“Vigée Le Brun: Woman Artist in Revolutionary France” at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, February 15–May 15, 2016

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Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, Self-portrait (1790), oil on canvas, 39-3/8 x 31-7/8″; courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art

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“Vigée Le Brun: Woman Artist in Revolutionary France” is a fascinating exhibition for reasons made plain by its title. Gender and context shouldn’t be the ultimate arbiters for why we value an artist, but they are inescapable factors when considering Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun (1755–1842). Much like Artemisia Gentileschi, another figure beloved by those who view the history of art through the lens of political correctness, Vigée Le Brun is an anomaly: a painter—and a successful one, at that—working at a time when women weren’t encouraged to pursue a career in the arts. It helped that Vigée Le Brun was to the studio born: her father, Louis Vigée, was a society portraitist and provided lessons at home. “You will be a painter, my child, or never will there be one” may be a statement indicative of paternal bias, but Vigée Le Brun’s talent was evident early on. Jeanne Maissin, the artist’s mother, pushed Vigée Le Brun to undertake more formal studies as a means of combating the depression she underwent upon the death of her father in 1767. Trips to the Louvre were supplemented by guidance from Gabriel François Doyen and Joseph Vernet, painters of considerable repute.

Maissin provided working space at home as well as financial support. But Vigée Le Brun achieved significant notice even as a teenager and helped supplement the family’s income through portrait commissions. After the studio was shut down by authorities in 1774—Vigée Le Brun had been operating without a license—the artist gained admittance to the Académie de Saint-Luc, an association guaranteeing a level of prestige, as well as that the studio remained open. Two years later she married Jean Baptiste Pierre Le Brun, a distant cousin who had studied with François Boucher and Jean-Honoré Fragonard, and earned his keep as an art dealer. It was a difficult union. Vigée Le Brun realized fairly quickly that her husband’s appetite for collecting superseded the niceties of the bottom line. Le Brun couldn’t hold on to money. In recompense, he attempted to boost his wife’s reputation, hiking the prices of the work above those of her contemporaries. But Le Brun’s sway paled next to that of Marie Antoinette. How could it not? The young queen had a decisive if, ultimately, tumultuous effect on Vigée Le Brun’s art and life.

Marie Antoinette in Court Dress (1778) isn’t the first painting viewers encounter upon entering the exhibition, but its impact makes swift work of the surrounding pictures. Commissioned as a gift for the queen’s mother, Empress Maria Theresa of Austria, this monumental showpiece codifies the requisite hauteur but, more so, evinces an ambitious artist eager to please. And please Vigée Le Brun most certainly did. The Empress was delighted with the canvas, and Marie Antoinette, having run through a disappointing series of portraitists, finally found a painter who did not “drive me to despair.” Marie Antoinette in Court Dress isn’t very good—its elision of pictorial space is vague when it isn’t flat-footed, and the attention to texture inconsistent—but as a piece of theater, it’s a tour-de-force, particularly for an artist who was all of twenty-two years of age. Indeed, one of the pleasures of “Woman Artist in Revolutionary France” is watching Vigée Le Brun develop while on the job, gaining surety in her rendering of the human form and pulling off portraits that are, in their attention to detail and character, more than documents of a doomed aristocracy.

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Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, Marie Antoinette and Her Children (1787), oil on canvas, 108-1/4 x 85-1/4″; courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

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By the time we reach Marie Antoinette and Her Children (1787) at the show’s midpoint, Vigée Le Brun has become a deeper artist in terms of skill and mood. A greater intimacy with her subjects, particularly the queen, accounts for the air of tender sobriety suffusing its portrayal of a mother and her three children. Here, Marie Antoinette is less a coquettish figurine seemingly molded from porcelain than a flesh-and-blood woman humbled by motherhood. (An empty bassinet at the right of the composition signifies the death of a fourth child.) Though the children are too moppet-like by half, Vigée Le Brun brought an unnerving degree of self-awareness and introspection to the gaze of Marie Antoinette. Vigée Le Brun would never altogether shed a brittleness of affect—the conventionality of her settings is a nagging constant—but the painterly approach became more fluid and precise. Rubens was a pivotal influence, and one can intuit his sensuality and esprit in the silky brushwork of Comtesse de la Châtre (1789) and the comic eroticism of Madame Dugazon in the Role of “Nina” (1787). Vigée Le Brun doesn’t achieve the heights set by the Flemish Master, but neither does she suffer from the comparison—at least, that is, in her finest efforts.

