“Everybody was looking for the next van Gogh . . . so that opened up the space for anybody who put two sticks together to be a sculptor, or two dabs of paint on a canvas to be a painter: ‘Don’t miss him! This man is a genius!’ You’re not going to catch the next van Gogh by just throwing everything on a wall.”
Jonah Kinigstein is having a moment . . . at 92! The painter and cartoonist has published his first collection, The Emperor’s New Clothes: The Tower of Babel in the “Art” World (FU Press) and had an exhibition of his work at the Society of Illustrators in the past few months, and he’s just getting warmed up! We met at his studio to talk about the abysmal and unredeemable state of modern art, and why he elected to stay in the representative mode of painting despite the allure and rewards of conceptual art. He also talks about a near-century of New York City, his glory years in Paris and Rome, his disenchantment with the National Academy, and more! Give it a listen!
“Here I was, studying anatomy . . . and there’s a man who’s dripping on the floor! I’ve got a lot of drippings on the floor; I think I’ll put them up!”
Jonah’s got plenty of venom to spare for artists like Pollock, de Kooning, and Hirst, but also talks about his great artistic influences, his reasons for pasting angry anti-modern-art cartoons on the walls in SoHo, why he paints on wood instead of canvas, and making a living designing department store windows and point-of-sale whiskey displays. It’s a fascinating life, and I’m glad we had the chance to talk! You can check out my photos from Jonah’s studio, including several of his panels, over here.
About our Guest
Born in 1923 in Coney Island, Jonah’s early influences were discovered during visits to the Metropolitan Museum- “When I really saw the old masters, it blew my mind, of course.” He attended Cooper Union for a year before he was drafted into the Army, serving from 1942 – 1945. Soon after, Jonah moved to Paris where he spent time at the Académie de la Grande Chaumière, conversing with other aspiring artists, exchanging ideas, exhibiting his work, seeing established artists, and generally soaking up a fertile creative environment. He exhibited in several shows including the Salon D’Automne, Salon de Mai, and the Salon des Moins de Trente Ans, and had one-man shows in the Galerie Breteau and Les Impressions D’Art. After Paris, Jonah moved to Rome on a Fulbright Scholarship and studied at the La Schola Di Belles Artes. After a year, he returned to the U.S. and exhibited his paintings at the Downtown Gallery in Manhattan. Like so many painters, he was unable to make a living solely from painting, so he worked in the commercial art world and did freelance illustration and design. Throughout this time, Jonah’s commitment to his own art never wavered, and he continued to paint and occasionally exhibit.
Credits: This episode’s music is Sous Le Ciel De Paris by Edith Piaf. The conversation was recorded at Mr. Kinigstein’s home on a pair of Blue enCORE 200 microphones feeding into a Zoom H5 digital recorder. I recorded the intro and outro on a Blue Yeti USB Microphone. Processing was done in Audacity and Logic Pro. Photo of Mr. Kinigstein by me.
“My weakness is that I don’t have a set of parameters. My work always looks like a group show. But the connections are real. Anyone who looks can see the connections.”
Artist Mimi Gross joins the show to talk about her art, her life, and the joys of collaboration. Mimi’s been part of the New York art scene for more than half a century, and her paintings, sculptures, sets and designs have been seen around the world. We talk about how she stood out as Mimi Gross when she was “daughter of sculptor/artist Chaim Gross” and “wife of artist Red Grooms”. We also get into the difficulties of having a family while being a working artist, making art in response to 9/11, designing sets and costumes for dance and how that fed back into her other art-forms, the multi-year process of building Ruckus Manhattan, the problems and perks of not fitting into a particular tradition, the experience of building the Renee and Chaim Gross Foundation, and the loose definition of success. I also ask my half-assed “Jeff Koons: Fraud or Prank?” question again, but I really get shown up for my lack of knowledge of contemporary art. Give it a listen!
“It wasn’t until I was well over 40 that I realized that not everyone has imagination.”
