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Kerry James Marshall on Painting Blackness as a Noun Vs. Verb

Growing up, Kerry James Marshall was troubled by a distinct lack of African-American representation in art and in the larger media landscape. Often encountering images of brutality and suffering, he sought to change the narrative by crafting works that acted as a celebration of black life and identity. From depicting children at a July 4th barbecue, to two figures slow dancing in their living room, Marshall’s works proved to be tender, powerful, and a welcome addition to the Western canon.

His figures are always rendered in a deep, rich black, inspired by a disarming trend he noticed taking hold in the 1980s. “The only way [black artists] could stay with the black figure was by compromising it,” he remarked, “by either fragmenting it, or otherwise distorting it, by making it green, blue or yellow, or some other way to deflect the idea of its blackness.”

Marshall has continued in this fashion for decades, crafting monumental, mural-size paintings of powerful and jubilant black subjects in every-day settings. Coming off the heels of his first career survey, Marshall has elevated from important contemporary figure to undisputed master. In this excerpt from Phaidon’s brand new monograph, Kerry James Marshall, the artist sits down with conceptual artist Charles Gaines. The two discuss Marshall’s childhood in South Central Los Angeles, his approach to art-as-activism, and the inspiration behind his landmark work, Self Portrait of the Artist as a Shadow of His Former Self (1980)


Heirlooms and Accessories, 2002

Charles Gaines: When I was researching Dieter Roelstraete’s 2012 interview with you for this conversation, one work you discussed that stood out for me was Heirlooms and Accessories (2002), because it addresses the idea of art and activism. This is a photographic triptych of lockets containing close-up pictures of women who were present at a lynching in the Jim Crow South. Your discussion was about how certain figures might be interpreted. For example, images of white women suggest the stereotype of the black sexual predator, while the metaphor of hanging is provoked by the necklaces themselves. For me, this raises questions about your thoughts on art and activism. For example, what do you expect when you raise these kinds of issues in works of art? 

Kerry James Marshall: Well, I guess the simplest way is to start with a question like, does one look at a work like that politically because of its relationship to history and politics? You can see how doing a thing like that can have an activist quality to it. But in terms of what that work is supposed to do, I never think of artworks as having a quality that’s intended to mobilize people to action. They don’t make people do things. But they do put questions in the mind of a viewer that they may not have entertained before. Everyone has in the back of his or her mind the idea that America was built by violence. But we never really think about how. The standard model is that white supremacy is only the guys in white sheets. You never really think about how completely embedded in the culture as a whole this notion of white supremacy is, and how everybody else’s relationship to it, the people who were in the sheets and the people who might never have put one on, but benefitted from the effects of this terror, helped to legitimize lynching as a part of the natural order.

That photograph, from which I isolated the women’s faces, is often reproduced. It’s a lynching that took place in the 1930s, in Marion, Indiana. It was a double lynching that was supposed to be a triple lynching. So when I did Heirlooms and Accessories, one of the things that I wanted to remind people of – and my art-as-activism is more like a reminder – is that there are angles and dimensions of history that are products of the relationships between the powerful and the powerless that people don’t quite consider. If you allow them to, people will always pretend not to know that these bygone events form our current reality. What was important to me about that photograph was not only the crowd of people who were there, but also its generational span, and that it wasn’t just men who perpetrated that violence but also women, who were often a causal factor. So I focus on three women who happened to be looking out at the camera. There’s one man in that photograph who’s looking out at the camera too. He’s the man who’s pointing at the bodies on the tree. He has a Hitler moustache. But if I’d focused on him, it would have been too obvious; it would have diverted attention from the ordinary folks who help perpetuate this type of violence. Those three women: a young girl who can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, a girl who’s got to be about twenty or twenty-two, and an elderly woman who’s in her fifties or sixties, represent a generational span that was really important because it shows how structures of power are inherited; how power is transmitted generationally, from the men, through the women, to the culture.

The title Heirlooms and Accessories has multiple implications. An heirloom is a thing that’s handed down. Accessories are add-ons or adornments that enhance the spectacle, or yourself. Everyone who’s present at that event is an ‘accessory’ to the crime. The piece is constructed to be like a jewel box; that’s why the frame has a groove and there’s a strip of rhinestones that goes all the way around the frame. The idea is for the object to embody the concept of Heirlooms and Accessories on all of those levels. I wanted to combine the experiences of repulsion and attraction; you’re repelled and enticed at the same time. 

One could compare this work to Adrian Piper’s 1989 work titled Free #2, which includes an image of a lynching. Her interest seems to have been to use art to confront racism directly by aggressively challenging white people’s sense of identity, which is directly linked to the practice of lynching, a more psychological approach than yours. 

I deliberately take a different approach, maybe in part because my experiences in the world have taught me that a direct confrontational approach does more to shut down examination of a subject or an issue than it does to compel a spectator to engage with it fully. Confrontation is nagging and irritating, so I’ve always felt that a certain oblique angle at a thing is more effective. 

Certainly in terms of an individual work of art, it’s hard to establish proof of a cause-and-effect relationship that shows that art can affect social change. But maybe the hope is that collectively something can happen. For example, the memories of lynching that you bring up may not by itself result in social change, but as part of a collective of voices where others are also addressing these memories, maybe social change can happen. 

That’s a part of the problem. For most of us, the images we encounter of things like lynching are sensational, but pretty remote. Most of us haven’t been eyewitnesses to any of those events. And so what we’re doing is constructing an idea of what these things are from other people’s stories and images. What’s produced collectively is inadequate for making anything more than generalizations. I grew up in South Central Los Angeles. We lived in Watts, but we moved out of the Nickerson Garden Projects there before the Watts riots took place. So when the riots broke out in 1965, we were living on 48th Street between McKinley and Avalon. We’d heard on the news that the thing that caused the riot was a traffic stop on Imperial Highway, in which the man who was stopped was riding with his mother and that the police had roughed up his mother. We heard that this police violence sparked the riot; the crowd that gathered around this incident became violent, which later turned out not to be true. 

I get your point, in terms of what fuels events; there’s a difference between what we might individually know from actual experience and the idea of collective knowledge, which is a combination of direct experiences and collective assumptions that are often wrong. 

We were on 48th Street and Imperial Highway. Where the riots started was 120th Street or something like that, maybe 125th, blocks away. So by the time the riots got to where we were, it was like a carnival. People were burning up the stores on Central Avenue and Avalon Boulevard. This happened during a period of discontent from 1965 up to 1969. During those years I went to Carver Junior High School and saw it get so embroiled in the Black Students Union issues that trickled down from Berkeley. Some of the issues were the same that you hear now, such as integrating black history into the American history curriculum. The violence that took place seemed confusing to me. The kids were burning up the school in protest. You had teenagers beating up the vice principal. There were rallies on the athletics field that got people excited about a lot of stuff that was supposed to be wrong but was the interpretation and translation of people who weren’t even going to school there. It was like what was happening with the riots. There were no proper black history classes then. One of the students’ demands was that they start offering these black history classes, but the first semester they offered Negro history, it was seriously under-enrolled. It was elective, not required. I signed up, but I thought, ‘What about all those people who were claiming that this was what we’ve got to have? Alright then, where is everybody?’ Those kinds of events, and discrepancies between what people know and what they don’t know, what people say they want and what they do, those things shaped my perception of discourse. How do you resolve these discrepancies? I started seeing that the responsibility for my needs shifted to me as opposed to a collective. I try never to approach a thing as if I’m one hundred percent certain about what it is or what the proper response to it is supposed to be.