The finest of them all is the justifiably iconic Self-Portrait (1790). Political turmoil at home caused Vigée Le Brun to flee France in 1789; close association with the recently imprisoned queen did not, to put it mildly, put her in good stead with the revolution. Setting up shop in Rome, Vigée Le Brun was asked by the Uffizi to contribute a canvas to its gallery of self- portraits. The result earned plaudits from the top down: “All of Rome,” wrote the museum’s director, “is in awe of her talent.” It’s hard not to fall a little bit in love with the painting. Turning to the viewer as she daubs at a portrait of her deposed patron, Vigée Le Brun is fresh-faced, confident and without guile; beautiful, too. Though she went on to achieve fame and fortune throughout Europe and Russia, Vigée Le Brun never topped it and the work turned spotty and slick. Her subsequent portraiture traded too easily in mannerisms; particularly cloying are the kewpie-doll eyes and standard-issue pursed lips bequeathed to sundry courtesans, princesses, and queens. Flattery might elicit commissions, but it’s hell on art. Vigée Le Brun cruised on her mastery rather than expanding its parameters. Still, any show that includes a painting as winning as Self-Portrait, not to mention twenty or so additional pictures that are almost as good, deserves must-see status. And so it is with “Woman Artist in Revolutionary France.”

© 2016 Mario Naves

This review originally appeared in the May 2016 edition of The New Criterion.

The Artist’s Life


Detail of cartoon from the February 1, 1989 edition of Irish World and Industrial Liberator

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I am one of myriad artists to have been interviewed by Noah Davis for his article, “How To Make It As An Artist in New York”, as seen in the current issue of Crain’s. You can hear an interview with the author and myself on a corresponding podcast, found here.

“Greater New York” at MOMA PS1, New York (October 11, 2015–March 7, 2016)


Robert Kushner, Torrid Dreams (1984), acrylic, silk and cotton applique on cotton; courtesy Pablo Enrique and MOMA PS1.

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What is there to say about the 2015 edition of “Greater New York” that hasn’t been said about any number of exhibitions intent on bringing some kind of definition to the dizzying state of contemporary art? Yeah, sure, this variant of the once-every-five-years pseudo- Biennial is emphatically New York-centric, particularly with numerous pieces dedicated to the city’s changing landscape. It’s also less smitten with the latest batch of bright young things. “Opportunities for younger artists,” the press release avers, “ . . . have grown alongside a burgeoning interest in artists who may have been overlooked in the histories of their time.” If this was cause enough to include works by artists as diverse, accomplished, and of a certain age as Robert Bordo, Robert Kushner, Joyce Robins, Nancy Shaver, and Rosalind Solomon, well, that’s all to the good. Dead artists are given a berth in Long Island City as well: among them, Alvin Baltrop, Rudy Burckhardt, Scott Burton, and Gordon Matta-Clark, whose photographs of industrial spaces punctuate the galleries. All of which is an attempt at satisfying—or engendering— the viewer’s “desire for the new and nostalgia for that which it displaces.”

So why does “Greater New York” feel like more of the same—that is to say, an undifferentiated amalgam of poses, politics, and attitudes? Peg it on too-many-cooks-in-the- kitchen, if you’d like. Four curators, along with an additional pair of curators who have organized an accompanying series of live events, all but guarantee an exhibition marked by compromises and second-guessing. Yet however much one’s taste might veer from that of the curator Douglas Crimp—the theorist and art historian who was an early and influential trumpeter of postmodernism—the failings of “Greater New York” are more indicative of a pervasive cultural complacency. Some thirty years back, the critic Hilton Kramer coined the phrase “the revenge of the philistines” to describe the inroads the Camp aesthetic and a concomitant abrogation of standards had made into the realm of “High Art.” That the latter term can hardly be used without scare quotes here in the twenty-first century is an indication of how thoroughly the anti-aesthetic has been mainstreamed. “It’s all good”—the slacker’s response to anything untoward, has become the dominant credo. Acquiescence to all things artistic might betoken an open mind, but it’s a stance that has resulted in a scene marked by toothless anonymity. Give “Greater New York” this much: it is symptomatic of the times.