About our Guest
Mimi Gross is a painter, set-and-costume designer for dance, and maker of interior and exterior installations. She has had several international exhibitions, including work at the Salander O’ Reilly Galleries, and the Ruth Siegel Gallery, New York City, the Inax Gallery, in Ginza, Tokyo, and Galerie Lara Vincey, in Paris. She has also shown work at the Municipal Art Society and at the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York. Her anatomically-themed artwork is on permanent display, courtesy the New York City Parks Department, at the Robert Venable Park in East New York.
Her work is included in numerous public collections, including those of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Hirschhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles, The Brooklyn Museum, the Jewish Museum, le Musee des Art Decoratifs in Paris, the Nagoya Museum of Art, the Onasch Collection in Berlin and the Lannon Foundation, as well as the Fukuoko Bank in Japan and New York’s Bellevue Hospital.
Gross has been the recipient of countless awards and grants including from the New York State Council on the Arts, twice from the National Endowment for Visual Arts, the American Academy & Institute of Arts and Letters, and a “Bessie” for sets and costumes. She held the McMillan/Stewart Endowed Chair in Painting at the Maryland College of Art in 2010-2011, and has taught at the Art Institute of Chicago, the Rhode Island School of Design, the Penland School of Crafts, Syracuse University, SUNY Purchase, as well as other universities and educational institutions, giving workshops and advising students, as a visiting artist.
From 1960-1976, Gross collaborated with Red Grooms on many large, multidimensional installations, including the fabled Ruckus Manhattan. Since 1979, she has collaborated in a fruitful (and on-going) partnership with the dancer, Douglas Dunn and his company, designing sets and costumes for his performances. She also collaborated with the poet Charles Bernstein. Her on-site drawings of the World Trade Center from 9/11 and after are included in the volume, Some of These Daze, published by Granary Books.
Credits: This episode’s music is Shoulda Been a Painter by Karl Hyde. The conversation was recorded on a pair of Blue enCORE 200 microphones feeding into a Zoom H5 digital recorder. I recorded the intro and outro on a Blue Yeti USB Microphone. Processing was done in Audacity and Logic Pro. Lower photo of Ms. Gross by me, no credit given for upper photo (studio shot).
Following his quintuple-bypass a few years ago, my old man began compulsively buying watches. He bought a ton of them on ebay, convincing himself they were genuine Breitlings and such . . . for only $50!
Dad even bought cases that auto-rotated the watches, keeping their automatic winders winded. He must’ve bought more than 30 watches in the months following his recovery. He gave me one; it promptly crapped out. At one point he told me, “I don’t understand why I’m so interested in these now.”
My father, 67 and really facing mortality for the first time, could not put together the connection between having surgery for his ticker and the compulsion to buy timepieces. Literary symbolism is not his strong suit.
I try to be more honest with myself. Two weeks ago, I bought a nice watch to celebrate turning 40. It cost a bunch more than I ever thought I would spend on a watch, but that’s not saying much, since I never thought I’d spend more than $25 on one.
I did some other things for my 40th, too.
The day began with a torrent of e-mails and Facebook notices from friends and family wishing me a happy birthday. I was cheered by them. I know it’s easy to send a quick b-day note to someone on Facebook, but still: it’s a few moments that someone took to think of me. I felt a little guilty about the birthday notices I’ve let pass by when I log on in the morning.
What did turning 40 mean to me? I’m not sure. I think I wanted to invest it with some sort of meaning, but I don’t feel as if a rubicon has been crossed. I’m realistic about what I’ve achieved so far, and am perversely looking forward to how fast the world will pass me by.
Once upon a time, I thought about quitting my job at 40 and spending a year writing and reading, but the prospect of re-entering the job market at 41 filled me with dread. So instead I just took the day off.
My birthday fell on a Tuesday, so after I finished editing some articles, I made my way into New York City for a few hours. My plan was to take care of some errands and then go to the Met to spend some time with a Rembrandt or two.
The errands consisted of returning some boots at the Billy Reid store on Bond St., where I came across the latest in Auschwitz fashion —
— and Sol Moscot opticians on Rivington St., as recommended by my pal Mark (as well as Anderson Cooper and John Hodgman). I ordered some prescription sunglasses, in the Lemtosh style:
From there, I drove to the Upper East Side. I’d written about the area a few days earlier in that piece about the movie Metropolitan, but I didn’t have much basis of comparison for the UES of today vs. c.1989. I’m sure it’s undergone some degree of New Jersey-fication, as the rest of Manhattan has.
