Children of Paradise

Gerald and Sara Murphy on La Garoupe beach, Antibes, Summer 1926, Gerald and Sara Murphy Papers, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library. © Estate of Honoria Murphy Donnelly/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY.


“I believe in you so,” writes Sara Murphy to her husband Gerald in July 1919, “Our new life is but one thing: your ideals and principles and character organized and put into actuality by me.” Sara and Gerald Murphy, shown above in 1926 at the height of their wealth and style, created a magical life together, their complementary qualities helping to fashion a life that was itself a work of art. Making It New: The Art and Style of Sara and Gerald Murphy, the catalogue to the exhibit currently at the Williams College Museum of Art in Williamstown, MA, shares their life with a new generation and brings back what Calvin Tomkins calls “the freshness and excitement of early modernism in the 1920s.” Perhaps even more importantly, it recovers Gerald Murphy as an important figure in American modernist painting.

Gerald and Sara Murphy, both from wealthy families, married in 1915 and engaged on a life of their own making. Their shared love of art and of the artful life led them to sail for England in 1921 and soon move on to Paris. Ensconced among the artistic elite, Gerald and Sara threw parties that inspired F. Scott Fitzgerald to model Dick and and Nicole Diver of Tender Is the Night after them. Pablo Picasso and his family vacationed on the beaches of Antibes with the Murphys and their children. Picasso once said that the Murphys “embodied the ideal of romantic love.” The photos in the catalogue are simply amazing when you see just who the Murphys were friends with in the 1920s—Ernest Hemmingway to Cole Porter to John Dos Passos to Igor Stravinsky. When Man Ray takes your family portraits, you know you’re hanging out with the cream of the crop.

Deborah Rothschild, editor of the catalogue of essays and author of the central essay, “Masters of the Art of Living,” borrows the title “Making It New” from Ezra Pound’s poetic injunction to “Day by day make it new/ Yet again make it new! that served as a clarion call to the post-World War I generation, including the Murphys, who arrived at just the right moment in Europe to take part in the fun. “The Murphys’ life became an artistic exercise,” Rothschild writes, “informed by discipline, a keen sense of pleasure, and aesthetic complexity… The essays in this volume strive for a balanced portrait of Sara and Gerald Murphy, plumbing the dark side of their lives as well as shedding light on the multiple ways they served as models for the best that life could be.” The life that the Murphys created for themselves “became the calm center of a universe of talented and creative artists” across the whole spectrum of art: painting, literature, music, theater, fashion, design, gardening, home entertaining, and even parenting.

Gerald Murphy (American, 1888–1964), Razor, 1924, oil on canvas, Dallas Museum of Art, Foundation for the Arts Collection, gift of the artist, 1963 © Estate of Honoria Murphy Donnelly/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY.

Perhaps the most eye-opening aspect of this exhibit is the quality of Gerald Murphy’s paintings. Arriving in Paris in 1921, Gerald and Sara Murphy saw their first Cubist works and Gerald decided that those were the kind of paintings he wanted to paint. Gerald and Sara soon began studying with Natalia Goncharova, who helped them get work restoring backdrops for Sergei Diaghilev, which led to their meeting other artists such as Georges Braque, Andre Derain, and, most importantly, Picasso. Gerald soon began painting his own unique works, such as Razor (above), from 1924. “Gerald did not mimic the work of other artists, however,” Rothschild stresses. “Rather, he assimilated not only Cubism and Purism, but also Dada and Surrealism, as well as American folk art, advertising, and graphic design, to create works that were entirely original.” Rothschild also finds hints of Gerald’s struggles with his homosexuality in works such as Razor, reading “a coded secret life… laden with private meaning, hinting, beneath their deceptively simple and elegantly pristine surfaces, at Gerald’s persistent feelings of defectiveness and inadequacy.” Razor, for example, pits symbols of safety and masculinity (i.e., the safety razor) versus Gerald’s internal doubts about his own identity as a man. (Kenneth E. Silver, in his essay targeting Gerald’s sexuality, “The Murphy Closet and the Murphy Bed,” sympathetically extends this discussion of Gerald’s sexuality, particularly in the context of Gerald’s interest in fashion.)

Gerald Murphy (1888–1964), Watch, 1925, oil on canvas, Dallas Museum of Art, Foundation for the Arts Collection, gift of the artist, 1963 © Estate of Honoria Murphy Donnelly/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY.