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Installation shot of “Greater New York”; courtesy Hyperallergic

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Admittedly, any venture as encompassing as “Greater New York” is asking for it. You can’t please all of the people all of the time, especially with a laundry list of artists as variegated as this one. You want your mixing of medias? Painting, sculpture, photography, installation, video, music, fashion, documentary bric-à-brac, and a “dystopian sci-fi street dance” film—it’s there to see at PS1. There’s enough “content” on display—about identity politics, consumerist critiques, welfare reform, and what-have-you—to cover some of everybody’s bases. Or so you would think. The general response to “Greater New York” has, in fact, been tepid, and characterized by a sense of fatigue borne of commercial calculation and artistic overabundance. Forget the careerist snark of artists who weren’t invited to participate or the musings of cranks who pine for good old days that never were. Relatively copacetic members of the scene have been underwhelmed by PS1’s attempt to hold the moment. Howard Halle, writing in Time Out New York, describes how the show “largely feels exhausted, even as it exhausts your attention.” Holland Cotter’s take in The New York Times was summarized in its introductory sentence: “‘Greater New York’ has come to sound like a wish, and not a statement of fact.” Writing for ArtNews, Andrew Russeth extols the “sunny disposition of so much here,” but admits that “[‘Greater New York’] feels off.” Run of the mill is more like it. It’s a sprawling exhibition of predictable rewards.

A fairly good rule of thumb is that an exhibition in which the sound of ominous clanking greets the viewer, as it does at “Greater New York,” should be treated with a degree of skepticism. Funhouse sensationalism is the defining characteristic of a lot of new art, and PS1 has made a specialty of the genre—largely, one feels, because the venue makes curators and artists a bit nervous. The towering environs and period-piece charm of the re-purposed school have proven a tough row for art to hoe. Exhibitions tend toward overkill or over-weening stylishness. The latter tack is taken by the organizers of “Greater New York.” The results are impeccable and airless, gleaming with cruelly tuned clarity. What happened to the avant-garde? It’s been rendered just as hygienic, streamlined, and efficient as the display units at IKEA. Little wonder that ample space has been set aside for the maze-like installation dedicated to KIOSK, an internationalist gift shop run by Alisa Grifo and Marco Romeny. This inclusion may have been done with tongue in cheek, but what does it say when the (often kitschy) items featured for sale are more inventively crafted and more visually compelling than the artworks on display?


Installation shot of KIOSK display at “Greater New York”; courtesy Hyperallergic

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A cynic might reply that commodity culture has won out, plain and simple. We are what we buy, and art is just one more product amongst many, many others. But I suspect the real answer has less to do with money— although that’s certainly a factor—than with creative capability, ideological conformity, and lack of initiative. Take into account the uncredited package designers whose work is seen in KIOSK. They are, by definition, intent on reaching an audience and, if the examples seen at PS1 are any indication, that audience has a pronounced, self-aware, and often elevated sense of taste. Outreach is the marketer’s purview. For the contemporary artist, outreach plays a distinct second-fiddle to navel-gazing. Narcissism, particularly when glossed over with politics, carries more integrity than anything so crass as engaging the viewer. Self-indulgence reigns—putting a glossy face on it, the career move. Exquisitely contrived sensibilities—high-end brands for the Chelsea-set—are the rule. “Like many New Yorkers, I lack imagination.” So says Glenn Ligon, an artist whose sentiment can be gleaned from inside PS1’s all-too-tidy grab-bag. Rarely has an exhibition been criticized from within with such uncanny, if unintentional, specificity.

© 2016 Mario Naves

This review originally appeared in the February 2016 edition of The New Criterion.

“Recent Paintings” at The Ohio State University at Lima

Sunny Day Hotsy Totsy.jpgMario Naves, Sunny Day Hotsy Totsy (2015), acrylic on panel, 16″ x 20″; courtesy Elizabeth Harris Gallery, NY

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I’m pleased to announce an upcoming solo exhibition at The Farmer Family Gallery in Reed Hall at The Ohio State University at Lima. The show will include sixteen paintings created between 2014-2015. The opening takes place on Thursday, January 21, between 4:30-6:30 p.m. The exhibition continues until February 19.

