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With heteropatriarchy under a cloud of suspicion, creators like Roth and Currin who have for decades trained their authorial gaze upon the condition of their own sex have also been caught up in the revisionist backlash. This exhibition and its accompanying catalogue have been conceived at a time when the primacy of the male author is more fraught than ever.

After five decades of feminist struggle, to believe that achieving gender parity is tantamount to censuring male voices altogether would be a travesty. Yet in this era of understandable MeToo rage, many women as well as members of other groups that have been historically oppressed feel compelled to radically rewrite the canon so as to silence or downgrade the cultural contributions of men—especially white heterosexual cis-gendered men.

Private collection, Paris. Their fictional men are more often than not antiheroes. Published by Gagosian. Distributed by Rizzoli. A miracle he kept it so long; he spends his time losing things. Same size, same leather, a bit redder, a bit older. Of course I opened it; a little address book was still slipped into an inside pocket. I leafed through it absentmindedly before noticing a name: Cocteau. Then below it, Chagall. Twenty small pages listed the greatest European artists of the postwar period in alphabetical order.


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At the very end, a calendar gave me a date: Obviously I wanted to know: who had written these numbers in brown ink? Who could have been the friend of all these geniuses? A genius him- or herself, surely. I wasted several weeks trying to find the seller. Like an investigator facing a key witness, I began with careful observations of the book, then tallied the information it was willing to give me with an old telephone directory that I found in a secondhand shop. The book told me about painters, poets, gallerists, patrons, and a psychoanalyst. I found a hairdresser, a beauty salon, a furrier, a canvas man.

Things were coming into focus: I suspected a woman, a painter, in Lacanian analysis, and with close ties to the most famous of the Surrealists. So she had a house in that small village in the South of France and she needed an architect to oversee construction. So it was Dora Maar! Everything was coming together, it all made sense, even the absence of her lover Pablo Picasso, who had left her in Bless Google!

Bits of life, shards of suffering: institutionalization, electroshock treatments, madness, psychoanalysis, God, isolation. He equally immediately passed on his memories of her, an old woman when he met her, a recluse in an unkempt Paris apartment, cantankerous and distrustful. Cleveland Museum of Art, Ohio.

USA: See these seniors strut their stuff for Miss America

Gift of David Raymond. And so I found myself dragged into that battalion of women who for years have taken a passionate interest in Maar: biographers, writers, art historians, gallerists, and more. My path would be different: besides the fact that I had not chosen her, I had the miraculous address book as a guide. I would ask the same questions of every name: What is this person doing in this book? What was this person doing in her life? But whereas Maar, after Picasso left her, devoted herself to God and became a conservative, Jacqueline left her genius spouse of her own accord and stayed true to her first rebellions to the end of her life.

Her mother never lived at the address in the book.

Consciousness | Musings on the Nature of Reality

Luckily, before her death, Huguette Lamba told an art historian, whom I was able to track down, about the connection between herself and Dora. In September , after France had surrendered to Germany and half the country was occupied, the Bretons, having taken refuge in the south, finally obtained a visa for the United States.

From the boat that allowed them to escape France, Jacqueline wrote a last letter to Maar, imploring her friend to take care of Huguette, who was pregnant and alone in Nazi-occupied Paris.


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  4. Maar had just learned that she was infertile, for which Picasso reproached her relentlessly. Through Huguette she would now experience a kind of proxy pregnancy, and when the child was born, she naturally asked to be its godmother. Unfortunately the little girl lived only five months, and this was when Maar first became. Ghazaouet is a small fishing town on the Moroccan border, no one knows it—but I lived there for the first three years of my life.

    Other surreal coincidences would punctuate and facilitate my investigation. I consulted historians, museum directors, art dealers, experts, and enthusiasts. And for good reason: at the age of eighty-seven, he was alive and well in the South of France, and he even answered the telephone.

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    He was not yet twenty years old, while she was in her forties; he got the impression of someone charismatic, dark, temperamental, and self-centered. No one was allowed to ask about Picasso, but she talked about him sometimes: without actually speaking ill of him, she managed to complain about him, insinuating that the genius was letting her live in misery. A few names remained a mystery to me: Katell, Camille, Madeleine, probably scribbled down to be read only by the writer. I also gave up on relationships that seemed too distant: Aragon, Ponge, the composer Francis Poulenc, for example.

