The paper – white, ghostly, struck through its heart, floats in space like the upturned body of an impaled fish.
Paul Cadmus’ Coney Island was the first picture I ever saw, in 1939 when I was 5 years old.
Young women’s yearning to regain their lost childhood without losing the sexual freedoms gained in the new independence is perfectly symbolized in Yuskavage’s images.
The paper – white, ghostly, struck through its heart, floats in space like the upturned body of an impaled fish.
Then I found John Trumbull – a stumbling American colonial painter who was also in awe of the great European painters.
Howard Hodgkin’s paintings pull me in like nature does, like those moments in my backyard did.
The marks remind me of automatic writing, as when the hand moves fast across the page and all of the sudden a thought snaps into consciousness.
He created utterly flat but paradoxically deep space, too, inhabited by dignified characters of mythical stature from scraps of colored paper, torn and ink-stained prints, bits of fabric, and parts of magazine imagery.
The land of indifference was not that far from the land of love.
I learned a great deal from Mr. Sloan when I was a student of his at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts in Philadelphia.