“Thru the Rabbit Hole”

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It’s that time of year: Sideshow Gallery will be mounting its annual exercise in inclusivity. Can there really be too much art? Apparently not. A recent painting of mine will be included amongst the myriad pieces on display. Hope to see you at the opening–that is, if you can navigate the maddening crowd. There’s also an attendant exhibition at Bushwick’s Life on Mars Gallery, Sideshow’s new partner in artistic abundance.

“Archibald Motley: Jazz Age Modernist” at The Whitney Museum of American Art, New York


Archibald Motley, Self-Portrait (Myself at Work) (1933), oil on canvas; courtesy The Whitney Museum of American Art

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“Archibald Motley: Jazz Age Modernist,” a wildly uneven exhibition devoted to the African-American painter Archibald Motley (1891–1981), is bookended by two Major Statements, pictures strong in tenor if different in focus. Upon entering the retrospective, viewers encounter Self-Portrait (Myself at Work) (1933), a take-it-or-leave-it avowal of artistic purpose. Motley faces us holding in his left hand a palette imbued with an otherworldly purple and in his right a brush that conjures forth a nude woman from a canvas. The composition is compartmentalized and clear: a crucifix hangs on the back wall; a neo-classical sculpture is placed next to the painter’s palette; and, hanging from a window is a grotesque profile bust similar to those seen in Leonardo’s sketchbooks. With movie-star good looks and unflinching gaze, Motley is every inch the bohemian. This may have been a pose—an adjacent self-portrait depicts a stodgier personage—but the resulting picture radiates authority.

The conclusion of “Jazz Age Modernist” is The First One Hundred Years, a canvas begun around 1963 and completed in 1972. Good luck getting a look at it. The days I attended the show, there was a logjam of viewers around the painting. Who can blame them for taking their time? The image is filled with myriad details, and those details are plain in their symbolism—and harsh. The luminous blue suffusing the painting is typical of Motley’s color sensibility, but the overtly polemical bent isn’t. Situated within a nightmarish backdrop are emblems of the United States and its painful history of race relations: a hulking member of the Ku Klux Klan, the Confederate flag, a lynching, the Statue of Liberty, a “Whites Only” sign, and the disembodied heads of Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, Jr. Subtle The First One Hundred Years isn’t, and one wonders if Motley didn’t overtax himself—psychologically, politically, and, as a practicing Catholic, spiritually—in pursuing it. After putting the last touch on the canvas, Motley never again picked up a brush. He died nine years later.


Archibald Motley, The First One Hundred Years (1963-72), oil on canvas; courtesy The Whitney Museum of American Art

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Between these poles, Motley emerges as an incisive realist who was entranced, if ultimately hobbled, by Modernism. Born in New Orleans, Motley and his family moved to Chicago when he was three years old. When Motley graduated from Englewood High School, a family friend offered to pay his way through college should he study architecture. The offer was turned down; Motley’s passion was art. Among the first black students to attend The Art Institute of Chicago, Motley went on to experience a significant level of success, not least being the first African-American painter to have a solo show in New York City. While at the Institute, he witnessed the arrival of the infamous Armory exhibition of 1913, as well as the vitriolic reaction to it. Students demonstrated against the new art. Did Motley join them? While he would continue painting in a fairly traditional manner—Thomas Eakins would seem an inspiration and Guy Pène du Bois the nearest comparison—the trajectory of Motley’s oeuvre puts him on the side of Modernism.

But not firmly, not really. Motley’s absorption of the avant-garde is indicative more of the freedom to embrace vernacular art forms—folk painting and comic strips—than in the structural innovations of Cubism or the chromatic liberties put into motion by the Fauvists. The early portion of “Jazz Age Modernist” focuses on Motley’s straightforward forays into portraiture and does so to impressive and often moving effect. Renaissance lucidity typifies paintings like Portrait of a Cultured Lady (1948) and Portrait of Mrs. A. J. Motley, Jr. (1930) and is filtered through with an unsettling strain of alienation in Nude (Portrait of My Wife) (1930). Family inspired Motley’s richest pictures—Uncle Bob (1928) and Portrait of My Grandmother (1922) have more to tell us about our national character than Grant Wood’s American Gothic—as did specific meditations on type. Portrayals of an “octoroon girl,” a “mulatress,” a “brown girl,” and “mammy” may have contemporary viewers bristling at their attendant terminology, but Motley’s stern humanism makes an appropriate hash of such distinctions.