This is an interesting issue for me. It’s clear that you recognize a complexity in the way political, social and cultural issues affect people’s lives. It’s also clear that an understanding of that complexity will make you better able to deal with these issues than any ideological framing could do. You may not agree with this example, but let’s take discrimination as a social/political issue: you address the issue as a subject, but you also address the complexity of how it plays out subjectively in society. It seems to me that you’re more interested in discrimination as a subjective experience because, as you said, you’re more interested in how you experience an issue, not in its ideological framing.

On a related matter, I wanted to find out how you came up with the idea to engage the political subject in your work, and so I researched how you became interested and involved in making art. I read how at one point you were introduced to the work of Charles White. I was wondering if he played a role in your discovery of what you wanted to do as an artist?

Well, it had something to do with it. It’s funny, I was going to say ‘indirectly’, but actually it’s a combination, directly and indirectly, because I first saw his work in a class I took at Otis with George de Groat. It was a drawing class for junior high school kids, and he showed us images from a book on White [Images of Dignity: the Drawings of Charles White]. I took the book and copied an image of Frederick Douglass. Looking through this book I noticed a couple of things about White’s work. One was that all the murals he did were about history and included historical subjects like Booker T. Washington, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth. They were also in individual pictures he did; there were several images of Harriet Tubman, a couple of Frederick Douglass, a few of John Brown, too. I was familiar with these figures because they showed up in history books. This is why, for me, White’s work was about history. I didn’t think of history as politics, really. White’s work accounted for the past in the same way that other historical moments are accounted for through art, such as Goya’s The 3rd of May and Picasso’s Guernica, as well as the historical paintings of David, Géricault and Delacroix. Not only that, but the entire legacy of classical Renaissance painting was for me based on reading the biblical or mythical subjects as historical. Growing up you understand how religion could be thought of as real, which made those stories history. Jesus narratives like the Stations of the Cross, the Virgin Birth, Rembrandt’s The Blinding of Samson came from the Bible. So it seemed like painting history was what artists did. My whole concept of what it meant to be an artist was formed around the idea that you picked subjects that were historical and meaningful so that people could derive meaning in their lives from the things they saw in paintings. That’s really how I began to understand what it meant to be an artist.


A Portrait of the Artist as a Shadow of His Former Self, 1980

The reason I was thinking about that in relation to the political subject is that if you think about the kind of works in history that you just described, it’s reasonable to conclude that there’s a difference between the political and the historical, that you’re talking about a person or an event who’s importance to history has been established, not an ideology that’s still under scrutiny. But if you also think about the history of portrait painting and genre painting, the Barbizon School, Courbet, where the life and experience of ordinary people became the subjects, the difference between history and politics is less clear because it’s not just about the historical moment, but also the present moment. In relation to modern painting, classical too, but particularly modern, reflecting on figures like Douglass is seen most often politically because what they’ve done in the world is still part of a continuing conversation. The issues haven’t been settled by history. So within this framework, works of art may reflect on issues or causes that still have social significance. I’m suggesting that a historical genre such as the portrait can become political when the subject is black because the idea of the black subject is still unresolved.

I never thought of it that way. Also, we’re talking about when I’m thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old, when I’m just forming my idea of what it means to be an artist. I don’t know what grade it was, probably third or fourth, when they took you to the school library – that is, when every elementary school had a library. And then they would take you on a field trip to the public library. Before then, you have no concept of anything, not of history, politics, sociology or race or anything. That stuff is all out there, but you don’t have a framework to fit it into that makes it comprehensible to you.

So your entry into the political was through history. When did it occur to you, the idea of the black subject?

That didn’t occur to me until I found out about White, because I simply accepted the majority of images I saw in books as representative of humanity, as the norm.

At a certain point, as you developed, as you worked through the idea that painting history was what artists did, you recognized the absence of the black subject in the history of painting. And at that point you understood it as a certain political space.

That really didn’t take shape with any kind of clarity until 1980, when I made the pivotal painting A Portrait of the Artist as a Shadow of His Former Self. This was when it started to look like there was something that could be done with the black figure, that it could be used to explore ideas that are not only relevant to picture making by itself but also to convey some of these ideas that I’d been developing about where black people fit in. Before then, apart from self-portraits, which I’d do as an exercise, I was doing still-lifes and paintings of inanimate objects in order to figure out how to paint. I copied White’s work because I’d read in books how artists became artists: that they copied the work of a master and learned to make pictures that way. I used White for that reason. The images were appealing to me, but I didn’t see them as oriented towards a politics of race.

So the issue of representation was something that evolved more slowly.

It really came into focus with that one painting.

I just saw the Degas show at MoMA. There was an interesting comment by Degas in which he talked about copying artwork. He described a series of exercises where he did a drawing and copied it. And then he did a drawing of the copy and copied that. I found this comment to be one of the earliest examples of linking technique with style, where the analysis of style is a critical assessment of technique. Therefore copying for you revealed White’s thoughts, leading to representation, as well as his skills. 

This is one of great functions of that book. You can see an evolutionary transformation in the way he was making an image in the beginning and the way he was making it towards the end. You understood clearly that things don’t have to remain the same. At the same time there’s a consistency, which I understood as a product of conscious decisions about style, about regulating change. The other thing that was important was a 1971 exhibition at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the first exhibition they did of White’s work. There were three black visual artists in that exhibition: Charles White, David Hammons and Timothy Washington. I went to see that show dozens of times. They were so radically different from each other but equally powerful. That was an important moment for me, too. 

This brings me to a more in-depth question about your attitudes towards the formal properties of painting and their relationship to content. In a published interview, you and Dieter Roelstraete talked about the in influence of Ralph Ellison’s novel Invisible Man on your work. This seems to be a key moment in your effort to represent blackness in painting. You talked about how race, particularly blackness, was negotiated through Ellison’s representation of absence, that you could represent absence through colour. I wonder if you could go more into this idea of absence in relation to the formal properties of painting. To me, you’re a master colourist; there is no other painter in the history of painting with a greater mastery and understanding of colour. It’s not only your colour sense, but also your understanding of its metaphorical and discursive potential. My question is really about the colour black, both as a representation and as an aesthetic property. How in your mind does a colour like black lead to a critical space like race, particularly through the metaphor of absence, without compromising the materialism that preserves colour as a sensible experience?

