I am lucky to have read Le Corbusier uncritically. I was sixteen, and I began with the big linen-bound Oeuvres Completes 1910-1965.
Gian Lorenzo Bernini wasnt always our Bernini. He was self-made (a ferocious infighter at the Vatican), and dominated baroque Rome with hard work, not simply by being the best man for every job.
In 1937, Elie and Viola Nadelman's Museum of Folk and Peasant Arts was an original in practically every way. Today, the contents are still quite delicious; every piece exceptional, acquired while practically nobody else was looking, each cousin to a common aesthetic purpose.
The exhibition is an eye-opener, in part because, quite as Marini had feared, this kind of thing just isnt done anymore. These figures come to us from another world, although it really wasnt so long ago. We are now accustomed to objects that are just that, but here every piece is a person.
When the poet-draftsman Lequeu loved a thing, he drew a section of it. An axial slice down the middle, revealing an unseen interior space, was surely his favorite go-to graphic sleight of hand. A section, which is a purely imaginary concept, makes anatomy out of every subject.
Michelangelo, the Man and the Myth might be more plainly called Michelangelo Drawings from the Casa Buonarroti. Fully half the checklist items are hagiographic materials of greater or lesser interest, which better portray the artists public perception and the lending institutions holdings than the artist himself.
The panel is more than precious; it is a relic, not of the saint, but the artist. The installation presumes that we will understand it to be a masterpiece, one of only six securely attributed to Leonardos hand.
You really have got the old man,” Kenneth Clark told John Pope-Hennessy upon reading his study of Michelangelo. The “old man” (1475–1564, painter, sculptor, architect, and poet) seems always to have been the old man, always at the top.
Authors say that writing sometimes writes itself, notably when their characters seem to speak out in their own voice. Visual artists claim a pristine silence for their own, which they prize, eye and hand alone together gladly, no words. The word that breaks that silence is often recriminatory, and resented. It came upon a scene uninvited, that should not have been witnessed. Words, they say, compromise sight, and the silent work of the eye.
Marino Marini is not my master. I was not that fortunate, but he is for me an exemplary artist.