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Другие критерии. Лицом к лицу с искусством XX века
Сборник статей об искусстве XX века, составленный и впервые опубликованный в 1972 году выдающимся американским искусствоведом Лео Стайнбергом (1920, Москва — 2011, Нью-Йорк), является одной из самых известных его книг, регулярно переиздается и входит в обязательные перечни литературы для студентов художественных факультетов по всему миру. Анализируя с тщательностью знатока и проницательностью визионера творчество Огюста Родена и Пабло Пикассо, Джаспера Джонса и Роберта Раушенберга, поднимая теоретические и методологические вопросы изучения искусства прошлого и настоящего, Стайнберг подчеркивает необходимость новых критериев оценки художественных произведений, вынесенную на повестку дня модернизмом, и показывает, какими эти критерии могли бы быть. Книга является первой крупной публикацией сочинений Стайнберга на русском языке.
- GenresArtArt HistoryEssays
424 pages, Paperback
First published October 5, 1972
16 people are currently reading
277 people want to read
About the author
Leo Steinberg
31 books7 followersLeo Steinberg, born in Moscow, Russia, was an American art critic and art historian and a naturalized citizen of the U.S.
Though an important 20th-century art critic, Leo Steinberg was also a historian and scholar, particularly of the works of Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and other Italian Renaissance artists. He had a particular interest in the depiction of Christ in art, but this caused controversy and debate. He was also a recognized authority in the field of modern art criticism and produced important work on Pablo Picasso, Jasper Johns and Willem de Kooning. Because he had experience as a historian, his work on contemporary artists could place them in historical context. One of his most significant essays was Contemporary Art and the Plight of its Public, which appeared in March 1962 in Harper's Magazine.
Steinberg took a less-than-formal approach to criticism, sometimes using a first-person narrative in his essays, which personalized the experience of art for readers. In many of his writings, he expressed his love for art's ability not only to reflect life but also to become it and commented, "Anything anybody can do, painting does better." He believed that the difference between modern painting and that of the Old Masters was the viewer's subjective experience of that artwork. He also believed that Abstract Expressionist action painters, such as Pollock, were more concerned with creating good art than with merely expressing a personal identity on canvas, a point of view contrary to that held by Harold Rosenberg, another American art critic of Steinberg's era.
Though an important 20th-century art critic, Leo Steinberg was also a historian and scholar, particularly of the works of Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and other Italian Renaissance artists. He had a particular interest in the depiction of Christ in art, but this caused controversy and debate. He was also a recognized authority in the field of modern art criticism and produced important work on Pablo Picasso, Jasper Johns and Willem de Kooning. Because he had experience as a historian, his work on contemporary artists could place them in historical context. One of his most significant essays was Contemporary Art and the Plight of its Public, which appeared in March 1962 in Harper's Magazine.
Steinberg took a less-than-formal approach to criticism, sometimes using a first-person narrative in his essays, which personalized the experience of art for readers. In many of his writings, he expressed his love for art's ability not only to reflect life but also to become it and commented, "Anything anybody can do, painting does better." He believed that the difference between modern painting and that of the Old Masters was the viewer's subjective experience of that artwork. He also believed that Abstract Expressionist action painters, such as Pollock, were more concerned with creating good art than with merely expressing a personal identity on canvas, a point of view contrary to that held by Harold Rosenberg, another American art critic of Steinberg's era.
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
September 19, 2012
This is a startlingly good book, a book as much of good writing as good criticism. Leo Steinberg may not have practiced any of the artistic disciplines he criticizes, but his criticism endures a half-century after he wrote it because he practiced criticism as an art.
This is a book that asks questions of its subjects, makes demands on them, too, and does so with a confidence that goes: It is not important to ask the same question of a work of art that its artist asked; it is important what questions a work of art makes you ask as its viewer.
There are so very many instances of fine writing in this book that one must quote some at length:
The artist's dream is to intend something else and still come up with art. (p. 57)
At this task Steinberg himself succeeds.