Archibald Motley, Brown Girl After the Bath (1931), oil on canvas; courtesy The Whitney Museum of American Art

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The majority of the exhibition is devoted to Motley’s rambunctious panoramas of black life in America, with a notable pit stop made in Paris. Though religion and slavery are touched upon, the subjects are largely secular: gambling, singing, drinking, and dancing— all shot through with a lubricious sensuality. The elasticity of form and cadence in Saturday Night (1935) is difficult to resist, and Motley does capture some of the careening “hot rhythm” of jazz music. But the majority of paintings aren’t far removed from being tourist kitsch. Motley’s palette becomes perfumey and cloying, the compositions bunchy, and the paint-handling glib. The “irreverent humor” claimed for Motley’s dependence on racial caricature is evident, but it doesn’t excuse the work’s too-close-for-comfort relationship with minstrelsy. Not every artist has to trade in cultural uplift, and stereotypes may well have been Motley’s right to claim as a black man. But the “downhome” paintings don’t illuminate (or satirize) unfortunate archetypes so much as cruise on them. Not one of these paintings approaches Brown Girl After the Bath (1931) in terms of pictorial nuance, tenderness, and gravitas. It is in pictures like this, and there are not a few of them in “Jazz Age Modernist,” where Motley earns a rightful place in the history of American art.

© 2016 Mario Naves

This review originally appeared in the January 2016 edition of The New Criterion.


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!

Morandi Times Two

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Giorgio Morandi, Natura Morta (Still Life) (1956), oil on canvas, 13-3/4 x 17-11/16″; courtesy Private Collection and David Zwirner Gallery. (c) 2015 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/SIAE, Rome.

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The following review was originally published in the September 23, 2008 edition of The New York Observer and is posted here on the occasion of “Giorgio Morandi” at David Zwirner Gallery (until December 19) and “Giorgio Morandi” at The Center for Italian Modern Art (through June 25, 2016).

The first thing you’ve got to say about the Met’s new exhibition of Giorgio Morandi’s paintings, prints and drawings is this: It’s about time.

Over the past few years, a handful of almost surreptitious gallery exhibitions were devoted to the Italian modernist. The pickin’s were slim—10 paintings in each venue, if that—but they were enough to set gallery-goers drifting out in a haze of pleasurable disbelief. Why wasn’t this great—hell, sublime—painter getting the widespread attention he deserves?

The answer isn’t hard to pin down. Morandi painted tenderly choreographed arrays of bottles and boxes and the stray landscape—that’s about it. The pictures aren’t sexy. Dusty with isolation, Morandi’s homely dioramas are redolent of studio quietude. A Morandi doesn’t demand attention; it beckons for intimacy.

Working in collaboration with the Museo d’Arte Moderna di Bologna (MAMbo), the Met show is the first complete Morandi exhibition organized in the United States. It’s installed in the lower level of the Robert Lehman Wing, a space whose physical remove and hushed ambience are suited to the artist’s restraint. The entirety of the oeuvre is touched upon with uncommon deliberation. After traversing over a hundred pieces, you want more. The Met has done up Morandi right.

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Giorgio Morandi, Natura Morta (Still Life) (1949), oil on canvas, 12 X 17-15/16″; courtesy David Zwirner Gallery. (c) 2015 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/SIAE, Rome.

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Born in Bologna, Morandi studied at his hometown’s Academy of Fine Arts (his interest in art having been grudgingly capitulated to by his businessman father). The experience was dispiriting: The school, Morandi wrote, “served only to plunge me into a state of deep unrest.” Skepticism about art as an academic discipline stayed with Morandi even as he returned to the Academy some 20 years later to teach etching. As an instructor, he preferred teaching technical procedures over aesthetics.

Painting, not polemic, drove Morandi. After an infatuation with Futurism’s radical bromides, Morandi looked for inspiration in less flashy precedents: Chardin, Seurat, Corot, Cézanne. His paintings don’t play into the standard Modernist narrative. Stylistic innovation and the spotlight didn’t interest him. “In the eyes of the Grand Inquisitors of Italian art”—he means the art establishment—“I remained but a provincial.” Obscurity suited Morandi fine.

