On this day in 1887, the great French artist Marcel Duchamp was born. He is hard to talk about though. Because I use the term “artist” in its widest possible sense. He worked in most mediums, but he was also a writer and eventually a chess player. In his early 30s, after a very successful artistic career, he decided he wanted to play chess. He went on to be a Master level player—for those of you who do not know, that means he was better than you can possibly imagine. But he is better know for his writing about chess theory.

Duchamp was born into a rich family. This allowed four of his parents six surviving children to go on to be successful artists. The family was very much into culture, so it isn’t surprising. It does make me wonder about what I see as the modern American rich who seem only to be interested in creating a new kind of aristocracy. The Koch brothers looked at their lucky fate and said, “I want to just make more money and influence politics so that even more comes to me.” The Duchamp children used their lucky fate to do something interesting. And all the Duchamp children did compelling work. What will the Koch children leave us? Oh, that’s right: a potentially catastrophically changed climate. I guess I’m forced to admit that the Koch’s legacy will be more profound than that of the Duchamps, even if it is a tragic legacy.

When I was a kid, I was never that much into modern art. The painting that really turned me onto it was Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase. I love the use of line, the movement (not surprisingly from the early days of film), and the limited palette. It works as well for me today as it did 35 years ago:

Most of his other work is more conceptual in nature and not as interesting to me. Part of the problem is that once he started playing chess, he didn’t pursue art all that much. Still, he was still very much part of the art world. There is a great quote from him, however, “I am still a victim of chess. It has all the beauty of art—and much more. It cannot be commercialized. Chess is much purer than art in its social position.” I understand the feeling, although as a sport it has managed to be commercialized. But it certainly indicates that his love of art was pure and he didn’t like the way it became commodity.

There is an interesting story about his personal life. He married Lydie Sarazin-Lavassor, but couldn’t stand the confinement of marriage, so they divorced six months later. But Duchamp and Sarazin-Lavassor continued their relationship for the next two decades until she died. That’s right out of Scenes from a Marriage. And very sweet.

Happy birthday Marcel Duchamp!

On this day in 1882, the great American painter Edward Hopper was born. When I was younger, I wasn’t that impressed by him. But over time, he’s become one of my favorite artists. It’s mostly his compositions that I find stunning. Over the years, that’s what I’ve come to see as most important. Especially looking at art on a computer screen, it is hard to appreciate the micro-artistic elements. But mediocre painters have a poor sense of composition and drama. Hopper is especially interesting because he created great drama with so little.

He was raised in an upper-middle class family with a mild-mannered father in what seems to have been a matriarchal household. They did not ever seem to have to worry about money, although Hopper’s first instruction in art was via a correspondence course at the age of 17. He did eventually go the New York Institute of Art and Design for six years. For twenty years after that, he was forced to work as an illustrator for an advertising agency. I suspect that he also had some kind of trust fund, because he only worked part time. He was also able to make three trips to Paris, to check out the new trends in art there. He managed not to notice much, though. How does a young painter go to Paris three times between 1906 and 1910 and never even hear of Picasso? Well, Hopper was rather shy and I think he spent the time mostly soaking up the atmosphere and painting.

During that period, he was already doing notable work. In 1913, he sold his first painting, Sailing (painted in 1911). I’m not that fond of it, but you can definitely see how it fits into his artistic development. It was not really the beginning of a new career, however; more a one-off. He continued his freelance advertising work.

At around this time, he started to do etching, which until today I had no knowledge of. Much of it is really good. Here is Night Shadows from 1921. I think it shows the development of his compositional skill. I love the extreme perspective:

Clearly, at this point in his life he was grasping for anything that worked. As he was perfecting his etching skills, he started to work in watercolors. This work is excellent as well. By 1920, he was clearly doing great work, but no one had really noticed. He became involved with fellow painter Josephine Nivison in 1923. Being outgoing, she was able to get Hopper more attention, leading eventually to his first solo commercial exhibit 1924 (the same year he and Nivison married), where all the paintings sold. And the rest, as they say, is history.

His style stayed much the same throughout his career, but especially in the 1940s and 1950s, his work is more finished. Consider, for example, New York Restaurant from 1923:

And Hotel Lobby from 1943:

I’m actually rather fond of his less finished work. In fact, I most like that aspect of his work early on, right after leaving school. But he hadn’t perfected his compositional style at that point, so I didn’t present any. Regardless, all of his work is interesting and worth checking out.

