Minutes before seeing a collection of William Bailey’s meditative still-lifes and figure paintings, I heard, yet again, a series of small-minded and reckless comments by Donald Trump.
Recently, I strolled through Balthus’s “The Street” (1933) at a retrospective of his work in Rome’s Scuderie del Quirinale. Each time I see that remarkable, disturbing painting, I follow the drama of a different dreamer.
Beneath a panorama of the Italian countryside, Wile E. Coyote chased Road Runner while Yogi Berra played ball.
Spring, 1968. All my students were black, and I wasn’t. Jacob Lawrence, who was teaching a course down the hall from me at Pratt Institute, was a famous artist and a real teacher; I wasn’t either of those things.
El Greco came back from the dead. “The Greek,” his real name, Domenikos Theotokopoulos, moved to Venice and Rome before finally settling in Toledo, where he became one of Spain’s most well known painters.