Word: berenson
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...Italian artists, let us take Sassetta: since Berenson gave him his present prestige, he has enjoyed such a success among the collections of America that it is there and not in Europe that one must study his work." The Louvre has 58 Delacroix; but there are 66 in the U.S., while France's neighbor Spain does not have one. Daumier is far better represented in Washington or Boston or Baltimore than in his home town of Marseille...
...Iceman Cometh. Barnes quarreled with Bernard Berenson, Bertrand Russell. Jacques Lipchitz-the greater the adversary, the rougher the battle. His most venomous attacks, though, were reserved for women. Marriage, Barnes often said, was just a cheap and wholesome substitute for prostitution. He delighted in bullying female employees into tears, embarrassed one young secretary by dictating letters to her from his steam bath, interspersing his correspondence with commands to fetch towels and turn on the shower for him. When Edith Powell, art critic for the Philadelphia Public Ledger, had some mild reservations about the Soutines in a rare public exhibit...
...YEAR'S READING FOR FUN (166 pp.)-Bernard Berenson-Knopf...
...late Bernard Berenson called World War II a "manquake" and calmly retired to his book-lined storm cellar-the 50,000-volume library he had amassed 'at his famed Tuscan villa, / Tatti, near Florence. This took a certain amount of fatalism in wartime Italy, Nazi Germany's ally, since Berenson was born a Jew (he was converted to Roman Catholicism), and his only safety lay in a promise from Mussolini's son-in-law, Foreign Minister Count Galeazzo Ciano, that he would not be molested. The master pundit of Renaissance art, his ailing wife Mary (who died...
Nothing in Reading for Fun is lifeless, though some of Berenson's entries are highly esoteric, and his scorn of modern literature very nearly amounts to a total eclipse of what was around him. He thought the works of T. S. Eliot, Joyce, Gertrude Stein, Faulkner and Hemingway largely rubbish. But even Aladdin had only one lamp, and Bernard Berenson had burnished his insights too long over the magnificence of Renaissance Italy to find the modern age other than trifling and tawdry. At book's end he seems to step back into a quattrocento painting like a visitor...