It’s the result of the confluence of a lot of different things and ideas. Ellison’s book was a trigger for some of these ideas and a catalyst for finding ways to synthesize them. And White was also the gift that kept on giving. It was important that White was at Otis. Through him, I was introduced to many people, and things. I made the decision that when I got out of high school I was going to go to school there. Before then, I wasn’t on a track to go to college. White’s presence at Otis changed that. His class met in the evenings, so I couldn’t take it then; there wasn’t anybody that could take me. So I signed up for a Saturday painting class with a man named Sam Clayberger; he was a painter of nudes basically. My approach to colour derives almost exclusively from the way Clayberger thought about and used colour. I didn’t know until about a year ago that he was an animator who had worked for Hanna-Barbera. This made sense; there was something about his colour sense that seemed right for cartoons. He was the first person I heard talk about the way you use colour instrumentally. His approach looked arbitrary, but it wasn’t. He said you could substitute any kind of colour to function as a shadow so long as it had a relationship to the other colours that were near it. And so I learned to start building shadows using purple, green and blue from him. He also introduced me to the fact that none of these things are coincidental; that you decide on them and it’s all because you understand something about the structure of the way a picture works. He was also the first person who taught me you can analyze the way paintings work, that you can break them down and see how things fit together. Sam was different from Charles White, who was the master of drawing. White would show me how to set up and construct the face the way he did it. They would both talk all the time about history and politics; this is why I thought those things were important. I could see how White’s interest in the politics of the image was reflected in everything he was interested in. For example, he would bring in Goya, The Disasters of War and Los Caprichos, He used to bring in a book of the complete works of Käthe Kollwitz, his favourite artist. When I finally got to Otis in 1977, I met another painter, Arnold Mesches. Charles had the image and its relationship to subjectivity, Sam had the colour, and Arnold Mesches had the structure. These are the people who unlocked for me the way to understand paintings.

Because of these influences, you came to understand that the political subject was imbedded in the idea of painting mastery. As part of that mastery, the idea of the black subject seemed wholly consonant with the idea of making a good painting. 

In the late 1960s, early 1970s, maybe it happened a little earlier, there seemed to be all these conversations about participation in the mainstream and how to go about achieving it. For a lot of artists, it seemed that the only way to do this was to abandon the black figure. Not only was abstraction supposed to be more advanced, but also you were never going to achieve any great recognition until you let go of the black figure. And some people thought that the reason White never got the kind of recognition that people thought he deserved was primarily because he was too close to those black figures. There was a period in which I abandoned the black figure too, because I wanted to spend more time figuring out what pictures looked like, and how surface, colour texture, and all those things operated. I was doing a lot of collage work and mixed-media stuff. The Ellison book became the trigger that sent me back to the figure. I understood on some level that the abandonment of the black figure was a kind of loss and that I’d surrendered to a power structure rather than trying to challenge and overcome it in some way. And so A Portrait of the Artist as a Shadow of his Former Self became an instrument to solve what I thought might be some deficiencies in some of the work that White was doing, as well as the work that some other black painters were doing in their use of the figure; I used the power of abstraction to solve these deficiencies in the way the figure was represented. I wanted to use all of the colour complexity that I’d learned from Clayberger, but to keep it close to black history, culture and the subjectivity of White’s work. So A Portrait of the Artist as a Shadow of his Former Self was a way of starting at a zero degree because it was at, it was schematic, but it was built on all of the stuff I’d learned about picture making from my teachers at Otis that was opposite to the way a number of black artists approached the picture; the only way they could stay with the black figure was by compromising it, by either fragmenting it, or otherwise distorting it, by making it green, blue or yellow, or some other way to deflect the idea of its blackness.

Better Homes, Better Gardens, 1994

This is a jewel, what you’ve just articulated about the issue of colour, abstraction and content. I’m reminded of a panel discussion in the 1960s sponsored, I believe by Artscanada, titled ‘Black’. Two of the participants were Ad Reinhardt and Cecil Taylor. 

You were there? 

No, I wish! But there’s an essay available that recounts the event. I heard about it from my friend the late Terry Adkins. We were trying to think about how to reconstitute this panel and restage the event. The panel was about blackness and the colour black; the purpose was to explore the political and aesthetic meaning of the word in order to question the saliency of political ideas in 1960s modernism. Anyway, Cecil Taylor and Ad Reinhardt got into this big argument. As I said, the subject was simply ‘black’ – it didn’t tell you black what. For Reinhardt of course, the word ‘black’ referenced a universal idea because black and absence were for him trans-lingual. ‘Black’ expressed a kind of universalized experience operating outside the domain of language. For Taylor, black was steeped in language; it couldn’t be considered except as a metaphor because of his experience of dealing with it politically. One idea that came out of this debate was that the term provoked a binary that ultimately placed constraints on our thinking: how the meaning of the term is informed by one’s experience. Even though Ad was making the argument that it was trans-linguistic, only a white person could entertain such a pure notion. The suggestion was that its racial connotation is irrelevant to ideas of art. Cecil found in Ad’s commentary the kind of ideological thinking that perpetuates racism. And so your project seems to be an interesting attempt to describe how the trans-linguistic aesthetic properties of painting and the linguistic properties of content merge and come together, to debunk the binary. 

When I made that picture, I think I understood for the first time that the image in it functioned linguistically. Which is why I always said that the idea of blackness operated rhetorically. This materially black figure has to be situated within the larger context as a linguistic figure amongst other linguistic figures, or as a pictorial figure within the context of other pictorial elements. Take, for example, the essay Carter Ratcliff wrote for Art in America some time in the 1980s, ‘The Short Life of the Sincere Stroke’. He talks about the way that every mark in a picture is a linguistic character in the sense that we deploy these marks to construct certain meanings and relationships. One of the reasons why the figure works so effectively for me is because I’m thinking of it in those terms, as an abstract linguistic figure and at the same time as an absolute sign or symbol of something. That’s why I’m able to continue working with the figure in ways that others haven’t. I understood that language structure continuously modifies meaning; it never disappears. It simply finds other contexts in which the figure can be used. But recognizing language’s role in those terms imposes a certain amount of responsibility. Whenever communication is an issue, a certain kind of clarity is important, so you have to be responsible for the way you use language. That’s why it takes me so long to make my pictures. When I insert a figure into a painting space, I have to consider all of the things that it means and then construct, edit and revise in order to reach its maximum effect so that blackness becomes a noun, not an adjective. 

Well put.

By Artspace Editors

Shahidul Alam: Truth To Power

Rubin Museum, New York
Exhibition Through May 4th

Shahidul Alam: Truth to Power presents the first comprehensive U.S. museum survey of Shahidul Alam, the renowned Bangladeshi photographer, writer, activist, and institution-builder and a Time magazine Person of the Year in 2018. Over 40 images and ephemera will show the breadth of his practice and impact throughout his four-decade career. The exhibition includes portraits, landscapes, and scenes of daily life, strife, and resistance in the “majority world”—a phrase Alam has used since the 1990s to reframe the notion of the “third world” or “global south.”