Morandi’s fascination with natura morta was loving, remorseless and, in the end, inexorable. Hindsight reveals as much in early experiments with Cézanne-esque facture and Cubism, but it isn’t until the mid- to late teens that Morandi’s signature motif gains real emphasis. You can feel it in the elongated vessels in a Picasso-influenced canvas. But it was Surrealism or, rather, its Italian offshoot, pittura metafísica, that made Morandi’s imagery concrete and contributed the profound heft he brought to oil paint.

Metaphysical painting involved itself less with Freudian theory than with unsettling nostalgia. Giorgio de Chirico was its best known and definitive practitioner. His dreamscapes of isolated plazas, zooming architecture and longing for Renaissance clarity were spartan in tone, if not always in composition. Morandi’s forays into this ascetic realm were even more distilled—to the point where metaphysics was almost beside the point.

De Chirico is in the mix in the handful of Morandi’s metaphysical paintings on display. Set on anonymous surfaces, a selective array of things are stringently orchestrated—a fruit dish, a pipe, cylinders and, the only blatantly “surrealist” object, a bisected mannequin’s head. Items float inside boxes with unearthly poise, the boxes themselves denatured and transparent. The best of the lot, a canvas from 1919, is passive-aggressive: The still life confronts us with dreadful quietude.

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Giorgio Morandi, Natura Morta (Still Life) (1952), oil on canvas, 16-1/8″ x 18-1/8″; courtesy David Zwirner Gallery and a Private Collection. (c) 2015 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/SIAE, Rome.

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An air of mystery, however understated, continued to filter through Morandi’s paintings, as did an unrelenting concentration on placement. Portent became less important than softly stated anxiety over representation. “Nothing is more abstract than what we actually see,” Morandi famously said. The harder Morandi looked at stuff on his table, the more elusive it was. The bristling trail left by his brush became increasingly forthright, agitated and meditative. Morandi’s search is palpable; the paintings question themselves right in front of our eyes.

Morandi’s palette is grayed and dusky—ochres, burnished browns, smoky off-whites and, in a lone hedonistic gesture, a pinkish and orange cream in a trio of canvases from 1956. His tabletops are almost pro-forma—a horizon that, at rare moments, curves or slopes. Morandi’s objects nudge each other, as though trying to situate themselves with some fleeting sense of logic. Elisions of space, gravity and viewpoint create a just barely discernible electricity. In an odd way, you feel the paintings before you see them.

The artist himself appears in two rare self-portraits. Striking the same pose in each—Morandi, with slumped shoulders and palette in hand, sits despondently in thought. One painting is monumental, heavy and solid—Morandi the Mountain. The other is intangible, almost ghostlike; in it, description yields to mood and specificity to abstraction. Both paintings are about the impossibility of grabbing hold of a moment. Their tenacious doubt is unshakable, and a gift.

(c) 2008 Mario Naves


“Paintings by George Stubbs from the Yale Center for British Art” at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.


George Stubbs, Turf, with Jockey Up, at Newmarket (c. 1765), oil on canvas, 38″ x 49″; courtesy Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

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Gallery-goers interested in viewing the handful of paintings by George Stubbs (1724–1806) on loan from the Yale Center for British Art will have to engage in the museological equivalent of hunting and pecking. The eight canvases are snuggled almost imperceptibly within the Met’s collection of European painting and are surrounded by those of his countrymen, including Joshua Reynolds, Thomas Lawrence, Thomas Gainsborough, and, in a disappointingly sanguine mood, William Hogarth. As the Yale Center’s Louis I. Kahn building undergoes restoration, New Yorkers have been offered a sampling of an artist best known for paintings of horses. Given how large exhibitions can tax one’s attention, who’s to say the less-is-more approach is a bad thing? The encompassing overview of John Singer Sargent’s portraits, concurrently on view at the Met, all but exhausts one’s capability for pleasure: the hits just keep on coming. A smattering of pictures, on the other hand, allows for a degree of measure that encourages focus.

