The Brooklyn Rail

Over the years, I got to know Graham Nickson—the splendidly original English figurative artist who ran the New York Studio School and who recently passed away—visiting his studio and writing a catalogue essay for him. Starting in the late 1980s, I lectured now and again in the Studio School’s evening guest program. The ritual, which Graham designed and orchestrated, was simple. Having arranged your topic, you showed up with slides and had a drink with Graham in his art-filled office. At 6 p.m., you headed downstairs to the auditorium, spoke for an hour, took questions, and then retired upstairs and took your assigned seat to dine with your guests on a meal served by marvelous student chefs. After dessert, you gave them a round of applause, capping an evening of reassuring and quietly inspiring civility.

The Studio School is in an old building in the West Village, where it was easy to get lost looking for a bathroom. It was a classic New York setting, with lively audiences who were friendly and critical. So I welcomed the opportunity to try out my evolving thoughts. Graham’s only rule was to be interesting and to offer material for fruitful discussion. I was always pleasantly astonished at his ability to run the program as smoothly as he did, which required weekly appearances as host over the course of an event that often didn’t end until late at night. He drew in many well-known art world personalities. In recent years, for example, Svetlana Alpers was a regular attendee. When I organized a panel on critical disagreement with Thomas McEvilley and Karen Wilkin, Leo Steinberg was sitting in the front row. I was afraid I might fall off the platform if he asked a question, but I needn’t have worried. Graham didn’t nurture that kind of atmosphere. After the lecture, Steinberg held forth with panache and swagger on life in Paris in the 1930s. Remarking that “smoking kills you, they say, but it hasn’t killed me yet.”Then he lit up.

Under Graham, the Studio School had a kind of magical attraction. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to visit, and we all benefited. I talked about art criticism, museums, comics, and Nicolas Poussin, joined by the psychoanalyst Adele Tutter. With Joseph Masheck, I discussed German expressionism; with Julian Bell, his paintings. I leaned into the contemporary gallery scene with Darren Jones, Birte Kleemann, and other dealers. Joined by Joachim Pissarro, I presented our work-in-progress on what we called “wild art.” The variety of subjects Graham embraced distinguished his approach, but there was much more to recommend it. He fostered genuine freedom of discussion and engendered goodwill among participants. You always felt as if the Studio School was a live but stable organism, moving forward though unperturbed. I think the informal, determinedly un-luxurious setting that he cultivated, rooted in Village life during the grand days of Abstract Expressionism, had quite a bit to do with that.

Graham was in charge, it seemed, of everything, including the Studio School’s acclaimed gallery exhibition program. How then was it possible for him also to have such an extraordinary career as a painter, with his work so much in demand? Perhaps one of his secrets was that he didn’t do email. In any case, his life and work were of a sort that made me feel as though good things could go on in perpetuity. Graham created a little utopia, an ideal place for sharing and discussing ideas. He was that rare person who made a real difference in many lives. In an art world all too often engaged in trivial sectarian disputes, his essential spirit of generosity was an antidote.