Personal Shopper

When Dr. Albert C. Barnes wanted to start the collection that eventually became The Barnes Foundation in 1910 he had more money than actual knowledge of art. Dr. Barnes resourcefully called upon his high school friend, the painter William Glackens, to buy the works that would become the foundation of the museum. Born March 13, 1870, Glackens was already a well-established illustrator and painter associated with the Ashcan School who had been to Paris many times and became quite familiar with the works of the Impressionists. Glackens’s May Day, Central Park (above, from 1905) shows how he imported to America not only the Impressionist painting technique but also the Impressionist fascination with the everyday life of regular people. May Day, Central Park captures turn of the century New Yorkers enjoying leisure in Central Park, which opened in 1859 in emulation of the green-friendly renovations by Baron Georges-Eugène Haussmann of Paris, France. One Impressionist especially obsessed with the Haussmannization of Paris was Glackens biggest influence (and biggest purchase on behalf of Barnes)— Renoir.

Glackens recognized the greatness of Renoir early on, buying works before the market rose. (Barnes himself would obsessively buy Renoirs for the rest of his life. Visiting The Barnes Foundation and its 181 works by Renoir today can give you a serious case of Renoir fatigue.) Glackens isn’t considered primarily an American Impressionist because of his association with Robert Henri, John Sloan, and other members of the Ashcan School, but Glackens appreciated the new dynamic of the Impressionists better than many others who simply mimicked the subject matter and brush stroke style. While others camped out on Monet’s doorstep, Glackens was painting works such as Nude with Apple (above, from 1909). Nude with Apple may not be as audacious as Edouard Manet's Olympia, which it alludes to, but for an American artist in 1909 it’s still pretty bold. Again, Glackens takes the French model and translates it into an American idiom, adding the apple to allude to this new “Eve” of the American “Eden,” where everything seemed so much fresher and newer than centuries-old Europe.

The Glackens room at The Barnes Foundation seems an anomaly after walking through rooms and rooms of Renoirs and other European masters. It stands as the simple acknowledgment to Glackens contribution of taste to the collection. For many critics, Glackens was too taken with Renoir, even to the point of losing the ability to put his own personality into his art. It is eerie how Glackens’ The Soda Fountain (above, from 1935) looks as if Renoir had traveled through time and space to drink a milkshake at an American corner drug store, circa 1935. However, I see Glackens as a great interpreter of the Impressionists, especially Renoir. Glackens saw beneath the brushstrokes and sunny day landscapes to the spirit and mind of the Impressionists. I like to think that if Manet or Renoir had been born in America in the late nineteenth century, they’d paint just like William Glackens.

Acting Like a Two-Year-Old

I’m not expecting a big parade, like the parade for your World Champion Philadelphia Phillies (above), but I do want to humbly point out that today is the second anniversary of the beginning of Art Blog By Bob. Two years ago I began surfing the web for a blog that talked about art history and museums and couldn’t find what I was looking for, so I decided to take the plunge and write it myself. Two years and about a thousand blog posts later, Art Blog By Bob has found its own niche in the art blogging world and a nice little audience of faithful readers. Thanks so much to everyone who checks in here every day or so to bear witness to my obsessions. Enduring my bad puns alone will ensure you less time in purgatory.

I’ve come a long way, baby, in these two years. Most publishers and museums freely provide me with materials for review, no longer scoffing at bloggers like some lower form of media life. Of course, there remain a few holdouts, but I can’t complain. Writing on this blog has given me the opportunity to read books I would never have known about, attend previews of exhibitions I normally wouldn’t have, and interact with like-minded art lovers virtually to a degree that physical distance previously made impossible. I’ve sold my writing to a print arts magazine, been invited to write an introduction for another book (more on that later), and even begun running paid advertisements, so the days of a dozen hits seem like just a bad dream. Most importantly, my work on this blog has inspired me to make a major life change, the details of which I can’t divulge right now but will when the time is right.

I recently attended a press preview and was taken aback at the level of jadedness of the mainstream media representatives. One newspaper writer went so far as to ask “Who cares?” right out loud, having barely swallowed the free lunch the museum had provided. I’ll most likely never make a living writing about art. If that’s the price I have to pay to remain an art amateur, a true lover of art in the Latin “amat” sense, then I’m more than willing to pay it.