I found an underground garage on 71st that had an entry ramp so steep I literally couldn’t see it beyond the hood of my Outback. There was a moment of panic where I thought it might just be a 50′ drop to oblivion, but was sure there would have been an expose about it in New York Magazine by now.
Safely parked, I walked out to Madison Ave. and decided to make a pilgrimage to the Ralph Lauren men’s store at the Rhinelander mansion on the corner of Madison and 72nd.
For me, retail therapy rarely involves actually buying anything. I’m content to walk through stores, look at wares, and maybe make snide observations about people’s shopping habits. Or, in the case of Ralph Lauren, I marvel over the way the entire retail environment is put together. See, stores really can have a narrative structure to them. It’s rare, at least in menswear (and especially in my suburban setting), to find one with a really well planned arc. Generally, they’re simply assembled in a psychographic/planogrammatical manner intended to maximize large-margin sales.
But a few months ago, I visited the Lauren store in Short Hills Mall in NJ (or, as Amy & I call it, “Rich People’s Mall”) and was struck by how carefully the shop was curated, how the various collections/labels were demarcated, how the tone of the store changed from area to area. And so I wanted to visit the new men’s store at the Rhinelander to see if that retail vision could be writ large.
Please note: I only own one piece of Ralph Lauren clothing. It’s a gray blazer I picked up in an outlet store. It looks awfully good, but it may be the cheap brand they make specifically for outlets. I’m not one to spend thousands on a single article of clothing, even if I have upped my wardrobe game in the past year. (Hint: you can get by with less expensive gear, but be sure to take your things to a good tailor. And no, your local dry cleaner doesn’t count.)
So, even though I was only window-shopping, I was nonetheless blown away by the layout and display of the RL mansion. The floor-by-floor transitions among collections were sharp, but not disconcerting, while the clothes and shoes themselves were presented beautifully. The elegance of the Black and Purple Labels segued with the rustic RRL section and the more affordable Polo collection. The only jarring experience was the RLX collection on the top floor, a brand so distinct that its sharp white walls and neon-colored sports/performance-wear have to be cordoned off from the rest of the joint.
I walked through the sections for a bit, laughing over price tags, listening in on wealthy British and Brazilian tourists as they talked about suits or casualwear. I demurred each request to help by the sales staff, which must have pegged me as a window-shopper. I wasn’t dressed poorly for the occasion, but I surely didn’t give off an air of money.
Once I’d had my fill, I walked up Madison for one more bit of menswear-meandering. JCrew had recently opened a men’s store on 80th & Madison, and some of the style-bloggers I follow (I’m not ashamed) praised it pretty highly. Sadly, compared to the Rhinelander, the JCrew men’s store was like a barn. It wasn’t simply the luxury of the RL goods, but the presentation and general sense of curation that made the JCrew shop pale in comparison. It’s good to know that my snobbishness can transcend literature and comics.
On the walk up Madison, I saw three things:
- an autograph store with a letter by Alexander Hamilton in the window, since we share a birthday,
- Tom Selleck (possibly), and
- the Whitney Museum.
I’d never visited the latter, and had no idea that its facade is a monstrosity:
Some people praise this building to the heavens, but it just looked brutal (not Brutarian, necessarily) to me. There’s an exhibit about Edward Hopper at the museum, so I thought I’d stop in and see it on the walk back.
But first, I needed food & caffeine. I stopped for lunch at an espresso bar called Sant’Ambroeus. The tone of the place reminded me of Milan, although less dirty and much more moneyed. I staked out a small table in the front of the place, ordered a coffee and two little prosciutto and mozzarella sandwiches ($9 each) and broke out my notebook to write about The Day So Far.
There was a steady parade of customers who lived in a different world than mine. Some of the women were Real Housewives-like in their opulence, plastic surgery, and vapidity of conversation. A middle-aged jet-setting British couple chatted at the table to my right, while a Bulgarian-Israeli fashion model to my left kept jabbering on her cell and adjusting her cleavage.