Of course, Sargent was a greater artist than Stubbs. Stubbs had nowhere near the American’s facility—few painters do—and distilling the quiddities of personality was less important than representational accuracy. Sargent deserves the gala treatment; Stubbs, not so much. Even on the slim evidence at the Met, the narrow range of Stubbs’s talents and interests is evident. A brittleness in execution—a lack of spatial pliability and compositional invention—can make him seem an inspired folk painter. Stubbs was, in fact, self-taught. An apprenticeship with the painter and engraver Hamlet Winstanley was short-lived, the younger artist bristling at the copying typical of art instruction at the time. Flesh interested him more than plaster, and Stubbs set into motion his own course of study, learning human anatomy at York County Hospital and, later, animal anatomy through the dissection of horses. The latter took place at his farmhouse outside of York, wherein Stubbs made drawings from artfully posed carcasses. Stubbs did not lack drive; certainly he wasn’t squeamish.


George Stubbs, Freeman, the Earl of Clarendon’s gamekeeper, with a dying doe and hound (1800), oil on canvas, 40″ x 50″;courtesy Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

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Stubbs’s devotion to the intricacies of equine form did not go unnoticed. The intensive accuracy of his studies caught the eye of patrons—Stubbs received his first commissions from aficionados of both horses and art—and would eventually lead to the publication of his 1866 treatise, The Anatomy of the Horse. Stubbs became sought after as a niche painter and achieved an enviable level of success, providing him the financial wherewithal to purchase a home in the exclusive London neighborhood of Marylebone. Though Stubbs would branch out to other genres, including historical dioramas, landscape, and depictions of more exotic fauna like that of the little known “kongouro,” the non-horse pictures were met with less acclaim. When a failed collaboration with the ceramicist Josiah Wedgewood left him in debt, Stubbs began taking on commissions to paint dogs. Patronage from the Prince of Wales eased his later years. At the time of his death, Stubbs was working on a suite of engravings whose title makes plain the peculiar nature of his fascinations: A comparative anatomical exposition of the structure of the human body with that of a tiger and a common fowl.

Oddly enough, and alas, horses are on short supply at the Met—only Turf, with Jockey Up, at Newmarket (ca. 1765) and Lustre, Held By a Groom (ca. 1762) feature Stubbs’s trademark animal. Elsewhere, we see hunting dogs, a doe, a mound of dead birds, and, in Two Gentlemen Shooting (ca. 1769), a partridge balletically stilled in mid-air having just been pelted with buckshot. Oh, yes, and humans: not only the aforementioned hunters, jockey, and groom, but Freeman, the Earl of Clarendon’s gamekeeper, who is pictured in a starkly dramatic composition, holding off a dog from an injured deer. The Met informs us that the gamekeeper will shortly administer the “coup de grâce,” thereby delivering the wounded animal from its suffering. Well, maybe. There’s enough ambiguity in the man’s gaze to give one pause: Freeman’s gesture is more conciliatory than not and his visage distinctly Solomonic. The neoclassical triangulation of the figures, if not the moody landscape that serves as their backdrop, undergirds the supposition. As moral theater, Freeman, the Earl of Clarendon’s gamekeeper, with a dying doe and hound (1800) has more gravitas than one might initially think.


Newmarket Heath, with a Rubbing Down House (ca. 1765), oil on canvas, 12″ x 16″; courtesy Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

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Notwithstanding the stern Mr. Freeman, Stubbs’s human figures are either doughy and generic—his gentleman hunters are stock types and nothing more—or, as in the regal Turf, with Jockey Up, at Newmarket (ca. 1765), so much a part of the animal that to make a distinction between the two is pointless. In delineating animal forms, Stubbs employed an analytical approach that emphasized contour, thereby bringing a sharp and sinewy angularity to forms. There is, for example, an almost Egyptian sense of pictorial codification to the two dogs seen in Two Gentlemen Going a Shooting (1768). Less impressive is the patchwork nature of Stubbs’s compositions; figures are decals stuck on to a surrounding rather than being integral components of it. The most unified picture of the bunch is Newmarket Heath, with a Rubbing Down House (ca. 1765), in which figures of any sort are absent. The brutalist authority of the title structure is quelled by a gentle—dare one say “tender”?—suffusion of afternoon light. Stubbs never let the painting leave the studio, sensing, perhaps, that he’d achieved something closer to poetry than mere hard-won verisimilitude. For that one grace note alone, the Met’s jewel-box exhibition of Stubbs’s work is worth a visit.

© 2015 Mario Naves

This review originally appeared in the October 2015 edition of The New Criterion.