I’m in New York for Thanksgiving, and yesterday I visited the Guggenheim.
The nice thing about the Guggenheim is that even when the exhibits are awful the Frank Lloyd Wright building is still fun:
And in this case the exhibit was exceedingly awful, a less disgusting but annoyingly vapid and coy version of the off-putting experience I wrote about here, in which the notion of art had pretty much degenerated into posturing and ironic messages.
This time, instead of cut-up cow body parts and elephant dung Madonnas, we had cowboys and Marlboro men, naughty nurse book covers, framed autographed photos of Hollywood stars and also-rans, and enormous single-color canvasses with Henny Youngman-type jokes marching across their centers in large black letters.
This is the work of Richard Prince, intended as some sort of wry postmodern commentary on America and its values; I think it’s mostly a sad commentary on the postmodern death of art. Fortunately, off to the side in the smaller and more conventionally-shaped galleries of the museum there was an exhibit of older art; containing a fair amount of Kandinsky, Chagall, and Picasso, as well as a few Cezannes and Gauguins and other painters of that era.
Compared to the abominations that filled the main downward-spiraling (in more ways than one) body of the museum, these works—once so scandalous and revolutionary themselves—represented a calm oasis, a return to painterly values such as color and form, harmony and light, and—dare I say it?—beauty. They seemed nearly as ancient and classic as the Parthenon, as accessible as Norman Rockwell.
Two familiar Picassos were there that I’d studied in college art history courses, although I’d never seen them in person before. Like many Picassos, they are exceedingly different in style from each other—indeed, if one didn’t know how protean Picasso was as a painter, one would swear they’d been created by two different artists.
One was entitled “Woman Ironing.” It’s from his blue period; a somber and nearly monochrome representation of a worn and weary woman hard at work:
The other was “Woman with Yellow Hair,” a portrait of one of Picasso’s myriad mistresses, full of sensual curves and rich glowing colors, languid and relaxed:
The two were not close together, but they were in the same gallery, and as I happened to glance from one to the other I could not help but notice what I’d never noticed before: the similarity of their poses, although the dramatically different works were painted nearly thirty years apart.
Just look at the sharp bend of the heads and the nearly horizontal angle of the profiles, and the way the left shoulder is emphasized. Despite the different feel and tone of each painting, there’s a leitmotif that runs through them and unites them. Perhaps it’s a certain proportion or grace that Picasso intuitively sensed—much like the Golden Ratio—without knowing how or why. Or perhaps he just likes the pose.
The catalog for the Prince exhibit was in the museum store, to the tune of sixty big ones. My advice is to save your money.