Looking up from my notebook, I found myself being glared at by a pair of European men in their 50s, who gave me the impression they were connected to one of the modern art galleries in the area. They were stylishly dressed, waiting for one of the few front-tables to clear, and fixated on mine. I imagined an art-house version of Road House, where I was challenged to a fight because I’d inadvertently sat at Their Table. Once the Brits left, they moved in.
Waiting for my coffee, I played wih my iPhone for a few moments. The sitemeter for my blog revealed a flood of hits coming in throughout the day. Investigating further, I discovered that my previous day’s post about Metropolitan caught the attention of someone on a forum at Criterion Collections. Between that web-traffic and the ongoing e-mails of birthday wishes, I felt pretty good.
Fed and caffeinated, I headed back out to the street. On a whim, I checked out a gallery called Other Criteria. The main room was a gift shop of various modern art books, DVDs and other paraphernalia. Further back was a room with a number of first editions of books from the 1950s and ’60s, followed by a room with international art magazines. A staircase with stenciled footprints led me down to a well-lit gallery.
The exhibit was of Damien Hirst’s work (he’s one of the co-owners of the gallery/store). Several of his human skulls were on display under glass; only the $25,000 variety, of course, not the $100 million one. There were various wallpapers from his studio on the walls. Rolls were going for $700, I think. I laughed over some of the pharmaceutical-oriented wallpaper. I consider most of this era’s art to be bullshit, but if it’s able to part rich people from their money, then more power to the artists.
Back outside, I decided to pass on visiting the Met. I was feeling a bit anxious, and worried that the sheer volume of people in the museum would drive me further into myself. I’m funny like that. I mean, I’d been alone all day once my wife had left for work, I’d missed phone calls from my mom and my brother â€” my old man didn’t call till 6:30 or so that night; I’m pretty sure he was tipped off â€” and had only spoken to garage attendants, the wacky old Italian salesman at Moscot’s and the manager at Billy Reid, but I felt pretty good. I felt like I wasn’t rushing anywhere, like the day was just for my whims as I chose to follow them.
(Just to be clear: this wasn’t anxiety. This was worrying about anxiety. Yes, I’m 40 years old and still experience this.)
I walked down Madison to take in the Hopper exhibition, only to discover that the Whitney was closed for the day. Undaunted, I walked down to the Frick Museum, one of my favorite museums in the city, where I could commune with the Vermeers, Whistlers, Turners, El Grecos, Holbeins, and of course the Rembrandts.
One of my favorites is a self-portrait from 1658. He’s seated, holding a stick, awash in browns, golds and reds. His dark eyes look out from under the shadow of his hat. Oh, heck. you can just look at it here.
When my old man was in the hospital for that bypass surgery â€” you remember the beginning of this post, right? â€” he was in intensive care for a while. The morning after the surgery, his girlfriend and I were standing vigil for him, when the doctor told us about the internal bleeding dad had suffered, and how they’d need to keep him sedated for a while, until he was stable. We stayed for an hour or more, while nurses attended to him in various states of what seemed like an emergency. My anxiety grew pretty intense, and I eventually begged off the scene. Dad’s girlfriend said she’d call if there was any change.
I went to the Frick that day, and for the first time I realized that Rembrandt’s self-portrait looked like my father. After his recovery, I bought him a small, framed reproduction of it.
What I’m not saying very clearly is, if 40 means anything to me, maybe it’s as a measuring stick of where I am in relation to Dad. I don’t want to go into that too much right now; I’ve been thinking a lot lately about our relationship, and I’ll write more about that when the time’s right. But I thought it was only fitting to spend some time with that Rembrandt self-portrait on this special day.
So you can imagine my disappointment when I learned it wasn’t on display. (I think it’s being cleaned up or otherwise prepped for the Frick’s coming Rembrandt exhibition.) I took a deep breath, turned around in the West Gallery, and bathed in the radiance of Turner’s Harbor of Dieppe.