Shahidul Alam, Smriti Azad, Dhaka, 1994. Courtesy of Drik, © Shahidul Alam

The term also confronts the ways in which Western media continues to define how the majority of the world’s population—especially Bangladesh—is portrayed in relation to poverty and disaster. 

© Shahidul Alam

This pioneering exhibition aims to provide visitors with a nuanced view of Bangladesh and South Asia, to explore systems of personal and collective agency, and to underscore the importance of self-representation, empowerment, and truth as embodied in Alam’s life and work.

A mural of Noor Hossain on a campus wall in Dhaka. The writing on his back reads “Let Democracy Live.” © Shahidul Alam

While shining an unflinching light on major Bangladeshi tragedies and struggles, Alam’s images reveal a country and cultures often misunderstood and misrepresented. In addition to his powerful photographs, Alam has made an impact in Bangladesh, across South Asia, and even globally as the conceptual architect of transformative institutions, including Drik Picture Library, Drik Gallery, Pathshala South Asia Media Institute, Chobi Mela Photography Festival, and Majority World Photos. The regional solidarity he catalyzed cannot be overstated and will be illustrated through the exhibition narrative. 


Shahidul Alam after his release from Dhaka’s central prison, November 20, 2018. Photograph: Suman Paul/AFP/Getty Images

Alam’s role as changemaker is one he inhabits with equal resolve and energy. His belief in nurturing visual literacy has driven him to go beyond mere advocacy: Through the institutions he has built, he empowers the disenfranchised and misrepresented to tell their own stories.

Edited by Beth Citron

Julie Mehretu Review: War, Racial Conflict and Migration Simmer Beneath Abstract Surfaces

The artist’s survey at LACMA showcases her dynamic engagement with the history of modernism and socio-political conflict
 Julie Mehretu, Retopistics: A Renegade Excavation, 2001, ink and acrylic on canvas, 2.6 × 5.3 m. Courtesy: © Julie Mehretu; photograph: Edward C. Robinson III

Several paintings and etchings by Julie Mehretu from between 2013–14 bear the title Algorithm, suggesting a calculus extraneous to the artist’s hand. As captured in a short film (GDGDA, 2011) by fellow artist Tacita Dean, however, it is indeed Mehretu’s hand which applies the strokes and architectural silhouettes to her sprawling images.

The Ethiopian-born, US-educated Mehretu has distinguished herself as one of the most talented artists of her generation, with a stylistic versatility matched by few. Spread over two floors, this mid-career survey includes a generous swathe of her outsized paintings along with drawings, watercolours and some lyrical departures from her characteristically architectural imagery. The arresting Being Higher I (2013), for instance, reveals a vaguely human form, arms outstretched in a seemingly messianic gesture of martyrdom or redemption – redolent, in a more allegorical vein, of the themes which have increasingly drawn Mehretu’s attention: war, exodus, racial conflict and migration.

Julie Mehretu, Algorithms, Apparitions and Translations, 2013, etching with aquatint, spit bite, soft ground, hardground, drypoint and engraving, 79 × 95 cm. Courtesy: © Julie Mehretu and Burnet Editions

Considering the centrality of drawing to Mehretu’s working method, the inclusion of numerous works on paper offer an instructive supplement to the large-scale canvases anchoring the exhibition. These works’ relegation to a small side gallery is somewhat unfortunate, however; the selection conveys a representative sense of the artist’s range on paper, from graphite and ink wash to aquatint and etchings with chine-collé, yet could have benefitted from more breathing room. The challenge is clearly one of scale: Mehretu’s large canvases would dwarf her quasi-hieroglyphic drawings, such as an untitled sketch from 1996, knitting diminutive, alphabet-like markings reminiscent of Paul Klee’s cryptic scripts into chains of form across an empty page. These spare marks seem wrought by an artist other than the painter of brash lines which swagger on hazy canvases in the central gallery nearby.

Julie Mehretu, Cairo, 2013, ink and acrylic on canvas, 3 × 7.3 m. Courtesy: © Julie Mehretu; photograph: Tom Powel Imaging

Indeed, the facility with which Mehretu moves between scales and styles is mesmerizing. More impressive still is the way these effects so often share the same pictorial space, in a complex layering of lines, textures and effects. Early paintings like Apropos (1998) delineate shallow, coloured quadrants over which the artist draws networks of spindly lines, evocative of topographical plans. This generates a disjuncture between the geometric flatness of the canvas and the ostensible remoteness of these tracings. Two decades later, the tension of such disjunctures appears at once heightened and expanded into an ever more frenzied matrix, by turns diaphanous and dense. Over time, Mehretu’s imagery has not only become more intricate, but has come to incorporate allusions to historical events. Black City (2007), for example, assimilates to its dense and angular surface representations of Nazi war bunkers.

Julie Mehretu, Conjured Parts (eye), Ferguson, 2016, ink and acrylic on canvas, 2.1 × 2.4 m. Courtesy: © Julie Mehretu; photograph: Cathy Carver

The five panels of the striking polyptych Epigraph, Damascus (2016) reveal a calligraphic layering in aquatint and photogravure, which nevertheless evinces the spontaneity of painted strokes. The drawn architectural elements which sit beneath more blurred abstractions are rendered upside down, lending the work a vertiginous sense of disorientation, appropriate to its war-scarred subject. If the lattice of urban imagery lends some sense of placement, black smudges and smears suggest an ashy haze. The gargantuan canvas Cairo (2013) invokes the Arab Spring uprisings, but only through a web of wispy ink and acrylic, which congeals and dissipates amidst glimpses of Tahrir Square and inverted Cairene façades. Many of Mehretu’s works from the mid-2010s strike just this tension between precision and obscurity, place and mood, the topographic and the atmospheric. 

The wall text for Mehretu’s Babel Unleashed (2001) describes it as reimagining the ‘ordered space found in traditional European painting’ – an absurd evasion of modernism, upon which the artist draws extensively, most notably by way of Wassily Kandinsky and Roberto Matta. Abstract expressionism also informs her palimpsestic imagery, redolent of a writing system which refuses legibility. In Indigene/Origine (overture) (2018–19), marks appear blurred as if glimpsed through a gauzy scrim or projected in shadow.

Julie Mehretu, Haka (and Riot), 2019, ink and acrylic on canvas, 3.7 × 4.6 m. © Julie Mehretu. Courtesy: the artist and Marian Goodman Gallery, New York; photograph: Tom Powel Imaging

Mehretu’s practice is an exceedingly sophisticated affair, assimilating world history to non-objective mark-making – incorporating imagery from the 2014 protests in Ferguson, Missouri in Conjured Parts (eye), Ferguson (2016) for instance, or, more recently, the American detention centres callously enclosing migrants in Haka (and Riot) (2019). Yet this presentation of her work leans too heavily at times upon extensive wall texts, and numerous photographs of civil rights struggles in the catalogue, as if they might magically illuminate her abstractions. At its most exhilarating, Mehretu’s imagery is a spectacle unto itself.