In the realistic figure drawings now shown at the Modern, the forms, even when coaxed with elaborate shading, remain unachieved. Outlines are traced, but with no lateral span, and the paper won't rise in response. The indicated solids lack the expanding pressure. Somehow the wind has died in the sail, and the sheet is becalmed. What was common possession when it was part of a vigorous style seems now beyond reach. (p. 256)
And
For the capacity to love only the prettiest chorus girl in the line bespeaks a finical emotion, one so narrow and so niggardly, there is in it as much of lacklove as of love. It takes a manly heart, like that of Rubens if you like, to stake the bounds of lovability more wide, and to love Helen for all her silly, puckered knees. (p. 260)
And
Like all works connected with discoveries of representation, his pictures lack the sweet ease of accomplishment. His pictures are ever aborning, swelling into space and taking life, like frozen fingers tingling as they warm. It is not facts they purvey; it is the thrill and wonder of cognition. (p. 295)
That passage, right there, is what separates an artist from a model or merchant.
You can, as an artist, try to say something big about life; or be content to make the stuff in your hands come to life. And this humbler task is the greater, for all else merely follows. (p. 331)
If one wishes to consider Picasso's genius for line drawing or make sense of Johns or celebrate alongside another lover of Rodin's sculptures, Leo Steinberg is there for him or her. But even if one hasn't any particular interest in any of it, but does love fantastic writing, Other Criteria is well worth the time of its 400-page investment.
This is a book that asks questions of its subjects, makes demands on them, too, and does so with a confidence that goes: It is not important to ask the same question of a work of art that its artist asked; it is important what questions a work of art makes you ask as its viewer.
There are so very many instances of fine writing in this book that one must quote some at length:
The artist's dream is to intend something else and still come up with art. (p. 57)
At this task Steinberg himself succeeds.
In the realistic figure drawings now shown at the Modern, the forms, even when coaxed with elaborate shading, remain unachieved. Outlines are traced, but with no lateral span, and the paper won't rise in response. The indicated solids lack the expanding pressure. Somehow the wind has died in the sail, and the sheet is becalmed. What was common possession when it was part of a vigorous style seems now beyond reach. (p. 256)
And
For the capacity to love only the prettiest chorus girl in the line bespeaks a finical emotion, one so narrow and so niggardly, there is in it as much of lacklove as of love. It takes a manly heart, like that of Rubens if you like, to stake the bounds of lovability more wide, and to love Helen for all her silly, puckered knees. (p. 260)
And
Like all works connected with discoveries of representation, his pictures lack the sweet ease of accomplishment. His pictures are ever aborning, swelling into space and taking life, like frozen fingers tingling as they warm. It is not facts they purvey; it is the thrill and wonder of cognition. (p. 295)
That passage, right there, is what separates an artist from a model or merchant.
You can, as an artist, try to say something big about life; or be content to make the stuff in your hands come to life. And this humbler task is the greater, for all else merely follows. (p. 331)
If one wishes to consider Picasso's genius for line drawing or make sense of Johns or celebrate alongside another lover of Rodin's sculptures, Leo Steinberg is there for him or her. But even if one hasn't any particular interest in any of it, but does love fantastic writing, Other Criteria is well worth the time of its 400-page investment.
October 17, 2019
Confrontations With Twentieth‐Century Art. By Leo Steinberg. Illustrated. 436 p. New York: Oxford University Press
I gladly share with you the New York Times review from April 8, 1973 by Hilton Kramer about this wonderful read.
The distinguishing characteristic of the art scene at the present moment is the collapse of modernist orthodoxy. Though we lack neither artists nor critics who persist in upholding one or another version of the modernist faith, these votaries of an absolutist view of what is, and what is not, permissible for art to accomplish at a given historical moment tend to look more and more sectarian. Chastened by history and weary of doctrinaire imperatives, a new generation of artists — and indeed, the art public itself — no longer give an easy credence to exclusionary theories of the aesthetic enterprise: The immediate result of this recoil from the absolute has been an increase in our consciousness of the sheer variety and multiplicity of artistic statement that the history of modern art—contrary to the myths of modernism—has actually harboured.
This consciousness takes two forms. Among artists, it is evident in the freedom they feel to pursue any course, no matter how reactionary and “unhistorical” it may be judged by the narrow tenets of the modernist faith, which their own tastes and sensibilities deem artistically viable. And among critics and historians, it is beginning to express itself in a more open attempt to come to terms with precisely those elements of the art endeavour — especially representation, and other hitherto despised expressions of “content” — which the formalist criticism of the modernists had succeeded in relegating to the limbo of philistine gratification.