Happy birthday Edward Hopper!

Afterword

Here is one of my favor Janis Ian songs, “Hopper Painting”:

On this day in 1847, the great German painter Max Liebermann was born. I’m actually not that fond of his work. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that I’m not that fond of his impressionism, which often strikes me as bad Manet. His portraits are rather interesting. And his one religious painting indicates that he really should have done more historical painting, although it wasn’t really the thing at the time.

If you want to be an artist, it really does help to have rich parents. I’m not talking Fred Koch rich, of course; that seems to just create spoiled brats who think the world ought to kneel down before them like David and Charles Koch. But high bourgeoisie, which gives you a good and worldly education, decent connections, and not so much money that you think it is all that matters. That’s exactly what Liebermann got, and perhaps somewhat more. He also had the advantage of being born in Berlin and not Texas.

Below is Liebermann’s one religious painting, The 12-Year-Old Jesus in the Temple With the Scholars. It caused quite a stir at the time. I guess it was blasphemy for a Jew to paint Jesus? Regardless, he didn’t like the uproar and never again did anything terribly exciting—and he had over 50 years to go.

Liebermann died at the age of 87 in 1935. By that time, the Nazis were in power. So even though he was quite famous, no mention of his death was made in the media. Over a hundred people came to his funeral, even though it was apparently illegal. It was only 1935, after all. The Nazis hadn’t fully systematized their hate. So Liebermann died at the right time.

Happy birthday Max Liebermann!

Tomorrow will be the economist Dean Baker’s 56th birthday. Last year I wrote about that. And I sent him an email telling him. I also noted that he should consider it a great honor because it had been Modigliani the day before. He wrote back and talked about how much he admired his work. It was clear he wasn’t talking about the painter and I thought he was putting me on. But sure enough, he thought I meant Franco Modigliani, the Nobel Prize winning economist. Talk to an economist and see what you get.

But this year, just like last year, I must tell you that on this day in 1884, the great artist Amedeo Modigliani was born. He is one of the artists that I would classify as not terribly creative. That is to say that his style was remarkably consistent. But I might have said the same thing of Picasso had he only lived to be 35. At the same time, I love his work—far more than anything Picasso did.

The story of Modigliani is the stuff of romance. It’s absolutely awful but it is the kind of thing that even I find beautiful in its way. He mostly bartered with his paintings. He lived and died in poverty. He only had a single solo art show, that was shut down by the police within hours because of his “scandalous” nudes. Three years before his death, he met Jeanne Hebuterne, who became his constant companion. Here is one of his many paintings of her:

They had a daughter the following year. But Modigliani was suffering from tubercular meningitis. In January of 1920, after his downstairs neighbors had not heard from him for days, they entered the flat and found him in bed, almost dead holding onto Hebuterne, who was nine months pregnant with their second child. Modigliani was taken to the hospital but there was nothing that could be done. He died on 24 January 1920. Hebuterne was so distraught that she killed herself and her unborn baby the following day.

Many years later, Elmyr de Hory made something of a living forging Modigliani. He did a lot of other people’s work too, but I think his Modiglianis are his best. He was very good. Here’s the only one I could easily find, but you can well see how de Hory fooled so many people for so long—he was good.

With my recent experience at the Antiques Roadhow, it makes me all the more angry. I don’t know exactly what I think of Elmyr de Hory. He was an incredibly talented guy and also a charlatan. But that’s not it. The problem is the whole business of art that is just shameful. This painting would sell for tens of millions of dollars if everyone believed that Modigliani had painted it. But instead, it isn’t. It’s still doubtless worth a lot of money because now Elmyr de Hory is famous. But the professional art world is a pox on society.

Happy birthday Amedeo Modigliani!

Another day, another birthday. Lots of interesting birthdays. But do you ever just wake up in a foul mood? (One morning my wife woke up in a fowl mood and flew away!) If it weren’t for caffeine, I don’t know what I’d do. But it hasn’t helped thus far today. So I specifically picked a birthday that would allow me to write as little about the person as possible and just rant. Are you ready?

On this day in 1834, the great artist James Abbott McNeill Whistler was born. He is best known for the painting he titled, Arrangement in Grey and Black No 1. But everyone knows it as simply, Whistler’s Mother. The reason that everyone knows it by that name is because it is a painting of Anna Whistler, also know as James Abbott McNeill Whistler’s mother, or if you prefer, Whistler’s mother. In some circles, it’s known as “Jim’s mum.” (It is not know as “Jim’s mum” in any circles.)

