originally published in the May 1997 edition of The New Criterion.

“Sideshow Nation” at Sideshow Gallery


Artist and impresario Rich Timperio has mounted another of his annual compendiums of, like, a zillion artists at Sideshow Gallery, his haimish venue in not-so-far-flung Williamsburg. This year’s model is dubbed Sideshow Nation and the exhibition promises to leave the casual viewer staggered by its dizzying multiplicity.

Am I wrong in thinking that Timperio’s overviews give a broader and, in many ways, truer overview of the contemporary scene than, say, the Whitney Biennial? Certainly, it’s a more generous endeavor and less prone to theoretical blather.

Would I ponder the question if a work of mine weren’t included? Given some of the artists featured in Sideshow Nation–to name just a few, Ken Butler, Joanne Freeman, Tom EvansTine Lundsfryd, Kim Sloane, Eric Holzman, Lauren Bakoian, Don Voisine, Thornton Willis, Susan Wanklyn, Jeanne Wilkinson and Laura Dodson–I’m inclined to think I would.

© 2012 Mario Naves