May 12, 2008
From a 1957 profile of Pablo Picasso
On the website of The Atlantic, the editors have made available a July 1957 profile of Pablo Picasso written by Carlton Lake, then the Paris art critic for the Christian Science Monitor. It is part of their "Flashbacks" series, and is paired with other engagements with the artist and his work. An excerpt:
We passed into a large salon. The ceiling was well over fifteen feet high. Facing me, on the other side of the room, were floor-to-ceiling glass doors overlooking a terrace and gardens. The room itself and another, somewhat smaller, to my left, were filled with the same kind of overflowing accumulation of Picasso's work that I had encountered as soon as I crossed the threshold into the hall. It seemed a little bit like playing Ali Baba in modern dress. My eyes were racing from one corner to another trying to take it all in at once. Then I heard Jacqueline say, "Et voici Picasso." I turned and, across a distance of perhaps two feet, found myself looking down into Picasso's eyes -- as bright and penetrating as ever. He looked vigorous yet relaxed, and a long way from seventy-five. He was wearing saffron-colored duck slacks and a burgundy woolen shirt with a dark-brown sleeveless sweater over it; on his feet, a pair of canvas espadrilles. He led me into the dining room to our right, pulled up a chair for me near the head of the table, then settled his wiry, rugged little frame into a wicker seat beside me. Jacqueline sat down on the other side of him, facing me and completing a kind of semicircle. Picasso lighted a cigarette and looked over at me.
"Well," he said with a grin, "you've got me. Now what are you going to do with me?"
The profile is a long, informal, engaging read; there are many personal details. To read the rest, click here. To see the other articles in this "Flashback," here.
Posted in From the Archives, Papers & Periodicals. Found always via this permanent link.
September 21, 2006
From the Archives: 1975 Marcel Broodthaers text
Today's "From the Archives" entry comes from October 42, published in 1987, which contained a selection of writings, interviews, and photographs by the Belgian artist Marcel Broodthaers. This prose piece, translated by Paul Schmidt, is titled, "To be bien pensant . . . or not to be. To be blind." It was published in 1975; Broodthaers passed away in January 1976. After the jump, I've reprinted the first two paragraphs of Benjamin H.D. Buchloh's introduction to the portfolio. (Buchloh's essay on Broodthaers in Neo-Avantgarde and Culture Industry: Essays on European and American Art from 1955 to 1975 remains the best English-language text on Broodthaers's work that I have encountered.)
What is Art? Ever since the nineteenth century the question has been posed incessantly to the artist, to the museum director, to the art lover alike. I doubt, in fact, that it is possible to give a serious definition of Art, unless we examine the question in terms of a constant, I mean the transformation of art into merchandise. This process is accelerated nowadays to the point where artistic and commercial values have become superimposed. If we are concerned with the phenomenon of reification, then Art is a particular representation of the phenomenon—a form of tautology. We could then justify it as affirmation, and at the same time carve out for it a dubious existence. We would then have to consider what such a definition might be worth. One fact is certain: commentaries on Art are the result of shifts in the economy. It seems doubtful to us that such commentaries can be described as political.Continue reading "From the Archives: 1975 Marcel Broodthaers text"Art is a prisoner of its phantasms and its function as magic; it hangs on our bourgeois walls as a sign of power, it flickers along the peripeties of our history like a shadow-play—but is it artistic? To read the Byzantine writing on the subject reminds us of the sex of angels, of Rabelais, or of debates at the Sorbonne. At the moment, inopportune linguistic investigations all end in a single gloss, which its authors like to call criticism. Art and literature . . . which of the moon's faces is hidden? And how many clouds and fleeting visions there are.
I have discovered nothing here, not even America. I choose to consider Art as a useless labor, apolitical and of little moral significance. Urged on by some base inspiration, I confess I would experience a kind of pleasure at being proved wrong. A guilty pleasure, since it would be at the expense of the victims, those who thought I was right.
Monsieur de la Palice is one of my customers.* He loves novelties, and he, who makes other people laugh, finds my alphabet a pretext for his own laughter. My alphabet is painted.
All of this is quite obscure. The reader is invited to enter into this darkness to decipher a theory or to experience feelings of fraternity, those feelings that unite all men, and particularly the blind.
* Monsieur de la Palice is the character of a French folk song who pronounces truisms. A typical lapalissade would be "Two hours before his death, he was still alive."—ed.
Posted in From the Archives. Found always via this permanent link.
September 14, 2006
From the Archives: Los Angeles Times review of Warhol's first solo show
Today's "From the Archives" entry is the local paper's review of Andy Warhol's first solo exhibition, held at the legendary Ferus Gallery in the summer of 1962. The review, written by one Jack Smith (how fortuitous!), was published on July 23. It's worth reading in full, as the author can't quite believe his eyes, gets quotes from Irving Blum (in a review!), makes a discovery down the street, and then, as he initially suspects of Warhol, plants his tongue "firmly in his cheek."