Another amazing work by Gerald, Watch (above), also serves as a veiled self portrait. Gerald reproduced the inner workings of the watch with meticulous precision, except for a few minor details that he changed that would keep it from functioning. “Although it is possible that Gerald made these alterations for aesthetic reasons,” Rothschild muses, “there is a case to be made that this painting is a secret self-portrait of a defective, nonfunctioning self.” Such tantalizing details seem even more enticing knowing that of the 14 paintings Gerald painted, only seven survive today, with only a few more surviving in photographs. When his son Patrick’s tuberculosis worsened and they sought treatment in late 1929, Gerald gave up painting entirely. “Gerald wasn’t Irish for nothing,” poet and friend of the Murphys, Archibald MacLeish later said. “He bore the stigmata… he took the illness as a judgment on himself. He hadn’t earned the right to art.” Again, Gerald’s sense of inadequacy, originating in his relationship with his father as well as his conflicted sexuality, blocked his path. Gerald’s work remained forgotten for the most part until a 1962 exhibit, followed by several short studies of his work. “I’ve been discovered,” Gerald quipped before his death in 1964. “What does one wear?”

Gerald Murphy and Pablo Picasso, La Garoupe beach, Antibes, July 1923. Gerald and Sara Murphy Papers, Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library. © Estate of Honoria Murphy Donnelly/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY.

Sadly, the Murphys’ son Patrick died in 1937, two years after their other son, Baoth, died suddenly of meningitis in 1935. The shock of these deaths shook the Murphys’ marriage to the core, as Gerald began to express his homosexuality more freely after the years of struggle. The two of them remained together to the end of their lives. Calvin Tomkins, a neighbor, profiled them in a New Yorker piece in 1962, which he later expanded into the book Living Well Is the Best Revenge. Personal fame came late for the Murphys, but their legacy of inspiring and supporting the arts never died. Acting as satellites around the main essay by Rothschild, smaller studies on specific aspects of the Murphys’ impact on the arts. Most importantly, however, was how the Murphys served as a friend to all artists (such as in the photo of Picasso with Gerald above). Picasso sketched both Gerald and Sara (always with her trademark pearls) and used their aura, if not their actual images, in later works. The Murphys supported Hemmingway in the 1920s (cruelly getting in return a negative portrayal in his posthumous A Moveable Feast and perhaps a negative portrayal as Pablo and Pilar in For Whom the Bell Tolls) and Fitzgerald in the 1930s, even after their own wealth had decreased after the stock market crash.

I imagine that it was difficult for the Murphys’ descendants to allow Gerald and Sara to undergo such examination, warts and all, but Making It New gently and affectionately reappraises these two remarkable people for today, free of the prejudices of their time. Gerald, especially, now stands as the landmark painter he was, for however brief a time. The Murphys were truly children of a paradise of their own making, if only for a brief time before tragedy befell them, and Making It New brings those days in the modernist Eden back in all their color and vibrancy.

[Many thanks to Williams College Museum of Art in Williamstown, MA for providing me with a review copy of Making It New: The Art and Style of Sara and Gerald Murphy and the images from the exhibit.]

Child's Play

After all the angst of the Abstract Expressionists and head-in-hands philosophizing of the Minimalists, Elizabeth Murray’s paintings swept into the art world like little children full of fun and playfulness loosed upon a stuffy art gallery. Murray, born September 6, 1940, sadly passed away last August 12th, but her colorful, joyful works, such as Children Meeting (above), from 1978, live on. Before lung cancer finally took her life, Murray breathed new life into the moribund art world desperately needing to learn to laugh again.

While growing up in a world of poverty and intermittent homelessness, Murray developed a passion for drawing. She even sent a filled sketchbook to Walt Disney in hopes of landing a job as his secretary. Much of that Disney-esque imaginativeness fills her works, such as 1981’s Painter’s Progress (above). In Painter’s Progress, Murray shatters the painting image then reassembles it like an ill-fitting jigsaw puzzle to reveal a painter’s palette of hot pink and acid green with three orange brushes peeking out the top. Painter’s Progress is emblematic of Murray’s approach to art, always respectful of those who’ve come before (especially influences such as Cezanne, Picasso, and Matisse) but never so respectful that she wouldn’t bend or break a few rules in the name of making a good picture.

Like most women artists, Murray always fought for wider recognition. Her 2005 retrospective at the MOMA thankfully came while she could see it for herself. Aside from her gender, another strike against Murray in her claim for fame may have been her positivity. When selling an artist, it never hurts to play up the torment behind the art, a fact evident in the elevation of figures such as Van Gogh, Jackson Pollock, and Frida Kahlo from great artists to cultural icons as much as for what they created as for what they endured. Murray may have been just too nice to be famous. In late works, such as 2001’s Jazz (above), she continues to pursue the same artistic approach of riffing on the past (here the coffee cup found in many a still life by Cezanne) while injecting her own key notes of color and explosively playful design. Perhaps posthumous fame is in the cards for Elizabeth Murray, who certainly deserves it.

[BTW, Richard Lacayo at TIME Magazine posted some thoughts on Elizabeth Murray around the time of her death here, here, and here.]