I’d never be able to keep up this hobby without the love and support of the amazingly beautiful and talented Annie, who keeps me sane when the world tries to render me otherwise. Many of my blogged rants begin as rants beset upon her first and comprise just a small subset of the wide range of ranting with which I fill a normal day. Thanks, too, to Alex, who keeps our lives filled with joy and wonder and teaches me more about myself every day.

Last year when I hit my one-year anniversary, I wondered whether I could last another year. I was in a very Beckett-esque “I can’t go on, I’ll go on” state of mind. Now, even with the economy in tatters, I’m much more hopeful about life, art, politics, and even the upcoming baseball season, so I can see no end in sight for this blog. I may get that parade yet…

Hidden Behind

Abstract Expressionism quite rightfully has the reputation of being a manly man’s art movement. Jackson Pollock dripped, cussed, drank, and chain smoked his way to an early death and lasting fame. Handsome Willem de Kooning objectified women and even destroyed them in paint in his Woman series before his long slide into darkness due to Alzheimer's disease. Behind both these men, however, stood strong women artists—Lee Krasner married Pollock and Elaine de Kooning married and stood behind (and beside, above, in 1953) Willem. Born March 12, 1920, Elaine learned to love art from her mother, who took her to museums and gave her art books to study from. Elaine had already begun studying to paint when she met Willem in 1938 and became his student. Five years later, they were married, beginning a tempestuous marriage that would result in his work eclipsing hers as she sought out her own artistic space, eventually finding some success as an art critic while continuing to paint. Elaine painted in the same Abstract Expressionist style as her husband, but separated herself from his influence by seeking a softer, yet still highly expressive style.

One way Elaine separated herself from Willem and basically all the other Abstract Expressionists was in painting portraits in the Abstract Expressionist style. Elaine first painted works based on photographs of athletes, using the energy of the brushstroke to mimic the kinetic energy of athletic bodies in motion. She later moved on to painting “still” portraits that moved with painterly energy, including a portrait of soccer legend Pele. In late 1962, the Harry S Truman Library commissioned Elaine to paint a portrait of John F. Kennedy. Not satisfied with painting just one portrait of JFK, Elaine created a series of works, the largest and most colorful being that above (from 1963). Sadly, JFK was assassinated as Elaine was completing this portrait, a shock that left Elaine unable to paint for almost a year. Aaron Shikler’s official presidential portrait of the brooding JFK, painted posthumously, captures the sadness of his death, but Elaine’s portrait wonderfully captures the vibrancy and color of the living man, who embodied the hopes and dreams of so many during that exciting time. Elaine’s portrait seems almost unreal in its untainted state. It’s hard not to think of Kennedy’s death when thinking of him, but Elaine’s portrait serves as a stunning reminder of what once so brilliantly was.

Elaine continued to paint almost to the end of her life. Bacchus #3 (above, from 1978) shows the continued energy of her brush even into her late 50s. As Willem became less capable of taking care of himself and his works, Elaine assumed the role of caretaker, ensuring that he and his art would not fall into ruin. Sadly, Elaine succumbed to lung cancer at the age of 70, the consequence of decades of chain smoking. Willem, deeply shrouded in dementia by that point, became the concern of their daughter, Lisa. Chaos and questions continue to surround Willem’s last years and last works, many of which may not actually be by his hand. It was as if once the support of Elaine disappeared, Willem could no longer stand. If it’s true that behind every great man there is a great woman, Elaine de Kooning was one of the greats of twentieth century American art.

Down Under

It’s one of the great ironies of art history that the “father” of Australian art isn’t even Australian. Born March 9, 1856, Tom Roberts came to Australia from England as a young boy after the death of his father. His mother struggled to keep the family together and Roberts went to work at a young age with a local photographer. Long hours and short pay instilled in Roberts a respect for the hard-working people of southern New South Wales, where the wool industry kept the local economy afloat. Roberts painted many scenes of these industrious, simple folk such as Shearing the Rams (above, from 1890), celebrating a subject many didn’t feel suitable for fine art. Roberts gets some of the actual details of the shearing process incorrect in this painting and others, but he does realistically depict the rugged dignity of work in a way that encapsulates the rough, callused history of Australia itself. Much like the Ashcan School working in America around the same time, Roberts rejected the idea of the powerful as fitting subjects for art and found the lives of everyday Australians a far greater source of material and inspiration. Also like the Ashcan School artists in America, Roberts recognized these everyday people as the true heart of his country.