The original title of it is accurate. Basically, Whistler was trying to show what he could do with a very limited palette. And to me, it’s very clear: not much. Arrangement in Grey and Black, No 2 is actually a lot more interesting. What I think is most interesting about Whistler’s Mother is that it was the displayed in the 104th Exhibition of the Royal Academy of Art in London. But they were not keen on it. A short time later, he pawned it while in Paris. About twenty years later, someone from the Musée du Luxembourg acquired it and it became a big deal.

It rather reminds me of Moby-Dick. That book was widely panned when it was first published. It wasn’t until almost 70 years later that Carl Van Doren decided that it was a work of genius that it became the “great book” that it is today. And let’s be honest, in a standard sense, is Moby-Dick great? I don’t think so. That’s not to say that I think Moby-Dick isn’t a great book. I think it is a very great book. It is Melville. It is the book that Melville was meant to write. If you look at his other works, you can tell the man has talent, but he isn’t baring his soul the way he is in Moby-Dick and to a lesser extent The Confidence-Man. But the point is it little more than an accident than anyone outside of academia even knows who Melville is.

Having said what I have about Whistler, you might think I don’t like his work. That’s not true at all! He was a brilliant artist. I’m just not fond of Whistler’s Mother. Just take a look at a collection of his work and you will see: Google Image Search. What’s more, he was a master at the use of a limited palette. Here is one painting I very much admire, Symphony in White, No 2—generally known as The Little White Girl (Whistler was very annoying about naming paintings):

But the man could do color too. Here is Caprice in Purple and Gold No 2—generally known as The Golden Screen:

Happy birthday James Abbott McNeill Whistler!

I have to go away for more testing of my high tech project. So there will be limited posting this weekend. Last year on this day, I did Richard Rodgers, one of the great heroes of my youth. And if I had more time today, I would do the theoretical physicist Maria Goeppert-Mayer. But I just feel too rushed to get into explaining the nuclear shell model of the atomic nucleus. So I’m just going to take it easy (and short) and talk about a painter.

On this day in 1577, the great Baroque painter Peter Paul Rubens was born. He is probably best known today as a nice way to describe women with a bit of meat on their bones, “Rubenesque.” Indeed, other than some portraits of specific named people, I have never seen a painting by him of a woman who was not fairly large. None of them were terribly overweight, but he clearly had his type. I would note, however, that generally speaking, he didn’t pick the most athletic men for models either. So maybe it was all about showing people in all their lumpy beauty.

But what is more amazing about him is the range of his work. He did everything and he did it all beautifully. There really isn’t any kind of painting that was done at that time that he didn’t do. It is hard to pick from it all, but if you click over to Wikipedia, they have a ton of his work. Here is one I especially like: Mourning Christ:

Happy birthday Peter Paul Rubens!

It would be fun to write about Mary McCarthy today, given her decades long argument with Lillian Hellman. But regardless that McCarthy was the more serious political thinker, Hellman was the great writer. In a hundred years, people will still be performing The Children’s Hour, while McCarthy will be a footnote, which doesn’t take anything away from her; most of us will never even be footnotes.

On this day in 1859, the great American painter Henry Ossawa Tanner was born. The son of a free black man and an escaped slave mother, he grew up in Pittsburgh. There is a tendency to think of the United States at that time as being divided into the racist south and non-racist north. But that wasn’t true at all. The issue was slavery. Racism was the norm everywhere. As a young man, Tanner found it impossible to become a painting apprentice, because painters simply wouldn’t take on African Americans. Eventually, he was allowed into the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.

The timing was good, because the great realist painter Thomas Eakins had recently begun teaching there, where he revolutionized the study of art. Tanner became one of his favorite students and even did him the honor of painting his portrait, displayed at the beginning of this article. You can definitely see the influence. But I find Tanner’s work far more compelling. For one thing, Eakins was primarily a portrait painter. Tanner’s subjects were far more diverse. He had a particularly interesting approach to religious painting, which is what he spent most of his later years on.

I’m most fond of his paintings of everyday life. This best known painting is The Banjo Lesson, which in addition to its thematic value makes use of intense shadows, which is typical (though not universal) in his work. From the same period (probably with the same models), is The Thankful Poor:

He also did a lot of landscapes, although few as pure as Georgia Landscape:

Happy birthday Henry Ossawa Tanner!