    They told me that one day after a bullfight he almost got into a brawl with Picasso, over a woman—Marchand claimed that Picasso had stolen Gilot from him. The letters from Picasso cannot be consulted, but all the others can, including the notable ones from a Benedictine monk who, after Lacan, became her spiritual advisor and pushed her toward a practically fundamentalist form of Christianity. In one of those boxes, I also found her Mein Kampf, with a postcard of Hitler in front of the Eiffel Tower tucked into it as a bookmark.

    But after two years of research, I ended up deciding not to reduce the great artist Maar was to the obsessions of a woman crazed by years of isolation, suffering, and bitterness. She was sure that her talent as a photographer and painter would be recognized posthumously. Perhaps that day has come.

    Translated from the French by Molly Stevens. The American painter Louis Michel Eilshemius remains one of the most idiosyncratic figures in twentiethcentury art history. By his death, in , he had largely abandoned painting. It was only posthumously that his singular career—including paintings, poetry, astounding letters, and more—found a wider receptive audience of artists, writers, and curators. Later I found out that some of my friends, like [the artist] Peter Schuyff, collected his work. He was born wealthy and lived well almost all of his life until the end of it, when he was destitute.

    He was a lifelong bachelor and completely infatuated with his mother. ER Exactly. In addition, he pictured himself as knowing a lot about the world. This complexity makes him—alongside his work—a very compelling voice in the art world. There was something dark and clumsy about his work. I could see right away why Duchamp would single this man out for attention.

    The Existential Coordinates of the Human Condition: Poetic — Epic — Tragic

    People were quick to call his work primitive and undisciplined, but he actually went to beauxarts school, he had formal training, but he just went off on his own. He painted so many pictures in the first two decades of the century and then suddenly, in , stopped painting altogether, except for his last two paintings from The one of the burning zeppelin, a nod to the crash of the Hindenburg zeppelin in New Jersey that year, is a particular favorite—what a way to cap off your life as an artist, to be doing all these little nymph paintings and then finish it off with one of a zeppelin burning [laughter].

    VN His biography definitely adds to his likability. The art world loves an eccentric, a tortured soul. He was a voluntary outcast. And for a long time, he was just a product of neglect from the art world. Have either of you seen this personal publicity handbill from that he put out? How to make picture frames your own self can be learned by taking lessons at 20 dollars an hour of Louis Eilshemius, MA, who has recently discovered an easy way to create them.

    His self-made frames are very light in weight, do not break, are attractive, no wood is used, made with little labor, are luminous. But what did he use, plaster or something? What would he use? VN Maybe he was referring to his practice of painting frames onto the actual paintings. ER Yes, perhaps. He had this unique way of painting frames with a shadow on two sides and a flash of reflection on the other two sides.

    And he did that with most of his paintings. The dark is usually at the left and the top and the light is on the right and the bottom. Beyond the uniqueness of his character, my interest continued as I started discovering other things in his work that were really pretty good, like the way he deals with trees. VN Most of his paintings are deeply American in location, and the titles make this even more clear.

    He seems to have preferred woods, forests, and waterfalls, whereas much of your work depicts mountains and deserts. My use of those types of terrain is not based on love of mountains necessarily, but love of thinking about mountains. ER No. VN Do you think Eilshemius drew from life?

    The Literary Genre

    ER Well, he certainly grew up with that thinking in art—that an artist would go out to a scene and set up a canvas and paint that scene. Could you tell us a bit about that? It was mainly this idea of the picture frame. LG Many of his paintings have—within the frame—this circular motion of bringing you into the center.

    Is there any sort of idea of surveillance in your work? Most people view him as a kind of parlor painter. They were interested in him but they never really dug into him. I put him in the category of somebody like George Ohr, you know, the Mad Potter who also was a self-proclaimed genius. VN I think he was, and continues to be, really misunderstood. Due to the subject matter of his work, many thought he was a creep and a pervert, but I bet he never even saw a naked woman in his life, because these nymphs are so perfect: their smooth buxom bodies and their long flowing hair.