One thing seems pretty clear about both groups: they separated themselves from mainstream culture, including the art world. This is practically unheard of today.
Burckhardt was never surreptitious; he did not hide his camera, and his subjects often knew they were being photographed.
“No matter what I tried, what fit best was work that involved my love of something small-scale and intimate.”
Ashbery’s primary subject matter concerns an alternate world where nothing goes permanently wrong, and where disasters are nothing more than pranks.
Winkfield’s combinations of forms are inexplicable, a seamless fusion of the sinister and innocent.
Medrie MacPhee’s newest paintings are made from the shapes and contours of disassembled garments, giving “pattern painting” an entirely new meaning.
For a poet who is notorious for writing opaque poems, a number of collages celebrate the youthful male body with an innocence that is touching, tender, and, frankly, poignant, and sweet.
It must be summer. There are group shows galore all over Manhattan. This is when you get to discover new artists, get enthusiastic, become disenchanted, fall in love, fall out of love, all of the above, and none of the above, in one day, and still have time to sit back and read a book of poems in the evening.
In the middle of our conversation, Susan Walp suddenly paused, gazing down at the table. “Look at that,” she told me, pointing out tiny ellipses, the patterns of the window screen reflected on the surface of a small pewter pepper grinder.
I do know that I had no intention of writing about the two exhibitions currently at Tibor de Nagy, John Ashbery & Guy Maddin: Collages and Richard Baker: The Doctor is Out, when I went to the gallery.
I visited Sarah McEneaney at her home in the Callowhill / Trestletown / Chinatown North neighborhood of Philadelphia.
When it comes to the artistic community of New York City, especially from the late-1930s to the end of the 20th century, I can think of many writers, photographers, and artists who readily qualify as flâneur, but there is only who matched Charles Baudelaire’s description of the “passionate spectator.”