By Ara H. Merjian for Frieze magazine

Frida Kahlo’s Final Months

A look back at Werner Bischof’s portraits of Kahlo at home in the months before she passed.

So many of her bold, beautiful and brutal self-portraits seem skewed towards surrealism, depicting their creator as a wounded deer, an architectural column, or even an open-chested anatomical study sitting opposite her identical twin. And yet Mexican artist Frida Kahlo steadfastly refused such categorization throughout her career. “I don’t paint dreams or nightmares,” she famously said. “I paint my own reality.” This reality, in life as on canvas, contained extremes of misery and ecstasy. But above all else, it contained pain, Kahlo’s constant companion from her early brush with polio as a small child through to the bus accident that she narrowly survived in her late teens, and which left her with health complications that dogged her throughout her life.

Perhaps it’s precisely the disparity between her painted and photographic likenesses that makes Kahlo’s image a source of such fascination today. What could be more revealing, after all, than to see both how somebody looks, and how they see themselves, side-by-side? Which is more real, which more accurate? Her stylistic and sartorial signatures – her thick braided hair, woven with ribbons and fresh flowers; her long traditional floor-length skirts, worn in part to conceal her deformed right leg; the defiant unibrow which framed her dark eyes – have become ubiquitous, recreated thousands of times over on postcards, stationery and even clothing. But if to look at her paintings is to embody her experience, visceral and unyielding, it’s in photographs of the artist that we can step back in search of objectivity. With a little distance, we see Kahlo anew.

And never more startlingly than in the photographs Werner Bischof took of her at home at the Blue House in Coyoacán, Mexico, just months before her death from those previously mentioned complications relating to her old injuries. We can’t know why the Swiss photographer visited her in this time, or what they talked about, if they talked at all; whether they ate or drank, or whether Kahlo knew how little time was left to her. Through Bischof’s lens, the artist is instead pictured impossibly alone with her thoughts and feelings. She smokes while painting in her wheelchair, or reclining with a beloved dog. She is captured in amongst her collections of objects and oddities, which are clustered around the rooms she occupies. Kahlo’s life and work collide in these pictures; she appears at once beautiful and exhausted. It’s not so far, in fact, from the vision we see of her in her self-portraits.

“As a photographer and early Magnum member, Bischof dedicated his life to capturing beauty and suffering – a fact makes these images, so at home in his oeuvre, all the more poignant.”

And while it’s Kahlo who is the focus of these images, she and Bischof share more common ground than a first look might suggest. Kahlo, for example, came to painting through photography; she learned to shoot and to process film in her late twenties, while assisting her father in his photographic studio. It wasn’t until she lay in bed a few years later, recovering from the bus accident that broke her pelvic bone and spinal column, that Kahlo turned her attention to painting, constructing a special easel over her bed so that she could work throughout her convalescence. On the other hand, Bischof’s first love was painting; he wanted to start his career as a painter when he went to Paris in 1939, but then World War II broke out and he had to go back to Switzerland, where he became an experimental photographer in his studio. One might argue that there’s a painterly influence in Bischof’s photographs, just as there is a photographic one to Kahlo’s compositions. But artist and photographer are united, too, by their early passing. Kahlo died at home in July 1954, at the age of 47. Bischof’s untimely death, due to a car accident in the Andes, ended his life in May that same year, at just 38 years old.

As a photographer and early Magnum member, Bischof dedicated his life to capturing beauty and suffering – a fact makes these images, so at home in his oeuvre, all the more poignant. “I felt compelled to venture forth and explore the true face of the world,” he said. “Leading a satisfying life of plenty had blinded many of us to the immense hardships beyond our borders.”

He photographed traditional communities devastated by natural disaster, and landscapes forever changed through war. And in Kahlo, he documented an individual struggle, on a micro level; the scars of an extraordinary life underpinned by pain and suffering, and a slow surrender to existence beyond that. “At the end of the day,” as Kahlo once famously said, “we can endure much more than we think we can.” A fact which these images seem to serve as evidence of.

House of Frida Kahlo. Mexico City, Mexico 1954. © Werner Bischof/Magnum Photos Magnumphotos.com Written by Maisie Skidmore

What the Hell Was Modernism? The Museum of Modern Art tries to open itself up

By Jerry Saltz  for New York magazine.  

Can a museum devoted to modernism survive the death of the movement? Can it bring that death about? Ever since the beginnings of the Renaissance in the 14th century, most art movements have lasted one generation, sometimes two. Today, after more than 130 years, modernism is, at least by some measures, insanely and incongruously popular — a world brand. The first thing oligarchs do to signal sophistication, and to cleanse and store money, is collect and build personal museums of modern art, and there’s nothing museumgoers love more than a survey of a mid-century giant. In the U.S., modernism represents the triumph of American greatness and wealth, and it is considered the height of 20th-century European culture — which Americans bought and brought over (which is to say, poached).

Kids sport tattoos of artworks by Gustav Klimt, Henri Matisse, Salvador Dalí, Edvard Munch, Piet Mondrian, and Andy Warhol (you might not think of him as a modernist, but we’ll get to that). Our cities are crowded with glass-walled luxury riffs on high-modernist architecture, the apartments inside full of knockoffs of “mid-century-modern” furniture. Donald Judd’s sleepy minimalist studio outpost in Marfa is now East Hampton in West Texas, a secular pilgrimage site for millionaire collectors, full of expensive restaurants and fancy second homes. As recently as 1994, my wife and I were offered a house there for $5,000.

And people pay — not just for the art, or for environments that call it to mind, but to see the works themselves, even briefly. Witness the Museum of Modern Art’s daily crowds, full-price guests forking over $25. Last year’s annual attendance was just over 3 million (do the math). People take selfies with Starry Night; adolescents feel big feelings because the world didn’t understand Vincent, though they have understood him very well now for well over a century. Movies are made about him and about Pablo Picasso, Paul Gauguin, Frida Kahlo, Jackson Pollock, and Warhol (and the woman who shot him). And Jean-Michel Basquiat — the most recent in the long line of world-straddling geniuses — who died in 1988 at the age of 27. We all know the stories, from destroying one’s own work and committing suicide to womanizing and pissing in fireplaces (in this way, modernism is Hollywood Babylon). And while we take our parents to the Met to appreciate old art, tradition, and “good technique,” we go to MoMA because modernism is cool, still — a sequence of revolutionary gestures, shocks, and succession stories that, we think, tell us something about radicalism and experimentation.

