III.3.5 DIGITAL ARCHIVE 787215
In 1955, Argentinean critic and art historian Damián Carlos Bayón (1915–1995) sent this comprehensive report on the New York art scene to the Buenos Aires journal Ver y estimar (1948–55)—which he had helped to establish in 1948, serving as its editor-in-chief and frequent contributor. Unusual in its digression from Bayón’s primary focus on Argentinean and Latin American art, the text offers a highly critical reading of the North American art world, focusing on exhibitions in New York (at the Museum of Modern Art, the Whitney Museum of American Art, and other museums whose merits he labels “questionable”). The author launches an especially caustic review of the newly inaugurated Whitney and its holdings, which Bayón describes as immature and mediocre. Despite his early negative reaction to American art, he returned to the United States in the 1970s to accept a teaching position at the University of Texas at Austin [SEE DOCUMENTS IV.4.1, IV.4.2, AND IV.4.3 FOR A 1975 SYMPOSIUM ON LATIN AMERICAN ART HELD UNDER HIS PURVIEW]. This translation is from the original publication of “Carta de Nueva York” in Ver y estimar [(Buenos Aires), series 2, no. 7 (May 1955), 8–10].
Two events to celebrate the anniversary: the Museum will be transformed from top to bottom into an exhibition of its own collections; and the publication of a magnificent book (Masters of Modern Art)—printed in Holland, with 72 color illustrations and many in black and white. An illustrated guide, it includes brief commentaries and is signed by Alfred H. Barr, Jr. It suffers to some extent from the same defects we see at MoMA: an overly ambitious desire to include too much, a naïve collection of details, dates, curiosities, and anecdotes.
A new temperament: MoMA has also decided to collect the great masters of the last century who foreshadow the current movement. A wise move, and we are grateful for their marvelous Cézannes; good Gauguins and Van Goghs, though perhaps too few; a new work by [Henri] Rousseau, the customs officer: The Dream, which is almost as mysterious as the famous work The Sleeping Gypsy, the museum’s pride and joy. By the way, both have recently been cleaned, and, although they look a little the worse for wear (we had become accustomed to the golden sheen of the varnish), they have lost none of their excellent quality. And, speaking of the Naïfs, MoMA continues to repeat an old mistake; it wants to try to explain why modern painting is so in thrall with this group of painters. Other than Rousseau—who is beyond the category and, in a way, negates it—and maybe [Maurice] Utrillo, the other Naïfs are fourth-rate painters. Some have a certain appeal: [Louis] Vivin, [Camille] Bombois; but most do not.
The Nordic Expressionists are quite well represented in prints and oils. The Fauves fared less well. On the other hand, the museum has long had a weakness for [Pablo] Picasso, which of course needs no justification. Sixteen canvases, some as important as Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, and the Three Musicians, and of course Guernica, which is not being shown this time.1
This is a contradictory museum. Beside [Henri] Matisse’s Red Studio or his Piano Lesson, beside good works by [Fernand] Léger, [Georges] Braque, [Juan] Gris, and a whole caravan of masters, right beside them, side by side, there are a number of mediocre paintings, some of which are frankly bad. There are a few good North Americans; putting them where they should be would be fair and helpful. Mixing values like that only helps to confuse poor, innocent viewers who reel from the onslaught of that world in which they find themselves inexplicably involved—very good things alongside useless ones. MoMA’s presentation is not designed with the general public in mind; in fact, it might confuse the few values some visitors may have managed to prioritize. Those who know what they are doing go straight to what they think is best, ignoring the mediocre and monstrous works (a third of the museum is thus afflicted.) Those who are not as sure of themselves tend to believe that it is all the same, that it is all museum quality, and try to accept all of it. That in turn promotes the school of reactionaries and snobs.
I have so far deliberately avoided the subject of North American artists because they have the brand-new Whitney Museum all to themselves (it has moved from 8th Street and is in its new building next door to MoMA, with mutual access to each other’s space.) The building is beautiful on the outside, though that is somewhat debatable; the interior is simply abysmal.
Looking at it in terms of function as well as through the prism of elementary good taste, it is modern in the style of a rich, tacky home, like a furniture store from twenty years ago: chrome, mirrors with geometric designs, niches with statues, cheap picturesque knickknacks (very expensive). If it were old we might perhaps accept it with a sigh, but it is brand-new, just finished. Thanks to the architect Philip C. Johnson, the outer shell bears no resemblance to the detestable interior.
So, let’s take a look at what’s inside. The Museum is devoted to North American art. It was founded by Mrs. Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney in 1930, and has never stopped growing. When it comes to art, North Americans have a strange, but justifiable standard: anyone with an American passport is considered a North American. As a result, one often sees little signs at the bottom of paintings that say: so-and-so, American (born in Germany, Russia, France, or Japan). It therefore comes as no surprise to find that the vicious caricaturist [George] Grosz is American, as is the languid Surrealist Yves Tanguy, and many others. This may be of interest in terms of international law, but it does not seem very serious to me. Artists are good or bad, and their work must be shown. In this museum or that? Let’s cut to the heart of the matter. The problem is that ninety percent of what is exhibited here is incomplete or immature. Among the works in the sculpture room on the ground floor, the ones by [Russian-born] William Zorach are good. And, of course, there is the work of one of the few great artists born in the USA, [Alexander] Calder.