Of Wreck and Ruin

Today markes the 233rd birthday of one of my all-time favorite artists—Caspar David Friedrich. Born in 1774, Friedrich created some of the most indelible images of Romanticism , such as Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog (above) from 1817. Publishers love to use works by Friedrich, especially Wanderer, for their cover art, knowing that it will always invoke an unmistakably Romantic mood. Artists such as J.M.W. Turner and Jacques-Louis David may represent other aspects of the Romantic period, but nobody painted the Byronic, brooding, pensive, philosophical, quasi-religious landscape like Friedrich.

Raised as a strict Lutheran, Friedrich struggled with his faith throughout his life, especially after the many family deaths that marked his youth, particularly that of his older brother, who died while saving young Caspar after he fell through the surface of an ice-covered lake. The Cross in the Mountains (above), also known as The Tetschen Altar, from 1808 shows how Friedrich forged a unique sense of Christianity merging traditional devotion with an almost pantheistic love of nature. Friedrich loaded his landscapes with religious symbolism, many of it subtle or even coded, or, in the case of The Tetschen Altar, overt symbols such as the Masonic all-seeing eye, which also appears on the back of the United States One Dollar Bill. Other artists have followed Friedrich’s example, particularly the Symbolists of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Perhaps as a tragic sign of our times today, Thomas Kinkade, self-proclaimed “Painter of Light,” borrows freely from Friedrich’s The Cross in the Mountains and other works in his modern, homogenized, vapid reinterpretation of spirituality.

Towards the end of his life, Friedrich grew pessimistic, perhaps losing his long struggle with faith. His works became darker and less hopeful, such as The Sea of Ice (above), which shows the destructive power of nature without the redeeming idea of a loving divinity behind it. Friedrich’s earlier images of ruin always included some softening image of hope—a cripple tossing away his crutches, a cross emerging out of the deepest wood, lovers finding their way by the light of the moon. In 1835, a stroke robbed Friedrich of the ability to paint, effectively ending his career and, 5 years later, his life. Sadly, many of Friedrich’s works (like those of Gustav Klimt) were destroyed during World War II in Germany’s national Gotterdammerung, but the visceral power behind them lives on.

Putting a Face to the Name

I’ll never forget the first time that I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City and was walking down a hallway from one gallery to another, trying to cram in as many masters as possible in a single day. Along the walls of the corridor were photographs and works on paper that I had to sadly rush by if I was going to see everything I wanted to see. Suddenly, one work stopped me in my tracks. I couldn’t believe how lifelike the portrait was. When I saw that it was pastels, I couldn’t stop looking closer and closer. A self-portrait by Maurice-Quentin de la Tour, born September 5, 1704 , floored me that day and has kept flooring me since. (Another Self-Portrait from 1751, at the height of his fame, appears above.)

La Tour took the medium of pastels to places it had never been before while working in 18th century France. Having tried my hand at pastels, I never cease to be amazed at just how realistic he could make his portraits, pairing the precision of oils with the pure color of pastels. La Tour took France by storm in the 1750s with his incredible portraits of the rich and famous—everyone from the philosophers Voltaire and Rousseau (shown above) to Louis XV and his family. “I penetrate into the depths of my subjects without their knowing it,” La Tour once said, “and capture them whole.” Although the prejudice against pastels as something for children already was waning when he came along, La Tour shattered that idea entirely, opening up a realm of possibilities for later masters of pastel such as Edgar Degas and Mary Cassatt.

Dying in 1788 at the age of 84, La Tour didn’t live to see the bloodshed of the French Revolution and “the Reign of Terror” to follow. Unlike the frothy Rococo works of his contemporary Jean-Honore Fragonard, La Tour’s portraits present the personality and individuality of the elite of his time, such as the intimate portrait of Madame Pompadour above. La Tour painted a life-size portrait of Madame Pompadour in all her sartorial splendor that wowed audiences at the Salon, but I find this simple head shot to get at the person behind the persona. Such psychological insight makes La Tour’s portraits seem almost modern today, enough to stop anyone in a rush dead in their tracks.

Rock the Vote

Thanks to everyone who took part in the first Art Poll by Bob asking which episode of Simon Schama’s The Power of Art was “the most powerful” for you. At the end of August, the clear winner was Van Gogh (6 votes), trailed by Rembrandt and Turner (3 votes each), with David (2 votes) and Caravaggio (1 vote) bringing up the rear. I’m going to chalk up the light response to late Summer vacations and the fact that a large portion of my readership consists of non-television-owning intellectuals (hah!).