We have, in other words, entered upon a period when the history of modern art is undergoing a drastic revision — in the studio no less than in the seminar room — and it is to this revisionist effort that Leo Steinberg's volume of essays belongs. Toward the end of the essay from which Mr. Steinberg has drawn the title of his book, he speaks of Robert Rauschenberg as an artist who “invented above all … a pictorial surface that let the world in again.” However we may feel about this statement as an account of Rauschenberg's importance — I think myself that it borders on the absurd — it nonetheless gives us an essential clue to the way Mr. Steinberg conceives his own task as a writer on modern art. For he comes before us, in “Other Criteria.” as a critic determined to “let the world in again” so far as the discussion and appreciation of modern art is concerned, and he correctly perceives that this task cannot be effectively accomplished without first confronting those powerful theories responsible for keeping “the world” — literally and figuratively — out of the picture.
His first attempt to demolish these theories goes back 20 years. In an essay called “The Eye Is a Part of the Mind,” originally published in Partisan Review in 1953 and here reprinted in revised form, Mr. Steinberg argued that “modern art has not, after all, abandoned the imitation of nature, and that, in its most powerful expressions, representation is still an essential condition, not an expendable freight.” His overriding concern was “to show that representation is a central aesthetic function in all art; and that the formalist aesthetic, designed to champion the new abstract trend, was largely based on a misunderstanding and an underestimation of the art it set out to defend.”
Twenty years ago, the theories under fire were Roger Fry's and Andre Malraux's, and no contemporary artist's work was invoked to support the case. In the more recent and more ambitious essay called “Other Criteria,” based on a lecture given at the Museum of Modern Art in 1968 and first published (in part) last year, the principal target is Clement Greenberg, and the artist whose work is invoked as an exemplary case is, alas, Rauschenberg.
As Mr. Steinberg puts it, Fry's position was to assert “that representation has always been an adventitious element in art — a concession to state, populace, or church. Modern art, then, differs from historic art not in essence but in degree of purity.” In Mr. Greenberg's subsequent refinement of the formalist position, according to Mr. Steinberg, “The one thing which painting can call its own is colour coincident with the flat ground, and its drive toward independence demands withdrawal from anything outside itself and single minded insistence of its unique property.”
Although Mr. Steinberg has scarcely been alone in this effort to expose the limitations of the formalist ideology, which is based on a radical and disfiguring simplification of both art and experience, he nonetheless marshals a good deal of evidence to support his argument, and he is especially persuasive in calling our attention to a Whole range of experience in the art of the past which formalist criticism is helpless to account for.
But if Mr. Steinberg succeeds, as I think he does, in reminding us of how much richer art really is — both in its actuality and in its potentiality —than formalist criticism can ever permit itself to recognize, he quite fails to establish his “other criteria” as anything but an exercise in sensibility. The sensibility in question—his own — is a wonder to behold: marvellously alert, informed, and wide ranging, at once patient and aggressive in Its quest for the revelatory nuance, and eager to make discriminations where others have been content to settle for received judgment. Yet it is, in the end, an academic sensibility, which, for all its beguiling sensitivity and intelligence, only prospers in safe harbours.
About the really difficult questions in the art of this century, these “confrontations” take a cautious, wait‐and-see attitude. (Although condescending toward critics who write in the heat of a first encounter with a new work of art, Mr. Steinberg nonetheless manages to swallow his distaste for the vulgarities of journalism, long enough to tuck in a few of his old review columns from the 1950's.) The bulk of his book is devoted to three artists: Rodin, Picasso and Jasper Johns. Quite the best thing he has written is his long causerie on the sculpture of Rodin. This is a literary tour de force that carries the reader into the inner recesses of a vast and powerful oeuvre with extraordinary skill and authority, focusing on its myriad details of representation with an almost cinematic clarity and a very moving eloquence. Our perceptions are sharpened and our knowledge augmented, occasionally even our pulse beat may quicken, yet the effect of this brilliant essay is to deepen our sense of Rodin's fecundity without altering in any fundamental way our understanding of his art.
The Picasso studies are more problematical. Concerned for the most part with the artist's later work and mainly occupied with problems of iconography, they are attempts to elucidate what the author calls “the symbolic content of Picasso's imagination.” Yet what are most illuminating in these essays are the discussions of form — especially the discussion of Cubist form in the essay called “The Algerian Women and Picasso at Large” — rather than the explications of content. The trouble with Mr. Steinberg's forays into “symbolic content” is that they tend to be most persuasive where the paintings under discussion are least compelling. Thus, his protracted analysis of Picasso's series of variations on Delacroix's “Women of Algiers,” painted in 1954–55, is marvellous for its incidental observations but preposterous fore the implied claims it makes for a kind of painting that is as academic in its way — which is to say, academic Cubism — as Mr. Steinberg is in his.