In the galleries there is a whole collection of mediocre North American painting: Max Weber, [Charles] Sheeler, [Edward] Hopper, Georgia O’Keeffe. Hanging next to them are the few truly good ones: [Lyonel] Feininger, [Charles] Demuth, Niles Spencer (whom I think is an important artist who does not get enough recognition); John Mann (who, on the other hand, I think is overrated); Stuart Davis, who paints posters rather than paintings; Karl Knaths, very tight; Morgan Russell’s beautiful tones; [Stanton] Macdonald Wright.
Among fifty-year-olds who are still painting, the least useless one is, in my opinion, Ben Shahn, whose work has a non-transferable North American quality. [Mark] Tobey builds abstractions that are rather simplistic but beautiful. [Jackson] Pollock scandalizes his audience by dripping paint on canvas from a distance . . . with undeniable enthusiasm. [Willem] De Kooning seems to me to be the false Maestro who is overrated in both museums—and perhaps [William] Baziotes would be my choice for best of the show. The rest is silence.
In this rich country, mediocre artists have so many resources and opportunities that there is a very serious risk of production masquerading under false pretenses. And what is worse: I am convinced that in the USA there are young artists who are more informed than many at the museum but who, for some reason, are unable to study in Europe or even travel there.
In this country of confusions and distorted values, the museums do very little to clear the air and make it more breathable. If a country really does have just a few good artists, I think the logical thing would be to exhibit their work, to stimulate them—if they are alive—but not to overrate them. And especially not to invent future glory for painters whose work is sadly mediocre. Wanting to be understanding and to encourage every little effort confuses things even more. The painter who already has a painting in the museum starts—with fatal results—to behave differently and to treat the community differently. He tends to think he has arrived. Most of those unwary youngsters have absolutely not arrived. If they had been born in any other country in the world, they would still be struggling to avoid starvation and trying to show their work and sell it. Maybe they die of hunger here too, but I doubt it: it is one thing to live in bohemian Greenwich Village and quite another to have nothing to eat—but they take themselves too seriously and are taken too seriously by others. That is my sharpest criticism of this optimistic museum, which also applies to the North American facet of MoMA.
[Salvador] Dalí is still trying to confuse his audience so as to disguise his meager pictorial resources. The most surprising things about the exhibition are the titles pour épater les bourgeois [to impress the middle class] as well as [Dalí’s] dubious taste in color; the thoroughness of a pompier, a drawing by a fake Maestro from a fake Renaissance. All the bad literature from the worst Surrealism (Yves Tanguy and Max Ernst were probably the best), and a certain theatrical, mannered style in some of the paintings of the moon or landscapes of Cadaquès.
What always happens with Dalí, and with other artists endowed with false powers of imagination, is that when asked for unfettered fantasy, they can’t produce it (in art, wanting is not the same as doing). Dalí’s illustrations for the Divine Comedy are flat and useless, and many are copies from traditional forms.
For some time now, the Metropolitan Museum has had a painting by Dalí, a Crucifixion donated by millionaire Chester Dale. It is an innocuous work, but it is better than the ones in the exhibition. An academically painted Christ accompanied by just one of the Holy Women; a study of apparel in blue and yellow—a dark twilight in the background. The cross is thick and huge, made of wood that the painter delights in reproducing in all its detail. Contrary to what some naïve viewers may think, the square nails do not represent anything at all. The painter was clever enough to avoid showing the face of Jesus by turning it away. We are grateful to this irresponsible painter for that minimum show of respect.
[Roberto] Matta is another problem. Just how good is this Chilean painter? His drawings are always interesting, full of life and strange signs, which I suppose must intrigue psychoanalysts in search of sexual symbols. But he is overwhelmed by the large canvases that he attempts; he doesn’t quite know how to fill them. His subject matter is not beautiful; it is actually dull and rather dead. The pinkish-lilacs and the acid greens can’t manage to move the inert mass of gray in the background that is always the same. What is Matta’s painting? It is certainly something interesting. But it is mannered work, it copies itself and, in this case, that vice—which is never justified—leads to an impoverished result. At this time of new feelings at any price, [Jean] Dubuffet is the desideratum of decadence. Crumpled paper dolls, flora and fauna from one’s worst nightmare, and yet, one is forced to acknowledge that this painter has something strange to communicate. He displays an extraordinary craftsmanship. A terrible one, in my opinion, because he seasons every dish, no matter how meager its composition or color, with everything he has in his kitchen, which is lavishly equipped with all the latest fashions from Paris. Snobs shout their approval; the bourgeoisie screams its fury. It’s neither one thing nor the other.
A skillful painter who has invented a world that sustains itself. My nightmares will now mirror Dubuffet’s. I am enjoying thinking about a book by [Franz] Kafka, illustrated by Dubuffet. Has it already been done? If not, I am giving this idea to any ambitious publisher.
1
Although today Guernica resides in the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia in Madrid, it had been placed with MoMA for safekeeping by Picasso after the rise of Francisco Franco, whose forty-year dictatorship began in 1939. For many years while under MoMA’s care, the painting traveled extensively throughout the United States, South America (Brazil, Saõ Paulo Biennial), and Europe. Guernica was returned to Spain in 1981.—Ed.