But with September, I’ve decided to really rock the vote and ask the musical question: What is your favorite art- or artist-related song? I’ve come up with a list to satisfy the young, the old, and the in-between, with dueling Monas, too:

Andy Warhol by David Bowie

Mona Lisa by Nat King Cole

Vincent (Starry, Starry Night) by Don McLean

Rene and Georgette Magritte With Their Dog After the War by Paul Simon

Mona Lisa by Britney Spears

So, whether you have a soft spot for Van Gogh (the defending champion) or think that Britney (above, in simpler times, with a friend) might still make a comeback (to sanity, perhaps), let your voice be heard and cast your vote today.

Renaissance Man

Painter, cartoonist, songwriter, and even professional baseball player, Romare Bearden redefined the term “Renaissance man.” Born September 2, 1914 in North Carolina, Bearden moved to Harlem, New York with his family as part of the Great Migration and encountered the heart of the Harlem Renaissance. Surrounded by this flowering of African-American art, Bearden came to know and learn from figures such as poet Langston Hughes and Jazz composer Duke Ellington. After studying under George Grosz in the late 1930s and living in Europe after World War II (in which he served), Bearden incorporated all the techniques of Cubism and modern art into his unique vision of African-American life. Of the Blues: At the Savoy (above), from 1974, shows the beautiful, color-laden collage technique Bearden forged from all these influences, yet never losing his grip on his cultural roots.

Bearden knew racism firsthand. After pitching with the Boston Tigers of the Negro Leagues during his college days, Bearden received an offer to play for the Philadelphia Athletics if he was willing to pass himself off as white, since major league baseball was still segregated at that time. The light-skinned Bearden said no, choosing instead to pursue his career in art. The Family (above) from 1941 shows Bearden’s earlier style, in which he portrayed the African-American experience in a simple and dignified, yet quasi-modernist manner, similar to the styles of William H. Johnson and Jacob Lawrence, the other major African-American artists of that time. Although he studied under Grosz, whose New Objectivity style cast a jaundiced eye on Weimar Germany, Bearden never paints a negative vision of American racial tensions, choosing instead to celebrate the African-American experience positively and with pride.

Bearden’s grew more and more successful near the end of his career, receiving a National Medal of Arts in 1987. The Romare Bearden Foundation was founded to promote not only his work but also all African-American art. The Piano Lesson (above) from 1983 shows a young Mary Lou Williams learning the piano technique that would one day make her a Jazz giant, albeit one still woefully neglected even today. With this Piano Lesson, Bearden directly engages similar works by Henri Matisse, one of Bearden’s many influences, yet simultaneously transcribes that work into his own unique idiom. Playwright August Wilson, inspired by Bearden’s work, based his Pulitzer-prize-winning play The Piano Lesson on this collage. Bearden’s images continue to inspire not only African-American artists, but all artists with their creativity, integrity, and enduring spirit.

Lunatic Painter

Hailed as the painter of the Industrial Revolution, Joseph Wright of Derby painted some of the most memorable scenes of the sciences taking hold on the popular imagination, such as his famous An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump (above). What makes Wright, born September 3, 1734, more than just a documentarian are the human elements he adds to the experiment taking place at the center of the action. To the left, two young lovers exchange glances beside the older gentleman caught up in the excitement of the moment. On the right, a father consoles his children, concerned over the fate of the bird. Add in the masterful, Caravaggio-esque chiaroscuro by candlelight and Wright becomes a painter to be reckoned with.

After studying with masters in England, Wright traveled to Italy and witnessed an eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 1774, which he painted multiple times, including An Eruption of Vesuvius Viewed from Portici (above). To use Edmund Burke’s phrase, Wright painted nature both “sublime [i.e., capable of inducing terror] and beautiful,” capturing the Romantic spirit of his age. While in Italy, he may have seen some of the works of Caravaggio and copied the master’s use of chiaroscuro to great effect in the portraits he later painted to support himself and in the scientific images he painted out of his own interest in the sciences, spurred on no doubt by his friendship with great scientific minds of his age such as Erasmus Darwin, James Watt, and Joseph Priestly, all members of the famed Lunar Society. (Anyone interested in learning more about the “Lunaticks,” as they called themselves, should read Jenny Uglow’s entertaining history The Lunar Men: Five Friends Whose Curiosity Changed the World.)

Wright painted nature’s sublimity equally well, as in scenes such as Bridge Through a Cavern, Moonlight (above), from 1791, which parallels many of the Romantic, moonlit scenes of Caspar David Friedrich. Wright painted scenes of Rydal and the Lake District at the same time that the Romantic poets William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge were walking over those fields and composing their masterpieces. Wright stands as a great parallel to the Romantic poets, imbibing much of the same philosophical currents they did and translating them into works of his own medium. The Lunar Men loved to pun on the name “lunatic” for their members, jokingly questioning the sanity of their pursuits. There is no questioning of the sanity and downright majesty of Wright’s portrayal of his age in all its imaginative and intellectual pursuits.