Someday the artist statement, the placards, the descriptions of the process, the photos of the artist and the back story will be a bigger percentage of the show than the work. Art educators and museum directors, responsible for the turnstile head count, are getting more aggressive. One way to work around this studied presentation is to start the show at the exit. This view knocked me out.
When Matisse’s artwork is in the house just get out of the way. The drawing, his life’s work, speaks for itself. Watch Matisse capture and portray form in an ever more essential, direct and wildly expressive display. “Matisse As Printmaker,” currently on view at the MAG, is a pure delight.
The focal point of our NYC trip was the Matisse show, “In Search of True Painting,” at the Metropolitan. There were no photos allowed so I have committed the images to my psyche. Matisse is the master of color and form and expression and this show is arranged like a master class in painting. You see versions Matisse did of the same painting hung side by side and you see how he reworked them to better tell the real story. He often photographed his paintings in various stages, the photographs helped him and they are shown here to help us. But just standing in front of these perfect paintings is an exhilarating experience.
When they kicked us out of the Met we took a train up to Harlem to visit a different nephew. He’s finishing law school at Columbia and he had a few suggestions for good soul food in his neighborhood. The Col. Young American Legion Post on 132nd between Adam Clayton Powell and Frederick Douglas sounded like the funkiest so we hiked uptown.
This place was in the basement of an old brownstone and it appeared to be full of regulars. We were asked to sign a guestbook on entry and everything on the menu was ten dollars. Your choice of Oxtail, Whiting Fish, Fried Chicken, Roast Pork or Turkey plus two sides (Collard Greens, Red Rice, String Beans or Cabbage) with some deadly Rum Cake included for dessert. Our waitress called everyone “dear.” I would love to draw everyone in this place, the Modigliani-like woman with the Art Noveau hat, the older woman with the stark white wig, the guy at the bar with the big smile and bad teeth. A four piece band was setting up and the Hammond B3 player told he crowd he had been here fifteen years now. Could this place be an alternate universe Lucia’s Supper Club?
