Word: barnetts
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...years before, and a sort of deathwatch had settled over the art world as it observed, at a distance, the slow sinking of the last Abstract Expressionist. Now they were all definitively gone, the artists who put American art on the world map after 1945: Arshile Gorky, Jackson Pollock, Barnett Newman, Mark Rothko, Robert Motherwell and the transplanted Dutchman who jumped ship into the New World in 1926 and settled in New York as an illegal alien. Fortunately for American art, the immigration officials never caught up with de Kooning...
...used by now to being told that Johns is an artist of the utmost profundity and difficulty that we assume, on peering into the well of his talent, that the fault for not recognizing masterpieces in it lies with ourselves. It's like the familiar Barnett Newman problem: having for so long been told that the famous "Zip" in Newman's canvases contains the unnameable name of God or the tragic condition of humankind, one must make an almost perverse effort of will to look past all the midrash and see a vertical stripe...
Andy Stuart Barnett...
...When Barnett was 13, she cut some unreleased sides for veteran producer Jimmy Bowen, yet another relic of the rockabilly years. Five years later, she was starring in Always, and transcending the kitsch format (a fan recalling her brushes with Patsy's greatness) by interpreting 18 Cline songs faithfully and imaginatively; she'd slow down the tempo, tease out the vowel sounds even further, add an Ozark twang that you won't hear on Patsy's records. Now an ancient 20, Barnett has her own, self-titled CD (Asylum). It stands as both a votive offering to her idol...
Most of the album's songs, written in the '90s, have a time-warp directness that locates them firmly in Clineland. Barnett climbs inside them all, the jingles and the ballads, with equal agility. But the standouts are the torch songs. The opening cut, Planet of Love, has a blue-eyed bluesy aggressiveness that Barnett builds nicely from a throaty murmur into a dominatrix growl; it's an invitation to a dangerous liaison, delivered deadpan. A Simple I Love You has the same let's-fall-in-love message, this time sung not as a come...