I let the light wash over me for a while, before I took out my iPhone and looked up the painting. “Well,” I thought, “Turner was 51 when he painted this, I’ve still got time to –”
— to what? Not to paint, maybe, but to bring a little more beauty into the world. I thought about the Hirst skulls I’d seen an hour earlier and the Laurana bust that captivated me in previous visits (also not on display this time around). I thought about the sheer gray facade of the Whitney and the light from Vermeer’s windows. Goya’s smiths, forging and forged out of myth, a few blocks from menswear mansions and Eurotrash cafes. I thought about St. Jerome, the first El Greco I ever saw, sending me tripping back to George Orwell’s essay about Henry Miller:
In passing [Miller] refers to an essay that Aldous Huxley wrote some years ago about El Greco’s picture, The Dream of Philip the Second. Huxley remarks that the people in El Greco’s pictures always look as though they were in the bellies of whales, and professes to find something peculiarly horrible in the idea of being in a â€˜visceral prisonâ€™. Miller retorts that, on the contrary, there are many worse things than being swallowed by whales, and the passage makes it dear that he himself finds the idea rather attractive.
I thought about half my life gone, or fulfilled.
Flooded with myself, I left the Frick and began walking back toward my garage. On the way, I saw the storefront for the Tom Ford men’s store. If I was following whims, why not? I entered the boutique and nodded to the pretty receptionist. Two young salesmen were in the casualwear section, so I walked instead to the formalwear room, eyeballing the $4,000 jackets and their broad lapels. In a side window, the world’s greatest smoking jacket was on display:
I admit that I find Ford an interesting character. I read an interview with him in Fantastic Man a year or two ago, and was struck by his degree of self-invention. I suppose I admire that trait, that willingness to blow oneself up and rearrange the fragments with pieces from the outside world.
But the clothes: impossibly gorgeous, occasionally outrageous, and so far beyond my budget that it was ridiculous. As I walked through the casualwear, one of the salesmen asked if I needed any help. I said, “. . . I turned 40 today and I’m having an aspirational day. I’d just like to look around, if that’s alright.”
“Congratulations, sir! Feel free,” he said. The store was empty but for us. I took it all in for a while: the perfumes, the shoes, the glasses, the . . . ibex horn with a cigar-cutter attached? “It’s for the man who has everything,” one of the men told me when I inquired.
I like to think I have everything, but that’s in the Whitmanian sense of containing multitudes, not ibex-horn cigar-cutters.
Outside, I inadvertently overshot my garage, but found a pair of bookstores on the next corner (Lexington and 71st). I hadn’t been to a bookstore all day. Once upon a time, they would’ve been the center of any trip I made. Now I have 1,500 books at home, a Kindle, and a desire to make up for lost time; I need to browse for more?
I browsed for more. I visited Archivia first, an art-book shop on Lexington. I decided that the only book I would buy there would be the glorious slipcased two-volume illustrated edition of Homer that Chester River Press put out last year. It goes for about $400, so I’m glad I found no sign of it.
A little bit south of Archivia was Bookberries, a thoroughly generic bookstore with a full collection of whatever the latest and best books are. It was a sad last stop for my day-trip, but the last stop always is. I looked over shelves of disposable contemporary books that I’ll never get around to reading, that help to discourage me from my own writing, that add to the cacophany I’m doing my best to avoid. (Present tempest in a teacup excepted.)
And then it was time to go home. I got the car, sat in FDR Drive traffic from the 70s to the Triboro and left voice-mails for my mom and my brother. I thought about how I used to drive up the FDR on Sunday nights after dropping Amy off at her apartment in Stuy Town. The night in 2005 I proposed to her, I sat in some FDR traffic on the way home. I remember calling friends to tell them the news. I remembered my friend Ian’s exclamation of “Outstanding!” I remember my friend Cecily being a sentence-and-a-half into a story before she realized what I had just told her, then bellowing, “WHAT?! Oh, my God! Congratulations!”
The traffic was crawling along, but I smiled. I was 40 years old and I’d had a wonderful day off from work.
In honor of Comic-Con, there isn’t a single comics-related link in this week’s Unrequired Reading!
I’m not sure I agree with the writer’s point â€” that post-crash poverty freed Rembrandt do pursue his art for its own sake â€” but it’s been a long time since I posted a Rembrandt link up here, so enjoy.
Ingmar Bergman’s death seemed like a good occasion for me to finally watch a movie I’d been saving for a while: Light Keeps Me Company, a documentary about Bergman’s great cinematographer, Sven Nykvist, who died last September. The irony is that the only Bergman film I’ve seen is The Seventh Seal, but that’s one that Nykvist didn’t shoot.