That reputation and those succession dramas are not an accident — they were forged by MoMA in cooperation with artists who very much wanted to see their own work as the natural end point of all art history. (Who wouldn’t?) All this has prevailed since the museum’s founding by wealthy New Yorkers. It opened nine days after the onset of the Great Depression in 1929. Three-quarters of a century after the real peak of modernism, the movement’s grip is like a vise. It is why we are still so captivated by the allure of the avant-garde long after the avant-garde started sleepwalking. And it may be why we still believe artists are like gods long after they began sleeping with money and celebrity. People still quote Duchamp saying, “A painting that doesn’t shock isn’t worth painting.” Why are people still set on shocking their nanas? Modernism. Museums still present all of art history as a long story that breaks, dramatically, with the 20th century. Why? Modernism! Why do I keep asking myself if modernism is over yet? Modernism!

I love modernism — a movement and a culture that can be defined in different ways and often is. I believe, and MoMA has long seemed to assert, that it began with Paul Cézanne’s The Bather (c. 1885). Your starting and end points may vary, but you will surely recognize the formally daring work that defined the first half of the 20th century in Europe and America from school trips and dorm-room walls: Picasso and Matisse, O’Keeffe and Pollock. In many ways, it can still feel truly shocking. Thousands of modernism’s ideas are used by artists today, and I still love many of its artists. All of Picasso, Pollock’s giant drip paintings, and Hilma af Klint’s first forays into the deepest precincts of abstraction take my breath away.

But much of modernism and its concerns now feel long ago, forged in a time of rapid industrial change when white European males assumed they ruled the world. The demands of our times call for something else. And before you object that we’ve been living for 50 years in postmodernism, not modernism, the art that followed the titans of the early-20th century was defined and even named after what preceded it (daddy issues?). What began with Pop and Warhol looked like a break from modernism, but it also extended modernism’s fetishizing of novelty and a canon of iconoclasts. Modernism is part of my life story, all of our life stories, something that shaped the ways we see the world and how the world sees itself. But in the past couple of decades, seismic shifts have occurred, moving us for the first time far beyond the dictates of the movement. Modernism is not headed for the dustbin, but in terms of experimental one-upmanship and the conviction that each new work could break and redefine all of art history, a page is finally turning — slowly, a bit, at least.

This kind of change has happened before, of course — a movement conquering the world, then passing into the past. Usually, it happens much faster. The heyday of tremendous rococo artists like François Boucher, Jean-Honoré Fragonard, and Antoine Watteau lasted just 15 years, at which point neoclassicism deemed it girlie and gauche. Instead, artists like Jacques-Louis David painted gigantic, “masculine” pictures of Roman virtue, the glories of Napoleon, the French Revolution, and mythic deaths — until David was arrested and thrown in prison. Even the High Renaissance came and went in less than 50 years. Impressionism lasted 25 years. By comparison, modernism is, at this point, ancient. Modeling it as something new and cool today would be like the original modernists modeling themselves after the art and values of 130 years before them: Boucher, Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, and Antonio Canova. That modernism has been so canonized is especially ironic given that the earliest modernists were so desperate to break away from the art of the past that they scrapped Renaissance perspective and space. Duchamp wrote that he wanted to use a Rembrandt as an ironing board.

Which raises the question: If modernism wasn’t the end point of art history and the ultimate form of artistic expression, then what was it? If we don’t let it bully its way to the front of the line and center stage, crowding out everything that came before, during, and whatever comes after, what does it look like? And what will it look like as it recedes farther and farther in the rearview mirror and appears not to be the finale of everything that came before but just one more period in a never-ending sequence of them — one set of mannerisms followed by another? As great as many of modernism’s artists are, a lot of this art is about itself, mainly white people arguing about other white people’s art history. Once we’ve left those arguments behind, it may be that the most striking legacy is the cult of the male artist and the competitive aesthetic messianism it spawned.

On October 21, the greatest collection of modern art on the planet will reopen at a new Museum of Modern Art. The newness is not due to a big move to another location or a billion-dollar structure springing up in the old footprint (that last happened in 2004, to so-so reviews), though much of the interior of the iconic — and blandly slick and cramped — building on 53rd Street has been redone and there are new galleries at the base of yet another new MoMA skyscraper full of very expensive condominiums. It is because of what will be presented inside and how.

The museum has traditionally hung its collection chronologically to tell a particular story. The story was: He begat him, who begat him, and so on, until modernism hung a sign on its door that said WE’RE CLOSED (just as countless others showed up at the door). Of course, the story acknowledged, there were rivalries (Matisse vs. Picasso, for instance) and relevant source material and inspiration (again with Picasso). But in general, the story was one of rigid progression that looked, on the museum walls, almost inevitable. Which is exactly as the museum intended: An institution that came of age at the imperial height of the American Century, funded during the Cold War in part with CIA money meant to exalt and export a showcase of free expression (sometimes confused with free enterprise), it wanted viewers very much to believe that modernism was the “ultimate” movement in both senses of the word.

Newness is as old as time. The modernists were just a lot cockier about saying so.

In 1941, MoMA’s great founding director, Alfred Barr, famously drew a diagram of the museum’s ideal permanent collection as a torpedo. (It was while World War II was raging, after all.) The tail is Cézanne, van Gogh, and Seurat. Barr surmised that after 1950, art would come only from America and Mexico. His curatorial successor, Bill Rubin, tripled down on all of it. Except Mexico, of course.

Now the museum is getting rid of the strict timeline. It’s getting rid of movements. Good! Measuring things that way does a disservice to art and to artists — as Willem de Kooning said, “It is disastrous to name ourselves.” MoMA will be hanging works from different eras, and different places, next to one another, opening up what had begun to seem like an airless, self-referential canon into something much more dynamic. The museum is even discarding its 89-year aversion to showing different mediums together. As a geezer, I relish back-to-back galleries of killer paintings, but it’s fitting to stop showing art in only this way, in part because the new strategy allows us to go back and ask new questions of work we thought we understood, and in part because it’s how artists themselves see art history, today especially — not as a timeline of progress but as a beautiful trash heap or costume shop in which to play. (In the age of the internet, with a globalized art world and the breaking down of at least some barriers to entry, this probably isn’t too surprising.)

Most exciting of all, MoMA’s permanent collection will no longer be a static thing. Every six months, a third of it will be reinstalled. I presume the twin peaks of Picasso and Matisse will always be on display somewhere along with other trophy works and big names. But there will be many more names, too, belonging to people less well known, less than a century old, less white, less male, and less exclusively American and European. This means that every 18 months, MoMA will be entirely new. If you’re irked with the way the collection looks now, come back in six months — you never know. Good-bye, canon! At least the static, eternal, Old Testament teleological one we all grew up with. In 2004, when MoMA reopened in a then-new glass-and-steel campus, only 5 percent of the art on view in the permanent collection was by women. Today, the museum estimates that 28 percent of the works on view are by women, and 21 percent by artists outside of Western Europe, the U.S., and Canada — that’s gigantic for MoMA, modernism, and art.

“This past five to ten years is the most change-making, radical rethinking of art history and, by extension, museum curation in a half-century,” said Ann Temkin, the chief curator of painting and sculpture, in a lecture. “Things that were assumed over the last 40, 20, ten, or even five years have exploded.” Amen.

So — what was assumed? Let’s look at five big things.

