Minimalist artist Donald Judd helped transform the rural desert town into an arts destination, the last thing he wanted.
Every individual loss carries the resonance of collective loss, the ripple of disappearance.
They write, “We welcome Peter Karol’s extended reflection on topics at stake in the Panza Collection Initiative, which contains many important points, but also contains several errors and misstatements, which we are writing to correct.”
Judd hated the cult of the artist.
Paula Rego, John Ruskin, Donald Judd, Lucian Freud, Hokusai, and, yes, Leonardo da Vinci.
I remember David Zwirner Gallery back in the 1990s, before Chelsea, when the New York art world was much smaller and more manageable.
There’s something confident about this old-school European fair — the exhibitors let the game come to them.
A new volume of Donald Judd’s art criticism contains previously published essays, rejected ones, and choice passages from his notebooks.
Assigning value to a cheap, everyday thing that a famous person happened to use can be explained in part by what psychologists call the “law of magical contagion.”
In New York City’s constantly changing urban landscape, artist studios can be ephemeral.
During the summer of 1960, dance artists Simone Forti, Nancy Meehan and Yvonne Rainer rented rehearsal space at Dance Players on Sixth Avenue so they could improvise together.
The inaugural exhibition at the new Whitney Museum is not perfect, but it is pretty damn good.