Hot women near me1/2/2023 ![]() ![]() Some, such as the Bulgarian-born Christo and his French wife, Jeanne-Claude, became stars. An influx to New York of foreign talents which had started by happenstance in wartime swelled to an invasion. Open-minded young Germans, Italians, Eastern Europeans, Latin Americans, Asians, and even certain French artists were electrified. In truth, New York rainmakers like Solomon, the quick-witted dealer Sidney Janis, and the European-émigré power couple of Leo Castelli and Ileana Sonnabend-whose split, in 1959, resulted in separate galleries (one in Manhattan, one in Paris) that amplified the sway of their bold and exacting, complementary tastes-needed no cloaks or daggers to broker art that made every decisive case by and for itself. Photograph courtesy the Jewish Museum / Art work © Robert Rauschenberg Foundation / ARS Kneeling, from left: Jon Schueler, Arman, David Slivka, Alfred Leslie, Tania, Frederick Kiesler, Lee Bontecou, Isamu Noguchi, Salvatore Scarpitta, and Allan Kaprow. Standing, from left: Sherman Drexler, Claes Oldenburg, Richard Lippold, Merce Cunningham, Robert Murray, Peter Agostini, Edward Higgins, Barnett Newman, Robert Rauschenberg, Perle Fine, Alfred Jensen, Ray Parker, Friedel Dzubas, Ernst Van Leyden, Andy Warhol, Marisol, James Rosenquist, John Chamberlain, and George Segal. That’s accurate enough as far as it goes, but it was only one among many converging circumstances.Īrtists and guests at the Jewish Museum’s 1963 retrospective of Robert Rauschenberg’s work, photographed in front of the artist’s “Barge,” from 1962-63. ![]() government, some agencies of which did, to be sure, view American expressive liberty as a soft weapon in the Cold War and supported its exposure overseas, at times covertly. (Finders keepers.) Guilbaut attributed the transatlantic larceny to conspiratorial interventions by the U.S. As late as 1983, a prominent book by the French-born art historian Serge Guilbaut, “ How New York Stole the Idea of Modern Art,” elided the truth that, following the Second World War, “the idea” had been up for grabs. Poor Paris, where I spent most of a disillusioning year, spanning 19, was slow to recover from a tantrum of (to apply the appropriate phrase for it) lèse-majesté. If you weren’t here, you all of a sudden risked seeming provincial. exhibition at the 1964 Venice Biennale, where Rauschenberg was awarded the Grand Prize for painting, a coup that cemented New York’s ascendance. As the director of the Jewish Museum during the years bracketed in the present show, he consolidated what he called “The New Art,” mounting the first museum retrospectives of the trailblazers Robert Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns and elevating such newbie Pop phenoms as Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, and James Rosenquist in tandem with aggressively large-scale, radically formalist abstract painters like Frank Stella and Kenneth Noland. Instrumental to the moment was a brilliant critic and curator, Alan Solomon, who died too soon, at the age of forty-nine, in 1970. With Pop art and nascent Minimalism, New York artists were turning no end of tables on solemnly histrionic Abstract Expressionism, which had established our town as the new wheelhouse of creative origination worldwide. My favorites were and remain Ron Padgett and the late, exquisitely laconic artist-poet Joe Brainard, both from Oklahoma. It was an era of season-to-season-at times almost monthly or weekly-advances in painting, sculpture, photography, dance, music, design, fashion, and such hybrid high jinks as “happenings.” The exhibition honors poetry, too, by displaying some of the scrappy, mostly mimeographed little magazines that agitated for vernacular language in verse, anchored by a copy of Frank O’Hara’s definitive book, “ Lunch Poems” (1964), and by piping in recorded readings. Artists, writers, dealers, patrons, and assorted intellectuals, alert to momentous changes in the world at large, rubbed shoulders at parties that were a lot more stimulating than those attended by my second-generation New York School coterie. I gravitated through the time’s impecunious Lower East Side poetry scene into the booming though not yet oligarchic art world. A spectacular historical show of art and documentation, “New York: 1962-1964,” at the Jewish Museum, addresses the exact years of my tatterdemalion arrival, from the Midwest, as an ambitious poet, a jobber in journalism, and a tyro art nut. ![]()
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