First, there was Ezra Pound’s cri de coeur “Make it new.” In modernism, only newness was given value. Everything old was considered passé, inadequate to address the times, which meant modernism claimed not just a monopoly on newness but also on importance. One Dadaist said, “Art is dead.” Case closed.Of course, all art was once new. Cave painters painted over older cave paintings; Roman pots sport artist signatures like “No one could ever make a grain pot as good as this.” It’s the same way each generation thinks it has invented sex; newness is as old as time. The modernists were just a lot cockier about saying so.

Second, modernism called itself reality. Which meant, perversely, it didn’t have to bother to address or depict actual reality — instead, it offered itself as the only thing that mattered. Kandinsky wrote, “Realism = Abstraction. Abstraction = Realism.” American critic Clement Greenberg said art was meant to “undeceive the eye.” Much modern art turned away from the world and into itself while denying subject matter and narrative altogether. At least the importance of subject matter, since much modernism employed traditional (not “new,” hello!) subject matter: nudes, landscapes, still lifes, more nudes, everyday scenes, nature, architecture, and more nudes. What an artist had to render new was how these things looked. Viewers were expected to look through subject matter. You weren’t seeing a landscape; you saw how this artist reinvented the landscape. By the end of the 20th century, Gerhard Richter even said he was “indifferent” to subject matter (he painted Nazis, terrorists, and 9/11, of course). Much of this means the world modernism gives you is the world of the artist’s studio—and optical shoptalk. This is what allowed artists to make squiggles, squares, rectangles, pictures of violins, color arrangements, street scenes, and naked ladies even during the carnage of World War I and World War II. By the time I was trying (and failing) to enter the art world in the 1970s, painting was supposed to be only about itself, its materials, and “flatness.”

Third, modernism was built on the principle that formal experimentation is the only thing that matters. The doctrine can’t be emphasized enough. Every artist had to create his [sic] own forms and world. These forms had to follow visual strictures: Art had to be seen all at once, not sequentially or with any formal hierarchy. (That meant it couldn’t have narrative.) Think of how you see all of a Pollock at once, even though it has parts and details. Similarly, you weren’t supposed to be able to separate process and material, just as we see medieval mosaics as image, color, surface, process, and material all at the same time and as one thing. Modernism was philosophically colonialist this way and loved declaring everything as its own, all while asserting it was inventing even those things it was stealing.

Fourth, there was the principle that modern art would “kill history” — a hysteria of finality. Modernism was born in the immediate wake of and during multiple revolutions, mass industrialization, and colonial empires, and inventions like photography, movies, flight, automobiles, X-rays, and Einstein’s theory of relativity. Duchamp said painting should “avoid all contact with traditional” art. In wanting to destroy the whole history of Western art, modernists were like an aesthetic Taliban. Except for the art they approved of, everything else was deemed bourgeois, Establishment, bad taste, or kitsch.

When Americans took up the mantle with Abstract Expressionism, they were no less absolutist. They had not seen their previous culture destroyed by war, but they were still modernists. Barnett Newman said American artists had to “start from scratch.” Ad Reinhardt said, “I am merely making the last painting which anyone can make.” History didn’t exist unless you were making it. (It’s always the end-times again in modernism.)

Fifth, there was modernism’s grand teleology — the whack-rationalist idea that history was to proceed in a predefined order. If you didn’t fit, know, or care, or were a visionary, an artist of color, or female, tough luck. Only the things in its timeline were deemed progress. Progress was to be the goal of all art.

For those actually living modernism, though, the whole project was way messier and more rivalrous than could ever be reduced to any set of principles. After all, before MoMA got its hand on modernism, it wasn’t propaganda. It was just art. Which means: It was a lot of different, competing propagandas.

In fact, modernism was more like a wrestling match of competing egos vying for top-dog status, each saying he’d replaced or repudiated the previous one. Picasso was against abstraction. (What a pill!) Mondrian wrote, “Cubism did not accept the logical consequences of its own discoveries.” His goal? “Pure plastics.” (I’m still not sure what this means.) Russian Suprematist high priest Kazimir Malevich demanded “victory over the sun” and “the supremacy of pure feeling.” (What?) In 1912, Duchamp said, “Painting is over.” In 1921, Constructivist Aleksandr Rodchenko said, “I have reduced painting to its logical conclusion … I affirmed it’s all over.” (Hello, Doctor Death.) Duchamp did, however, muse, “Can one make works of art that are not ‘works’ of art?” (I love that!) Then Greenberg called Duchamp “sub-art.” What a bully!

The “Pope of Surrealism,” André Breton, “excommunicated” heretics like Alberto Giacometti and, in 1934, put Dalí “on trial.” (God complexes and control freaks are a modernist feature, not a glitch.) Minimalist Judd opined that with the “readymade,” Duchamp had invented fire but didn’t do enough with it. Much later, Duchamp said contemporary artists “no longer make pictures; they make checks.” Soon Chris Burden and Richard Prince made art out of checks. Now artists make art out of Prince.

Things have come a long way since the Armory Show of 1913 — that’s the true genesis of all that might be called modern art in America and the first in-depth look Americans got at European modernism. In New York, 85,000 people attended; in Chicago, attendance was 188,000. American salon impresario Mabel Dodge wrote to Gertrude Stein that in New York, the show was “the most important public event … since the signing of the Declaration of Independence” and added that “things will never be the same afterwards.” She was right. One New York critic wrote, “American artists did not so much visit the exhibition as live at it.” Albert Barnes, Henry Frick, and the Met bought works. It’s no exaggeration to say the founding of MoMA stems from those 27 earthshaking days in New York.

At the time, the impact could be measured most by the resistance. Traditionalists protested that the show was like “visiting a lunatic asylum.” Matisse was burned in effigy. Teddy Roosevelt said the art was “repellent from every standpoint” and asserted there was “no reason why people should not call themselves Cubists, or Octagonists, or Parallelopipedonists, or Knights of the Isosceles Triangle … one term is as fatuous as another.” Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2 was the most scandalous work in the show. In newspapers, it was derided as Rush Hour in the Subway and Explosion in a Shingle Factory.

That the masses might mock avant-garde art is so familiar today it’s hard to believe no one had bothered to do it before modernism (though it had happened in the rarefied air of the French and English salons). But why would anyone have bothered before? Until modernism, no art movement had ever made anything as totalizing and threatening as the proposition modernism did: that art would remake the world.

It did, and it didn’t. First, in America modernism would have to be reimagined. By 1948, Newman was painting stripes and monochromatic fields of bright color on large canvases. Pollock began to drip in 1947. Émigrée Peggy Guggenheim opened the Art of This Century Gallery, exhibiting both European modernists and starving, struggling Americans, among them Clyfford Still, William Baziotes, Alexander Calder, Adolph Gottlieb, Joseph Cornell, Robert Motherwell, de Kooning, and Mark Rothko. She gave Pollock his first solo show in 1943. A new game was in the offing: America claiming the European avant-garde as its own imperial patrimony.

