Word: artists
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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There it was, in a nutshell. Granted, not every art historian has been as nobly certain of the natural order as that unruffled Italian phallocrat; yet the fact remains that until quite recently, the work of women artists did not have a history. For several hundred years, women who painted (or, more rarely still, sculpted) were apt to be seen as inconsequential strays, more or less talented, in a man's profession. Men did not make the Bayeux tapestry, or embroider the gold-worked opus Anglicanum chasubles that were among the supreme glories of medieval art. By the late...
Then there were dozens of painters who, through changes of fashion, dispersal of their work or simply the fact of being women, fell into the oubliette. Nothing is more fragile than an artist's reputation. Names like Anne Vallayer-Coster, Sofonisba Anguissola, Judith Leyster or Louise Moillon are scarcely commonplace. Yet the quality of their work is incontestable: Vallayer-Coster's The White Soup Bowl (1771), with its beautifully rendered planes and rotundities of steaming tureen and crinkled napkin, comes close to Chardin in reverent and cadenced description of commonplace things. To see such works resurrected in this...
...women to modern art seem less than it actually was. Painters of large and unquestionable talent, like Lee Krasner, are not seen at their best. One could hardly guess from her work on display here that Germany's Hanna Höch-now 87 and the last surviving artist-member of the Berlin Dada group-was in the 1920s one of the most brilliant and acerbic collagists ever to wield scissors. On the other hand, quite trivial artists are included; probably one cannot have a historical show of women's art without the boring and insipid fribbles...
...years and many cultures but also as a child of her time and place-France after World War I, sapped yet still adventuresome. Weil's mind belonged to the classics but her emotions owed much to 19th century romanticism, especially the aspect that substituted the sufferings of the artist for the anguish of the martyr. Simone was born into the French upper-middle class in 1909. Her father-a physician-and her mother had Jewish backgrounds, though they observed no religious ritual or custom. The child never regarded herself as a Jew. Later she rejected...
Both loyalty and stupidity can be tiresome over the long haul, and Hanley's haul takes place over 368 relentless pages. The artist's death, near the end, gives his wife one of the few chances to make a genuinely moving speech: "1 knew my husband was a failure three long years ago, but you don't just walk out on a person just because they turn out to be second rate ... There's more to a man than that." Hanley wrests such epiphanies from meager raw materials, and it is easy to commend his skill...