Roberts remains famous in Australia today, with a festival in his honor held every five years and his face appearing on the currency. Leaving England behind, Roberts whole-heartedly adopted his new country, which was still finding its place in the world as he established himself as a painter. Roberts witnessed the birth of his nation with the 1901 opening of the Parliament of Australia and painted it in The Big Picture (above, from 1902). In The Big Picture, Roberts demonstrates his “big picture” view of Australia, from the homeliest farms to the most grandiose halls of power. The meticulous care Roberts gives to each of the portraits in The Big Picture emphasizes his concentration on the human element of Australia’s development. Just as he gave dignity to the shearers in Shearing the Rams, Roberts gives humanity to these dignitaries, capturing the humanity of the moment out of fear that it could be lost in the pomp and circumstance of ceremony.


Today, Roberts’ greatest claim to fame is as a landscapist. Along with Walter Withers and Arthur Streeton, Roberts formed what came to be known as the Heidelberg School of Australian landscape painting. Following the example of the Impressionists, Roberts and his colleagues worked en plein air to create works such as Hobart, Tasmania (above, from the mid-1920s). Other artists had previously attempted landscape painting in Australia, usually following the conventions of European painting, but Roberts was among the first to recognize the differences of the Australian landscape and incorporate them into his art. Living down under, below the equator, Roberts worked under a different kind of light than his European equivalents, which illuminated a landscape itself far different than anything found in France or England. Roberts embraced this strange, still-new world and made it his own, painting works of art that helped shape Australia view of itself and still serve as a source of national pride.

Shaking the Tree

No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low.
That is you can't you know tune in but it's all right, that is I think it's not too bad.

—From “Strawberry Fields Forever” by The Beatles

The star of the PMA’s exhibition Cezanne and Beyond is, of course, Paul Cezanne, but Piet Mondrian certainly belongs in the same constellation. Born March 7, 1872, Mondrian is best known today for his mature works, such as 1942-1943’s Broadway Boogie-Woogie, with the classic Mondrian geometric style of blocks of solid color. Before he reached that destination, Mondrian travelled the path first set out by Cezanne in works such as The Red Tree (above, from 1909). The Red Tree mimics the vibrant color and strong gestures of Cezanne’s tree paintings. Matisse and Picasso most often battle for the crown of top Cezannist, but no less a critic than David Sylvester called Mondrian “Cezanne’s truest heir.” Watching the evolution of Mondrian’s trees parallel the evolution of his relationship to Cezanne provides a powerfully concise study in how great artists grow and branch out from other great artists.

Two years after The Red Tree, Mondrian paints The Gray Tree (above, from 1911). Here, Mondrian sucks out all the color from the painting and concentrates on gesture itself. Cezanne saw nature as a kind of chaos that the human eye needed to organize, breaking it down into his famous categories of “cylinder, sphere, and cone.” If The Red Tree can be called remotely realistic, The Gray Tree ventures even further from nature and into abstraction. The chaos of the natural order of branches begins to give way to an order imposed by Mondrian’s eye. Mondrian, however, shapes not a static order but one full of movement and energy, thus ordering nature without killing it. Just as Cezanne’s almost vibrating brush strokes retained the life force of a landscape, Mondrian’s snaking tree branches express the spirit of the tree as a representative of the living universe itself.

Three years after The Gray Tree, Mondrian paints Composition 8 (above, from 1914), which takes the organization of the tree to its limits, erasing the even the name of tree from the title yet still keeping the natural energy and spirit. In Composition 8, Mondrian comes to final terms with Cezanne’s idea of order and reduces the tree to pure expressive line. With the gestural half of Cezanne’s legacy under his belt, Mondrian was then freed to tackle Cezanne’s use of color. Mondrian almost literally fills in the spaces of Composition 8 with pure, emotional color and finally arrives at the colored grids now synonymous with his name. Given another lifetime, Cezanne may himself have arrived at Mondrian’s style. Mondrian, however, provided Cezanne with that “extra life” to take his ideas one step further. Cezanne and Beyond drew a sort of family tree of modern art rooted in Cezanne and his work. Few branches flowered as long, as beautifully, or as uniquely as that of Mondrian.

