Word: slives
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...past closing time at the Fogg; its galleries, hung in the first thread of twilight, are deserted. Suddenly Seymour Slive, the museum's new director, throws himself into an exhibit just hung for a course in 18th-century French art. He stalks backwards, arms out-flung, palms raised, beckoning. "Look at this picture," he commands, his bulging, saucer eyes electric under the flu's rheumy glaze. "It's a wreck, a total wreck. But I think some of its qualities can still be appreciated, that I can help in our teaching." Slive is right. The canvas is a patchwork...
...Slive, who has worked up a sweat this term trying to get his Fine Arts 13 students to take a look at art, launches into an explanation of his dual role as a teacher-museum director. "Our job is to teach the student to assess, judge, appraise and weigh works of art," he says. To this end, according to Slive, the Fogg is unique...
...Slive becomes moody, thumbing through racks of paintings in one of the Fogg's storage depots. Over twenty gun-metal grey, ceiling-high, metal-mesh racks line this long, narrow hall on the museum's second floor. They are hung with a "big slice of the cultural history of mankind," as Rosenfield says. And though resonant with a strenuous, discordant mixture of competing styles and periods, none of them can escape a certain loneliness, a quiet desperation when shoved back into their dark recess. Pulling out one rack then another, Slive runs through the depot, lingering over one canvas then...
...Fogg is desperately over-crowded. We don't even have the space to show our principal works of art." Slive says...
...Slive, only the happiest pentimento...