The essay on Johns, which has already appeared as a separate monograph, is more than problematical—it is a waste of time. Out of this mountain of solemn commentary and second‐rate poetry, we are left with an observation the size of a mouse: “And then I saw that all of Johns's early pictures, in the passivity of their subjects and their slow lasting through time, imply a perpetual wafting…. Only man's chattels remain, overgrown by paint as by indifferent vegetation.” Etc. This is bad fifties style art writing, and unworthy of a serious critic.
As the essays on Rodin, Picasso and Johns suggest, Mr. Steinberg is naturally drawn to works of art that satisfy his conviction that “representation is a central aesthetic function in all art.” This leaves him more or less silent on the crucial question of abstract art where, if “representation is still an essential condition, not an expendable freight,” it remains to be explained precisely how this condition is met in a form of art that is intended to depict nothing but itself.
This failure to confront the problem of abstract art — an oddity, surely, in a sizable volume subtitled “Confrontations With Twentieth‐Century Art” — results in a certain forfeiture of the author's authority. Having asserted some 20 years ago, in “The Eye Is a Part of the Mind,” that the formalist defence of abstract art was based on “a misunderstanding and an underestimation,” Mr. Steinberg has been content to leave this large subject in the hands of the very critics he disbelieves, and he seems oblivious to what this implies about the cogency of his own position. His own taste, in any case, seems to run in the direction of Rauschenberg, Johns and their Pop followers, and this is not, perhaps, very firm ground from which to examine the vicissitudes of abstraction. All of which is a pity, for Mr. Steinberg has already made an important contribution — in theory if not in practice — to the revision of history that is now upon us.
I gladly share with you the New York Times review from April 8, 1973 by Hilton Kramer about this wonderful read.
The distinguishing characteristic of the art scene at the present moment is the collapse of modernist orthodoxy. Though we lack neither artists nor critics who persist in upholding one or another version of the modernist faith, these votaries of an absolutist view of what is, and what is not, permissible for art to accomplish at a given historical moment tend to look more and more sectarian. Chastened by history and weary of doctrinaire imperatives, a new generation of artists — and indeed, the art public itself — no longer give an easy credence to exclusionary theories of the aesthetic enterprise: The immediate result of this recoil from the absolute has been an increase in our consciousness of the sheer variety and multiplicity of artistic statement that the history of modern art—contrary to the myths of modernism—has actually harboured.
This consciousness takes two forms. Among artists, it is evident in the freedom they feel to pursue any course, no matter how reactionary and “unhistorical” it may be judged by the narrow tenets of the modernist faith, which their own tastes and sensibilities deem artistically viable. And among critics and historians, it is beginning to express itself in a more open attempt to come to terms with precisely those elements of the art endeavour — especially representation, and other hitherto despised expressions of “content” — which the formalist criticism of the modernists had succeeded in relegating to the limbo of philistine gratification.
We have, in other words, entered upon a period when the history of modern art is undergoing a drastic revision — in the studio no less than in the seminar room — and it is to this revisionist effort that Leo Steinberg's volume of essays belongs. Toward the end of the essay from which Mr. Steinberg has drawn the title of his book, he speaks of Robert Rauschenberg as an artist who “invented above all … a pictorial surface that let the world in again.” However we may feel about this statement as an account of Rauschenberg's importance — I think myself that it borders on the absurd — it nonetheless gives us an essential clue to the way Mr. Steinberg conceives his own task as a writer on modern art. For he comes before us, in “Other Criteria.” as a critic determined to “let the world in again” so far as the discussion and appreciation of modern art is concerned, and he correctly perceives that this task cannot be effectively accomplished without first confronting those powerful theories responsible for keeping “the world” — literally and figuratively — out of the picture.
His first attempt to demolish these theories goes back 20 years. In an essay called “The Eye Is a Part of the Mind,” originally published in Partisan Review in 1953 and here reprinted in revised form, Mr. Steinberg argued that “modern art has not, after all, abandoned the imitation of nature, and that, in its most powerful expressions, representation is still an essential condition, not an expendable freight.” His overriding concern was “to show that representation is a central aesthetic function in all art; and that the formalist aesthetic, designed to champion the new abstract trend, was largely based on a misunderstanding and an underestimation of the art it set out to defend.”