Anyway, following the standard model, the documentary consists of talking head interviews with people he knew professionally and personally, short clips of movies on which he worked, on-set footage, and “present-day” scenes of Nykvist in the Swedish countryside. Within that framework, Carl-Gustaf Nykvist assembles a glorious and sad portrait of his father’s life.
The movie’s a gem, and the array of reminiscences shows how many lives Nykvist touched during his career. Of course, the key moments are the interviews with Bergman, who implies that he and Nykvist were more perfectly attuned to what they were doing than any other two people have ever been:
Nobody, while practicing their profession, during our work on films together, has been as close to me as Sven. However, we have never ever had a private acquaintanceship. But the intimacy between us, our belonging together, the sense of parallel minds, of thinking, of feeling the same way, when it comes to practicing our craft, that feeling was total.
What’s interesting to me is that he doesn’t fall into condescension, doesn’t cast Nykvist as his “eyes” or any other tool to pursue his own vision. Near the end of the movie, there’s footage of the two men walking hand-in-hand through a garden, as Bergman’s voiceover recounts Bibi Andersson‘s plans for the men’s old age: they’ll give Sven an empty camera and reassemble the actors and let the men keep ‘filming’ away.
My introduction to Nykvist’s gorgeous work was Another Woman (1988), one of Woody Allen’s “Bergman-esque” dramas. It’s a movie I’ve gone back to many times over the years, and one that I try to foist off on friends so I’ll have people to discuss it with. Light Keeps Me Company offered a little revelation about his experience on that movie.
Following the heartbreaking segment about his son Johan’s suicide (c. 1977), Nykvist cryptically remarks, “Mia became very important to me. She helped me back to life,” as we see home-movie footage of a beautiful Mia Farrow in a tropical setting, playing peek-a-boo with a straw hat. (Okay, so maybe it’s not so cryptic. Still, it does come out of the blue, and doesn’t get mentioned again.)
Shortly, there’s a segment about working with Woody Allen, who says
All the crew love working with him. . . They’re never happier than when I tell ’em that Sven is going to be the cinematographer on the picture, because they know that he’s sensitive, and sweet, and they’re going to be able to do a high-quality visual picture, but without any personal or emotional cost.
Soon, we see various New York settings at night, and Nykvist says,
Despite the fun of working with Woody, I wanted to get away from New York. I was disturbed by Mia and Woody’s marital co-existence, even if my relationship with her had ended long ago. It was the first time that I’d felt really lonely on a shoot.
Woody Allen: king of missing the obvious.
It’s good to see, throughout the film, that Nykvist was regarded so highly within the industry. Stellan Skarsgard has a wonderful moment explaining how, whenever he tells anyone in movies that he’s from Sweden, they always ask him about working with Nykvist. They all want to know ‘how he does it.’ “Except for actors,” he says. “They want to know what Bergman’s like.” But the crews are more interested in Sven, because he’s the bringer of light.
It’s a wonderful film, even as it must portray Nykvist’s descent into dementia characterized as aphasia. Mercifully, the son doesn’t expose too much of the father’s decline, instead choosing a wonderful progression of scenes that illustrate Nykvist’s bonds with his family. (Given that they’re Swedish, there’s a certain distance/coldness by our standards, but it remains poignant.)
So do me a favor and put this in your Netflix queue. It’s an amazing portrait of a man who saw light as beautifully as Rembrandt did and brought some wonderful visions to the screen.
(He also shot Sleepless in Seattle.)
We went to the Louvre today, then took a walking tour of a bunch of passages, the covered shopping areas that used to dominate before the arrival of department store. I’m sure Walter Benjamin wrote about that in the Arcades Project, but I’ll likely never get around to reading it.
Anyway, I posted a bunch of my pix, added to my original Paris photoset. Amy hasn’t gone through hers to figure out which ones to post.
I head out to my conference tomorrow morning, so we’ll see what sorta shenanigans she gets into while I’m up at Villepinte. Presumably, it’ll involve shopping.
Bonus! Louvre joke: You thought Britney was a bad mom?