The Best Is Yet To Be

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in his hand
Who saith, "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

—From Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning

Six years ago today, Annie and I were wed. When I saw her coming down the aisle in her wedding dress, my eyes filled with tears of joy because she was (and still is) the most beautiful, compassionate, intelligent, funny woman in the world. When I look into Alex’s eyes, I see hers. When I look across my desk at a photo of the two of them together, I still can’t believe my luck. Six years just flew by. Here’s to the next sixty! I love you, Annie. You’ve made our lives together a masterpiece.

Portraits of the Artist

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

--From The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

When T.S. Eliot wanted to capture the banality of “cultured” parlor conversation, he could think of no better example than society ladies blathering on about Michelangelo. Born March 6, 1475, Michelangelo has fallen victim to celebrity perhaps more than any other classic artist. Charlton Heston’s anguished portrayal of the artist in the melodramatic 1965 film The Agony and the Ecstacy cemented his reputation as more agony than ecstacy in the public mind. It’s hard to imagine Michelangelo ever smiling. All the portraits, such as the chalk portrait of Michelangelo by Daniele da Volterra (above), show a sad, brooding genius fretting over his latest work (or all his lingering incomplete works in his wake). da Volterra’s name remains linked with Michelangelo’s forever thanks to the Council of Trent’s decision that the nudity of Michelangelo's The Last Judgment fresco in the Sistine Chapel had to go, one way or another. Faced with the alternative of the destruction of his teacher’s last masterpiece, da Volterra agreed to paint clothes and fig leaves over the nude figures that remained for centuries, obscuring Michelangelo’s original intent. Over the centuries, popular culture has obscured Michelangelo’s original intent far worse by deifying him beyond the reach of mortals. The man who claimed that his only secret was hard work suddenly became a living cipher, shrouded by the majesty of his own talent.

It’s truly interesting that Michelangelo, perhaps history’s finest artist, may also be history’s finest gay artist. The definition of homosexuality is difficult to pin down when talking about different cultures and eras, but Michelangelo most likely was a homosexual. In a culture that still stigmatized homosexuals and surrounded by churchly patrons who could ruin him overnight, Michelangelo had to tread lightly when it came to affairs of the heart, but he allowed himself moments of freedom in his art. As Rabbi Benjamin Blech and Roy Doliner pointed out in The Sistine Secrets: Michelangelo’s Forbidden Messages in the Heart of the Vatican (my review here), Michelangelo portrayed the men entering into Heaven in The Last Judgment kissing and hugging each other quite fervently. Also, Michelangelo placed a portrait of his lover Tommaso dei Cavalieri into The Last Judgment directly in Christ’s line of vision. da Volterra, in another of his “saving” alterations, repainted Cavalieri as an old man to throw off suspicion. When Michelangelo finally included his own portrait in The Last Judgment, he painted himself as St. Bartholomew's flayed skin (above). Depicting himself as a voided shell, Michelangelo may have been hinting at the façade his life had become in his inability to express his full personhood.

I remember visiting Florence and standing before Michelangelo’s Florentine Pietà (above, from 1550) in the museum connected to the Duomo and recognizing the figure standing at the rear as a self-portrait of Michelangelo. Michelangelo chose to portray himself as a member of the supporting cast, either Nicodemus or Joseph of Arimathea, rather than one of the A team of apostles or saints. Michelangelo may have sculpted this group, along with several others at the same time, for his own tomb. Although Michelangelo is now known as one of the great individual geniuses of Western civilization, he chose as his epitaph a group portrait in which the individual figures are closely bound together, unable to separate from one another without all of them falling down. It is as if Michelangelo reunites himself with humanity after his greatest triumphs separated him from the crowd. Many accounts exist of the close ties Michelangelo had with his assistants, who shared their expertise in fresco and other techniques when Michelangelo himself was still learning. The Florentine Pieta may be Michelangelo’s most personal work in that it shows him as he wanted to be seen—as a person among people, simply wanting to belong.