My search for understanding in our times led me the other morning to the Ferus Art Gallery on La Cienega Blvd., in Beverly Hills, to examine the exhibit there of the work of the young New York artist, Andy Warhol, in the field of Campbell's Soup.Continue reading "From the Archives: Los Angeles Times review of Warhol's first solo show"Mr. Warhol's one-man show consists of 32 paintings of cans of this veneral company's familiar product. The paintings appear to be uncompromisingly faithful to detail.
Mr. Warhol's painting, "Turkey Vegetable," for example, is the twin of his equally honest "Chicken Noodle," except for the words "turkey vegetable" and "chicken noodle."
The total effect, I thought, was one of seeing perhaps more paintings of soup cans than one might care to see. I suspected for a moment, even, that Mr. Warhol might have had his tongue in his cheek.
But Irving Blum, the proprietor of the gallery, assured me that this was not the case.
This young fellow is deadline serious," said Blum of the artist. "And fresh as this moment."
Posted in From the Archives. Found always via this permanent link.
September 6, 2006
From the Archives: Ray Eames
This is the first in what I hope will be a twice- or thrice-weekly series, in which I pull out excerpts of interviews, reviews, or other material from various archives (hopefully also available online) for your pleasure.
Here are a few quotes from an interview conducted with Ray Kaiser Eames in the summer of 1980.
RAY KAISER EAMES: I didn't take any painting; I didn't want to, but I did other things. You know, it was just interesting to me. Charles at that time was teaching design, as well as working with Eero. Eero had just gotten out of Yale and come back to work with his father. They also . . . he and Charles became friends, because they were both working for Eliel. is this something you know?
RUTH BOWMAN: It's nothing that the Archives has heard from you.
RAY KAISER EAMES: So they would work on these projects, and then also work on things together at night. Eero was especially interested in competitions: he loved competing, and that's when the Museum of Modern Art competition came up and they were working together. I got into the middle of that.
RUTH BOWMAN: So you worked on the original chairs.
RAY KAISER EAMES: Yes, yes. I didn't work—I was like a hand, you know, just . . . . It was quite under way by that time; there was a model; I watched the photographing of the model, and then I worked on the drawings, the presentation drawings. And that ended, and then I left after it was sent in.
[ . . . ]
RAY KAISER EAMES: Yes, Charles had always been terribly interested in photography. I think it's been known that his father was a great amateur photographer and had left equipment. His father died when he was very young. He left his equipment and Charles started to read instructions and taught himself about photography. The great joke he always made was that he was making glass plate negatives before hearing that there was such a thing as film, because of having this old equipment. But he learned a great deal. Then he used it always as a tool, photographing architecture, photographing objects, studying it by photographing models. And I think he made some experiments in film when he was at Cranbook. Some film . . . I must check that, I think they might have it. We kept records of everything, but he never shot just a record, he always shot something and made a good-looking photograph. But then—that was another joke, but it had some truth in it—friends had left us a projector and editing equipment and we had nothing to project, so we decided to make a film—the film—but he was really interested in the whole. In terms of communication, he's always been interested in that subject, and this seemed to be the logical extension of it, the use of film for studying and putting things into form, that could be then handed over. We first made a film to experiment, just with the technique, and observing things, like toys—but I think that very first film also had the underlying quality of communication. We shot many toys, but shot them so that you could understand and see them in a way that you couldn't see them otherwise. It was brought out to be a thing in itself seen differently than you would otherwise see it, I think.
[ . . . ]
RUTH BOWMAN: And this relationship has continued over forty years with Herman Miller?
RAY KAISER EAMES: Yes, absolutely.
RUTH BOWMAN: And the production laboratory has always been here?
RAY KAISER EAMES: "Production laboratory"—that's a different way of saying . . . . I don't think of it that way.
RUTH BOWMAN: How do you think of it?
RAY KAISER EAMES: Studio, office—we call it "shop," the place where we work has been here, and the early production was here. Part of this building . . . it was unbelievable when you think back about it, having the actual production here, as it was during the War, actually making the splints and making the furniture, making all the experiments. Then it becoming Herman Miller and having half of the building be production and the rest of it our own, making films, walking over cables. The people who produced the things, you know, were all local people, many of whom had worked . . . most of them, as a matter of fact, who had worked on the splints during the War. They were made up of housewives and all mixtures of people, various carpenters and really, just sweet people that we'd known for many years.
For more information about Charles & Ray, check out the Eames Office website. The Filmes of Charles and Ray Eames box set is a beautiful object, but if you were to only buy one DVD I would recommned Volume 2.