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Noguchi East and West
The life of the Japanese-American sculptor and designer Isamu Noguchi (1904-1988) was an unending spiritual and physical voyage between the two cultures of his birthright. In this definitive biography and critical study, Dore Ashton maps Noguchi's spiritual journey both in the events of his life and in the milestones of his the sculptures, gardens, public spaces, and stage decors that gained force and significance from his double heritage.
- GenresArt
354 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1992
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About the author
Dore Ashton
178 books13 followersDore Ashton (1928, – January 30, 2017) was a writer, professor and critic of modern and contemporary art. She was the author or editor of more than thirty books on art.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
November 21, 2008
When I was in film school, I had the good fortune of being surrounded by a number of New York luminaries who always seemed to be plugged in to exactly the kind of urban esoterica I was interested in: Peter Hutton, Adolfas Mekas, Peggy Ahwesh, P. Adams Sitney... I spent most of my time arguing with them and thinking them pompous and bored and endlessly fascinating. They humored me and hooked me up with pet projects - I crewed for films, ran projectors, drove people around. And then one day, they asked me to move a library.
Of course, it wasn't just any library - it was the library of Sidney Peterson himself, the great avant gardist of the 1940s who, with the help of his film students in San Francisco, created such works as "The Lead Shoes" and "The Petrified Dog." I adored him.
His library was a dusty and marvelous affair, the kind where you could get lost for days between the binds of a single shelf. He was moving into smaller quarters and couldn't do the work himself, so I boxed it up for him and carried it all down to a waiting truck.
At the end of the day, we were resting, chatting. I commented on a beautiful paper lantern he had hanging above the tiny table where he ate alone. "Yes," he said. "It is lovely, isn't it?"
As we were leaving, he lifted the lantern from its hooks and pushed it from his ancient hands into my young ones. "I'll have no room for it," he said. Even his voice was old. I beamed and was quiet, radiating gratitude.
In the elevator on the way down, my professor said to me, sincerely bitter: "How do you rate, Messersmith? What the fuck." I asked him what he meant. "That's like, a $10,000 lamp," he explained. "Turn it over."
I did, and there on the edge was a bit of text, a small, cramped signature.
Noguchi.
Since then, I have always loved his work.
The lamp is in tatters, having barely survived a million moves. I love it, regret it, hide it away now. I visited the Noguchi museum in Brooklyn on a sticky hot summer day. My husband and I stood in the gardens with our faces upturned as the steam broke open into thunder and the rains poured down on our heads. We smiled.
I love his relationship with Buckminster Fuller, the angles and dreams and hopes, the tense wires and open hearts.
This is a dull book about a beautiful man. The information is suitable for research, but not as a means to enter his work. For that, I suppose it must be seen.
Of course, it wasn't just any library - it was the library of Sidney Peterson himself, the great avant gardist of the 1940s who, with the help of his film students in San Francisco, created such works as "The Lead Shoes" and "The Petrified Dog." I adored him.
His library was a dusty and marvelous affair, the kind where you could get lost for days between the binds of a single shelf. He was moving into smaller quarters and couldn't do the work himself, so I boxed it up for him and carried it all down to a waiting truck.
At the end of the day, we were resting, chatting. I commented on a beautiful paper lantern he had hanging above the tiny table where he ate alone. "Yes," he said. "It is lovely, isn't it?"
As we were leaving, he lifted the lantern from its hooks and pushed it from his ancient hands into my young ones. "I'll have no room for it," he said. Even his voice was old. I beamed and was quiet, radiating gratitude.
In the elevator on the way down, my professor said to me, sincerely bitter: "How do you rate, Messersmith? What the fuck." I asked him what he meant. "That's like, a $10,000 lamp," he explained. "Turn it over."
I did, and there on the edge was a bit of text, a small, cramped signature.
Noguchi.
Since then, I have always loved his work.
The lamp is in tatters, having barely survived a million moves. I love it, regret it, hide it away now. I visited the Noguchi museum in Brooklyn on a sticky hot summer day. My husband and I stood in the gardens with our faces upturned as the steam broke open into thunder and the rains poured down on our heads. We smiled.
I love his relationship with Buckminster Fuller, the angles and dreams and hopes, the tense wires and open hearts.
This is a dull book about a beautiful man. The information is suitable for research, but not as a means to enter his work. For that, I suppose it must be seen.
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