The values of Abstract Expressionism included enormous scale, the male painter alone in the arena painting in pursuit of total abstraction (except for de Kooning — who Pollock said “betrayed it”). These artists embraced myth, the sublime, transcendence, existential and spiritual terror, cosmic light and darkness, and all that hocus-pocus. And celebrity. Soon, Pollock was featured in Life magazine in the act of painting and smoking. All looked rosy.

Abstract Expressionism restarted modernism wonderfully, but the movement quickly died another death. In 1953, 27-year-old Robert Rauschenberg arrived at de Kooning’s studio with a bottle of liquor in trade for a drawing he said he’d erase. De Kooning’s best biographers, Mark Stevens and Annalyn Swan, call this rendezvous “a ghostly Greek messenger come to warn the king of hubris.” De Kooning said, “I know what you’re doing,” and granted the request.

That same year, Rauschenberg and composer-artist John Cage made Automobile Tire Print, a long, narrow strip of paper on which Cage had driven a car, leaving a long track in black ink. All this was a direct attack on the life-or-death gravitas of Abstract Expressionism — and indeed all of modernism. Art would soon be riven with irony, something that had left it for some time. These ironies multiplied all over the world for the next decades. In 1956, the first Pop Art show took place in London. In Europe, Yves Klein and Piero Manzoni were ascendant. 1957 brought the most political international postwar art movement of them all: Situationism, which railed against personality-based individualism and asserted that art is determined by real-world conditions and situations. Artists today still work from that premise.

The coup de grâce came on January 1, 1958. Target With Four Faces garnered the cover of the No. 1 art magazine of the time, ArtNews. The work was by 27-year-old unknown Jasper Johns. Three weeks later, this change lurched into hyperspeed when Johns’s debut solo show opened at Leo Castelli’s new fourth-floor gallery at 4 East 77th Street, and American art turned on a dime. MoMA acquired three works from the show and arranged for a fourth, Flag (for $900), to be purchased as a gift for the museum. All are now modernist icons. A new world was released.

And while many of the younger artists were still white and male, something nevertheless new came to the fore: Many of them were gay. All held views diametrically opposed to the lofty art values they’d been schooled in. They painted smaller, figuratively, employed subject matter non-spontaneously, were uninterested in spiritualism or strict formal things like “flatness,” the sublime, or cathedrals of selves, and even violated the sacrosanct surfaces of their art by attaching real objects to them. (Ed Ruscha and Robert Indiana painted paintings of words.) Like all artists after them, they were formalist and anti-formalist, sincere and ironic, at the same time. (The latter is a condition of life.) These artists didn’t turn away from but embraced the mass culture around them. They brought life back into art. All of it was intentional. Rauschenberg said he and Johns “used to start each day by having to move out from Abstract Expressionism.”

These innovations were important, of course. Yet in attacking their modernist forebears, the Pop artists were also affirming the reign of their ideology. In 1961, Robert Smithson wrote, “I am a Modern artist dying of Modernism.” He was right. Pop Art and minimalism were derived from mass taste, sources, and material and were ironic, but they were also committed to making it new, to the idea of the work of art as a closed perfect space, to formal experimentation and innovation above all else, to repudiating previous art history, and to the conception of art as a teleological project. And, of course, it shocked your nana.

What will it be like to live without the old modernist canon? I expect thrilling and scary. I don’t want Picasso and the rest to go away. And of course they won’t — we can’t forget these titans, even as we rehang and reconsider their work every year.

But here’s how art has already moved on. Modernism is now just part of art history to artists, and not even the only or best part. Artists are ranging through history, happy to make things new by returning to older unused, overlooked art. I’ve seen countless artists deploy Cubism and Post-Impressionism in ways that make the Ur-modernist movements just another segment of the aesthetic double helix. Artists like Jenna Gribbon, Louis Fratino, Carroll Dunham, Sarah Peters, and Jonathan Lyndon Chase actually cross the beams of modernism with motives on Greek vases. And it’s not pastiche or gamesmanship. Kerry James Marshall goes all the way back to neoclassical history painting to tell new stories picturing black bodies rather than white heroes.

Subject matter and narrative rise in art everywhere. With a hungry, documenting eye as lucid as Walker Evans’s and Robert Frank’s, photographer LaToya Ruby Frazier photographs working-class American cities and people decimated by toxic environments and jerry-rigged governmental policy. Is her work “didactic”? It is! In the works of numerous artists, collectives, and collaborations, we’re seeing brilliant portrayals of institutional cruelty. In other words, the real world—and not just as it’s reflected in the artist’s studio. You don’t need a wall label to feel the gut punch. Ditto the set-up photographs of queer quadriplegic Robert Andy Coombs that shows the artist as explicitly sexual with agency and desire. Christine Sun Kim retrofits the charts of strict minimalism and conceptualism to express the rage of her own deaf community.

Modernism began in many places at different times. Today, artists aren’t robbing or trying to kill the past. They’re collaborating with it. Instead of only formal experimentation, subject matter and other imaginations have arrived as the electric center of artistic innovation — narrative, biography, autobiography, history, cultural context, and family trees, all long dismissed as unserious or provincial concerns, have been injected into art. The purities of modernism don’t mean a thing; recent minimalist, monochrome, conceptual art about art feels like artists being junior postmodernists. We may look at them and pass on. Art no longer seems locked in a competitive struggle for artistic supremacy. Except in the market, where it has always been this way.

But the monolith of modernism is gone. Artists aren’t just crawling into the skins of former styles. They’re consuming, using, changing, and cannibalizing them. Gone is any bullying certainty. We see subjectivity, something like ethics, responsibility, the social contract, personal obsession, and earnest attempts to communicate again with less insider-y audiences. Rather than plotting where this art fits on the teleological-formalist timeline, consider Romanesque and medieval church façades: These masterpieces tell essential stories in visually sophisticated, visionary ways, all with an extraordinary use of material, scale, ambition, everything, yet anyone may experience, read, grasp, and be part of this art. They are open books. These are the connotations and possibilities of art now. Art has landed on another moon.

Where does this leave MoMA? Alas, I am not a radical, so I am glad the museum won’t be changing that much. I do not want to destroy MoMA or other museums of modernism (flawed as they are). I still need to return there regularly to commune with the ancestors. Others will don the mantle of fixing and replacing the entire system. If MoMA has a radical love of art rather than a love of the underlying system, it will play a part in the generations to come — and it may be that future art historians point to this rehanging as a turning point, the central institution of modernism committing to a new set of ideas about what it was, what it represents, and what it offers us today. I say to MoMA, bring out your dead from storage, artists deemed “wrong,” not part of the old story — put them all on view, let us decide. We all love art. But as James Baldwin wrote, “Love is a battle … love is growing up.” After a century, we are finally beginning to outgrow modernism.

© New York magazine. Photo Credit: Visiting MoMA, 1959, Eve Arnold/Magnum Photos.