Twenty years ago, the theories under fire were Roger Fry's and Andre Malraux's, and no contemporary artist's work was invoked to support the case. In the more recent and more ambitious essay called “Other Criteria,” based on a lecture given at the Museum of Modern Art in 1968 and first published (in part) last year, the principal target is Clement Greenberg, and the artist whose work is invoked as an exemplary case is, alas, Rauschenberg.
As Mr. Steinberg puts it, Fry's position was to assert “that representation has always been an adventitious element in art — a concession to state, populace, or church. Modern art, then, differs from historic art not in essence but in degree of purity.” In Mr. Greenberg's subsequent refinement of the formalist position, according to Mr. Steinberg, “The one thing which painting can call its own is colour coincident with the flat ground, and its drive toward independence demands withdrawal from anything outside itself and single minded insistence of its unique property.”
Although Mr. Steinberg has scarcely been alone in this effort to expose the limitations of the formalist ideology, which is based on a radical and disfiguring simplification of both art and experience, he nonetheless marshals a good deal of evidence to support his argument, and he is especially persuasive in calling our attention to a Whole range of experience in the art of the past which formalist criticism is helpless to account for.
But if Mr. Steinberg succeeds, as I think he does, in reminding us of how much richer art really is — both in its actuality and in its potentiality —than formalist criticism can ever permit itself to recognize, he quite fails to establish his “other criteria” as anything but an exercise in sensibility. The sensibility in question—his own — is a wonder to behold: marvellously alert, informed, and wide ranging, at once patient and aggressive in Its quest for the revelatory nuance, and eager to make discriminations where others have been content to settle for received judgment. Yet it is, in the end, an academic sensibility, which, for all its beguiling sensitivity and intelligence, only prospers in safe harbours.
About the really difficult questions in the art of this century, these “confrontations” take a cautious, wait‐and-see attitude. (Although condescending toward critics who write in the heat of a first encounter with a new work of art, Mr. Steinberg nonetheless manages to swallow his distaste for the vulgarities of journalism, long enough to tuck in a few of his old review columns from the 1950's.) The bulk of his book is devoted to three artists: Rodin, Picasso and Jasper Johns. Quite the best thing he has written is his long causerie on the sculpture of Rodin. This is a literary tour de force that carries the reader into the inner recesses of a vast and powerful oeuvre with extraordinary skill and authority, focusing on its myriad details of representation with an almost cinematic clarity and a very moving eloquence. Our perceptions are sharpened and our knowledge augmented, occasionally even our pulse beat may quicken, yet the effect of this brilliant essay is to deepen our sense of Rodin's fecundity without altering in any fundamental way our understanding of his art.
The Picasso studies are more problematical. Concerned for the most part with the artist's later work and mainly occupied with problems of iconography, they are attempts to elucidate what the author calls “the symbolic content of Picasso's imagination.” Yet what are most illuminating in these essays are the discussions of form — especially the discussion of Cubist form in the essay called “The Algerian Women and Picasso at Large” — rather than the explications of content. The trouble with Mr. Steinberg's forays into “symbolic content” is that they tend to be most persuasive where the paintings under discussion are least compelling. Thus, his protracted analysis of Picasso's series of variations on Delacroix's “Women of Algiers,” painted in 1954–55, is marvellous for its incidental observations but preposterous fore the implied claims it makes for a kind of painting that is as academic in its way — which is to say, academic Cubism — as Mr. Steinberg is in his.
The essay on Johns, which has already appeared as a separate monograph, is more than problematical—it is a waste of time. Out of this mountain of solemn commentary and second‐rate poetry, we are left with an observation the size of a mouse: “And then I saw that all of Johns's early pictures, in the passivity of their subjects and their slow lasting through time, imply a perpetual wafting…. Only man's chattels remain, overgrown by paint as by indifferent vegetation.” Etc. This is bad fifties style art writing, and unworthy of a serious critic.
As the essays on Rodin, Picasso and Johns suggest, Mr. Steinberg is naturally drawn to works of art that satisfy his conviction that “representation is a central aesthetic function in all art.” This leaves him more or less silent on the crucial question of abstract art where, if “representation is still an essential condition, not an expendable freight,” it remains to be explained precisely how this condition is met in a form of art that is intended to depict nothing but itself.
