I have been reading about Jennifer Bartlett, having found this article about Rhapsody written by Jerry Saltz in February 1999 for the Village Voice. Saltz is dismissive of Bartlett's early tour de force. I used to feel something similar. Sort of.
Unlike Saltz, I did not come by my interest in Bartlett because I was in hot pursuit of modern art. On the contrary, I avoided modern art with a vengence in my youth. It is only after many years of studying "art" (without a caveat) that I became interested in the peculiarly "modern." By chance though, I encountered Bartlett's work in a book in the library at the University of Maryland. Though Rhapsody had travelled to Baltimore during its early tour, launched from Paula Cooper's gallery, I was unware of the painting during that early Baltimore visit. So I missed seeing it back when it happened to be exhibited rather close to where I lived.
Still there was this library book. I don't know how I came upon it initially. But seeing it, I hated Bartlett's work. For me it represented everything stupid about modern art. It was facile, simplistic, it didn't attempt anything deep. It was all about big for big's sake. It was purposely confusing and obscure. What was an uninitiated viewer supposed to think about it? For me it represented all the icky things about art world hip. And it went against everything I loved, which was comprised by "art history," things as diverse as the Rohan Master to Edgar Degas.
I still hate art world hipness. But I have grown fond of Bartlett's Rhapsody over the years and of her work generally. And I do not see Rhapsody being in opposition to the old masters. I see it being in delicious harmony with the "minor masters" of various ages. And I see it now as a celebration of the "amateur status" using Roberta Smith's insight. My conversion from hater to afficionado actually makes for a quaint little story, for year after year I would return to that loathsome library book. I never knew why I was perusing it again unless it were to get back in touch with what I hated. Then something happened.
One copy of the library's holdings on Bartlett disappeared. Some library patrons have no shame. By the time the book had disappeared, the internet had arrived and with it Amazon.com. I decided to search for Bartlett's In the Garden and found a copy I could afford. So I bought it. And one thing led to another. And I bought Rhapsody too. And 24 Hours Air. And a couple other books besides. Evidently, when I realized that I might not be able any longer to visit my hated book at the library, I decided I had better get a copy of my own. I also came to realize that if I keep returning to this book, it must be for some reason.
I have hated lots of modern art. For most of it my hate is secure. I don't find myself obsessively returning to the source to have my hate renewed. The case with Bartlett lies with my having recognized something in her imagery that I needed for my own art, and while I didn't consciously recognize what this was, I was true enough to my instincts to keep going back and trying to figure it out.
Hate did not exactly turn full compass to love. I have mixed feelings about her work. The best of it (which is not identical to what the critics most prize) has something marvellously lively and innovative and gutsy in it. I still find her lacking depth somehow. She definitely lives in a different universe than the "old masters" that I love. For her, the idea has triumphed over perception. But there is still .... still a something .... the indefinable "je ne sais quoi." And that makes her really convincingly extraordinary.
For what it's worth, too, she was extremely influential. Many artists who imitate her work have never even heard of her. But imitation is still the sincerest form of flattery, is it not?
Unlike Saltz, I did not come by my interest in Bartlett because I was in hot pursuit of modern art. On the contrary, I avoided modern art with a vengence in my youth. It is only after many years of studying "art" (without a caveat) that I became interested in the peculiarly "modern." By chance though, I encountered Bartlett's work in a book in the library at the University of Maryland. Though Rhapsody had travelled to Baltimore during its early tour, launched from Paula Cooper's gallery, I was unware of the painting during that early Baltimore visit. So I missed seeing it back when it happened to be exhibited rather close to where I lived.
Still there was this library book. I don't know how I came upon it initially. But seeing it, I hated Bartlett's work. For me it represented everything stupid about modern art. It was facile, simplistic, it didn't attempt anything deep. It was all about big for big's sake. It was purposely confusing and obscure. What was an uninitiated viewer supposed to think about it? For me it represented all the icky things about art world hip. And it went against everything I loved, which was comprised by "art history," things as diverse as the Rohan Master to Edgar Degas.
I still hate art world hipness. But I have grown fond of Bartlett's Rhapsody over the years and of her work generally. And I do not see Rhapsody being in opposition to the old masters. I see it being in delicious harmony with the "minor masters" of various ages. And I see it now as a celebration of the "amateur status" using Roberta Smith's insight. My conversion from hater to afficionado actually makes for a quaint little story, for year after year I would return to that loathsome library book. I never knew why I was perusing it again unless it were to get back in touch with what I hated. Then something happened.
One copy of the library's holdings on Bartlett disappeared. Some library patrons have no shame. By the time the book had disappeared, the internet had arrived and with it Amazon.com. I decided to search for Bartlett's In the Garden and found a copy I could afford. So I bought it. And one thing led to another. And I bought Rhapsody too. And 24 Hours Air. And a couple other books besides. Evidently, when I realized that I might not be able any longer to visit my hated book at the library, I decided I had better get a copy of my own. I also came to realize that if I keep returning to this book, it must be for some reason.
I have hated lots of modern art. For most of it my hate is secure. I don't find myself obsessively returning to the source to have my hate renewed. The case with Bartlett lies with my having recognized something in her imagery that I needed for my own art, and while I didn't consciously recognize what this was, I was true enough to my instincts to keep going back and trying to figure it out.
Hate did not exactly turn full compass to love. I have mixed feelings about her work. The best of it (which is not identical to what the critics most prize) has something marvellously lively and innovative and gutsy in it. I still find her lacking depth somehow. She definitely lives in a different universe than the "old masters" that I love. For her, the idea has triumphed over perception. But there is still .... still a something .... the indefinable "je ne sais quoi." And that makes her really convincingly extraordinary.
For what it's worth, too, she was extremely influential. Many artists who imitate her work have never even heard of her. But imitation is still the sincerest form of flattery, is it not?
[For another review of Bartlett's painting, click here.]
[The image at the top is an installation view of Rhapsody at the Addison Gallery of American Art, fall 2006, posted on Artnet. Find it here]
[To see an artist influenced by Bartlett, click here.]
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