This failure to confront the problem of abstract art — an oddity, surely, in a sizable volume subtitled “Confrontations With Twentieth‐Century Art” — results in a certain forfeiture of the author's authority. Having asserted some 20 years ago, in “The Eye Is a Part of the Mind,” that the formalist defence of abstract art was based on “a misunderstanding and an underestimation,” Mr. Steinberg has been content to leave this large subject in the hands of the very critics he disbelieves, and he seems oblivious to what this implies about the cogency of his own position. His own taste, in any case, seems to run in the direction of Rauschenberg, Johns and their Pop followers, and this is not, perhaps, very firm ground from which to examine the vicissitudes of abstraction. All of which is a pity, for Mr. Steinberg has already made an important contribution — in theory if not in practice — to the revision of history that is now upon us.
August 14, 2012
A mixed bag of art history essays. Whenever Steinberg writes about art in general he is fascinating. His account of how he had to learn to appreciate Jasper Johns, who displayed none of the aesthetic qualitites that Steinberg had learned to look out for and appreciate in art, is superb.
It is also a great argument against formalism, recognising that some art has the power to shift our perception about what art can be rather than expecting it to fit into a pre-existing criteria. Apart from anything else his writing shifts some power and authority from the hands of the critics to the hands of the artists. He also writes a pretty devestating critique of Clement Greenberg's formalism, whilst acknowledging that Abstract Expressionism needed the advocacy of Greenberg to achieve the level of acclaim and recognition it eventually received.
When Steinberg writes about a particular artist I found it a bit less interesting and a bit more dry. I expect these sections to be of greater interest to art historians than the general reader. The exception is the essay on Rodin which makes a pretty convincing case for his greatness.
It is also a great argument against formalism, recognising that some art has the power to shift our perception about what art can be rather than expecting it to fit into a pre-existing criteria. Apart from anything else his writing shifts some power and authority from the hands of the critics to the hands of the artists. He also writes a pretty devestating critique of Clement Greenberg's formalism, whilst acknowledging that Abstract Expressionism needed the advocacy of Greenberg to achieve the level of acclaim and recognition it eventually received.
When Steinberg writes about a particular artist I found it a bit less interesting and a bit more dry. I expect these sections to be of greater interest to art historians than the general reader. The exception is the essay on Rodin which makes a pretty convincing case for his greatness.
June 7, 2020
A thick collection of essays on modern art history by one of the 20th century's most prominent art historians may be expected to be incredibly dense, but Steinberg succeeds at being both insightful and accessible in nearly every essay. Steinberg's (sometimes literally) conversational tone is engaging even when the art is less so; his essay on Jasper Johns is an excellent example, wherein the analysis comes from the relatable position of a person who claims at one point to have "really not gotten it" either. You feel more as if you are making heads or tails of the work together, rather than starting miles behind (as you may be if you are not a trained art historian...).
The lengthy essay on Picasso's Femmes d'Algiers is likely my favorite in the collection, but it is hard to choose as each single essay made a memorable impression on how I view the particular works in question. I highly suggest this book to anyone with a pension for modern art, especially as museums remain closed in the wake of the coronavirus.
The lengthy essay on Picasso's Femmes d'Algiers is likely my favorite in the collection, but it is hard to choose as each single essay made a memorable impression on how I view the particular works in question. I highly suggest this book to anyone with a pension for modern art, especially as museums remain closed in the wake of the coronavirus.
November 2, 2019
“It took years to read a painting”, said Tom Hess, to Steinberg upon this book. It couldn’t be more true. Steinberg awoke art historians who were trapped in the doctrinal formalism and did not ‘look at’ art itself closely.
This is an exemplary model of art writing as well as reading that ponders a variety of possibilites in the work of art itself before foraying into other historical and theoretical sources.
This is an exemplary model of art writing as well as reading that ponders a variety of possibilites in the work of art itself before foraying into other historical and theoretical sources.
December 22, 2024
someone i don't really want to say 'no' to told me to read this and i wouldnt otherwise have time, even tho last thing i wanna do is read art history rn.
wasn't so bad tho because this book rocks, some of the best art writing i've read...
wasn't so bad tho because this book rocks, some of the best art writing i've read...
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews