Filmmaker Warhol – Andy Warhol as Fimmaker

•June 2, 2009 • 1 Comment

The following article on Andy Warhol first appeared in the May/June 1971 issue of Art in America (vol. 59 no. 3). The author, David Bourdon, would later write Warhol,one of the most respected biographies of the artist. (Unlike many books on Andy Warhol, Bourdon’s book is fully footnoted and indexed, making it particularly useful for academic research.) The original article included stills from the films and the following photo taken by John Chamberlain. (Issues of this magazine are occasionally sold on ebay.) – Taken from WarholStars.Org.

Warhol As Filmmaker by David Bourdon

Far from being a neutral and impassive recorder of daily life, or a cinematic journalist documenting present-day depravity, Andy Warhol has constructed a stylized, extremely interpretive view of contemporary life that, however real it might seem on screen, is closer to fantasy than to any kind of reality with which most of us are familiar.
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The Repetitions and Passivities of Andy Warhol

•June 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment

The following article originally appeared in Art and Artists in March 1968. The new preface by the original author, William S. Wilson, appeared on WarholStars.Org.

Prince of Boredom – The Repetitions and Passivities of Andy Warhol by William S. Wilson.

Preface (2004)

When an essay has been published thirty-five years ago, its meaning changes as its implicit context becomes explicit. My essay about Andy Warhol was printed in March, 1968, when much less was known about Andy – he was not over-shadowed by his images and other people’s ideas about him. The dreadful title imposed by an editor, The Prince of Boredom, echoed a desperate journalistic notion, and for me misrepresented my themes.
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Andy Warhol’s Final Interview

•June 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Andy Warhol Interview – the last known interview to take place with Andy Warhol appeared in Flash Art magazine in April 1987. The interviewer was art writer, Paul Taylor who died of AIDS a week after his 35th birthday in 1992. His interview with Andy Warhol appears below.

Paul Taylor: You are going to be showing your Last Supper paintings in Milan this year.

Andy Warhol: Yes.

Paul Taylor: When did you make the paintings?

Andy Warhol: I was working on them all year. They were supposed to be shown in December, then January. Now I don’t know when.
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The Origin Of Andy Warhol’s Soup Cans

•June 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment

The Origin Of Andy Warhol’s Soup Cans by Gary Comenas of Warholstars.

Robert Indiana: “I knew Andy very well. The reason he painted soup cans is that he liked soup.” (NY Times 12/1/02)

Marcel Duchamp: “If a man takes 50 Campbell’s soup cans and puts them on canvas, it is not the retinal image that concerns us. What interests us is the concept that wants to put 50 Campbell’s soup cans on a a canvas.” (QU)

Martin Heidegger: “… at bottom, the ordinary is not ordinary; it is extraordinary.”
(“On the Origin of the Work of Art”)
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PopArt – The Andy Warhol Connection

•June 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment

The following article originally appeared in the February 16, 1980 issue of the English music magazine, Melody Maker. The original article was illustrated with photographs by Adrian Boot and Kate Simon.

Some people claim that only James Brown can match Andy Warhol’s contribution to the Modern Dance. in the mid-Sixties, Warhol’s Factory in New York saw the birth of the Velvet Underground, Polaroid art and the idea of boredom being fascinating. MARY HARRON circles warily around the silver ghost of Studio 54.
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Andy Warhol at the Rowan Gallery

•June 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment

The following review of Andy Warhol’s show at the Rowan gallery in England first appeared in the Guardian newspaper on March 9, 1968:

Andy Warhol at the Rowan Gallery
by Norbert Lynton

Andy Warhol, says the catalogue; “born Philadelphia 1930, lives in New York”. That is all. The last item is right, the second is questionable, the first in its implications problematic. According to some sources he was born in 1927, which would put him on the unglamorous side of 40. No matter, as long as it is Andy we have before us, but here the difficulty arises: no one shows less of himself in his art.

Note the paradox. We all know about him – telly, colour supplements, art magazines, word of mouth. What do we know about him:? We know about his endless films about sleeping, about the Empire State, about the Chelsea Girls (I can claim to have seen the untruncated three-hours-plus of that one; sheer devotion to duty); we know about multiple soup can pictures and carrier-bags, about paintings mechanically derived from photos of people; disasters, disastrous people; about gas-filled silver pillows that float around. And what do we know about him? Nothing.

The Rowan gallery is showing a selection of his photo-based, silk-screened faces. Two sorts: criminals, taken from the rough half-tones of the New York police gazette, full-face and profile, also four unposed snapshots. And, Marilyn Monroe in a series of 10 prints, the same photo used 10 times in different colour combinations.

They are the Most Wanted Men. The enlarged half-tone fascinates visually. Close to, it resembles some complex constructivist programme of varyingly intense spots of paint and of intervals on a grid. We draw away and are surprised at our conceptual agility. With the most immediate of compulsions wee translate a dot cluster into tone and tone into features and features into personality. They look like television actors, French intellectuals, the man next door, a headmaster. Only one of them looks thuggish and he has a ghastly bruised eye, more thugged than thugging.

On the other wall, the most wanted woman. Her at least we know: her name evokes a swarm of film and newspaper images, sportive and sad. Yet, looking at Warhol’s reproductions of that familiar face, we lose the familiarity. Each version is different because of the colour and tone values and the way the register is allowed to drag a little. They are Marilyn but they contradict each other and we lose sight of her behind the suave and garish surfaces. In the end it is as though she has been exorcised from her own public image, and suddenly the twinges we all felt at her death seem narcissistic.

Whether Warhol himself at any point touched any of these pictures does not matter: in some way or other he made them exist, and they touch us. Or strictly, they are there for us to enter into dialogue with or not, as we wish. He has said “Someday everybody will think just what they want to think, and then everybody will probably be thinking alike.” His pictures invite us to think what we will – a mass media Bruegel, he holds up mirrors.

Shopping with Andy Warhol – Article on Andy Warhol

•June 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Shopping with Andy Warhol by Stuart Pivar, 1987.

The following essay originally appeared in volume five of the Sotheby’s Andy Warhol Collection 1988 auction catalogue.

Andy Warhol loved to buy art. We used to go shopping for it together for a few hours practically every day in the past couple of years. He bought many, many things.

After discussion and planning by phone in the morning we would set out around 11 o’clock. I would usually pick him up or we would meet at a gallery. He often brought a stack of Interviews, which he gave away as we went along. There was a lot of ground to cover. It included Madison Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street galleries, the antique center and antique shops everywhere, the downtown antique importers, the antique shows as well as the auction exhibitions at Sotheby’s, Christie’s Christie’s East, Phillips, Doyle’s, Manhattan Galleries, and even Lubin’s. Every Sunday I used to pick up Andy at church and we spent the day at the flea markets at Twenty-sixth Street and the one on Columbus Avenue. Saturdays Andy had to paint.

Andy was interested in all the arts – fine, decorative and minor, contemporary and old – all periods and styles. We went anywhere things were for sale. With a car we could cover a lot of ground and have the immediate satisfaction of keeping our purchases with us and reviewing them on the way back. Andy had to report to the Factory for lunch around 1:30.

Andy used to marvel at the number of categories, as he called them. We might decide one day to do American paintings, and we would see Chases and Sargents at places like Ira Spanierman and Didi Wigmore; the next day we might do classical antiquity or nineteenth century sculpture. Andy used the auction house system in categorizing art history.

Andy never bought art to hang it or display it any more than Hearst of Lorenzo de Medici did before him. He had the ample storage space required by the true collector and could afford most of what he saw. There was no logical reason to limit the collection, for any reasons of quantity or bulk. The pursuit of masterpieces did not prevent him from finding objects of interest in all ranges of quality. On the quest for objects of great quality or bronzes of fine patination or ciselure, he would buy Rodin’s Le Penseur in black glazed ceramic for $26 at the flea market. As he became interested in sculpture, he started to collect pedestals because he realized that good ones were harder to find than the sculptures. Anything looked good on a a fine pedestal from Barye’s great Theseus Slaying the Centaur to the Pizza Man in polychromed plaster. We both knew the basic rule of collecting that you are wasting your time to buy anything other than a masterpiece, but this was called into question daily. If I said that some object or other looked like junk to me, he would say, “Oh really. See how much it is.”

There were refinements of taste that often went unperceived by well-meaning colleagues and friends. Out of respect for them, Andy would secrete things in certain remote areas, which eventually turned into major art storage depots. “Most art is no good,” he would say, possibly quoting Degas.

Andy knowingly followed the pattern of great collectors of profligate over-accumulation to be succeeded in good time by soul-searching deacquisition. There was a vague plan for eventual divestiture, code-named Warhol Hall, having to do with a gallery, a gift shop, or flea market stand. He designed a collection label. Once he consigned a huge Mexican ceremonial mask he had just bought at Doyle’s Tag Sale to an antique shop, but we had to rush back when he realized they might actually sell it.

Andy was still in the over-accumulation phase. He was only just beginning to collect art.

The Arts and the Mass Media

•June 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment

The Arts and the Mass Media by Lawrence Alloway

Lawrence Alloway is often incorrectly credited with the first published use of the term “Pop Art” in the following article which first appeared in the February 1958 issue of Architectural Design & Construction. Note that although the article does contain references to “mass popular art,” the actual term “Pop Art” is never used.

In Architectural Design last December there was a discussion of “the problem that faces the architect to-day – democracy face to face with hugeness – mass society, mass housing, universal mobility.” The architect is not the only kind of person in this position; everybody who works for the public in a creative capacity is face to face with the many-headed monster. There are heads and to spare.

Before 1800 the population of Europe was an estimated 180 million; by 1900 this figure had risen to 460 million. The increase of population and the industrial revolution that paced it have, as everybody knows, changed the world. In the arts, however, traditional ideas have persisted, to limit the definition of later developments. As Ortega pointed out in The Revolt of the Masses: “the masses are to-day exercising functions in social life which coincide with those which hitherto seemed reserved to minorities.” As a result the élite, accustomed to set aesthetic standards, has found that it no longer possesses the power to dominate all aspects of art. It is in this situation that we need to consider the arts of the mass media. It is impossible to see them clearly within a code of aesthetics associated with minorities with pastoral and upperclass ideas because mass art is urban and democratic.

It is no good giving a literary critic modern science fiction to review, no good sending the theatre critic to the movies, and no good asking the music critic for an opinion on Elvis Presley. Here is an example of what happens to critics who approach mass art with minority assumptions. John Wain, after listing some of the spectacular characters in P.C. Wren’s Beau Geste observes: “It sounds rich. But in fact – as the practised reader could easily forsee… it is not rich. Books with this kind of subject matter seldom are. They are lifeless, petrified by the inert conventions of the adventure yarn.” In fact, the practised reader is the one who understands the conventions of the work he is reading. From outside all Wain can see are inert conventions; from inside the view is better and from inside the conventions appear as the containers of constantly shifting values and interests.

The Western movie, for example, often quoted as timeless and ritualistic, has since the end of World War II been highly flexible. There have been cycles of psychological Westerns (complicated characters, both the heroes and the villains), anthropological Westerns (attentive to Indian rights and rites), weapon Westerns (Colt revolvers and repeating Winchesters as analogues of the present armament race). The protagonist has changed greatly, too: the typical hero of the American depression who married the boss’s daughter and so entered the bright archaic world of the gentleman has vanished. The ideal of the gentleman has expired, too, and with it evening dress which is no longer part of the typical hero-garb.

If justice is to be done to the mass arts which are, after all, one of the most remarkable and characteristic achievements of industrial society, some of the common objections to them need to be faced. A summary of the opposition to mass popular art is in Avant Garde and Kitsch (Partisan Review, 1939, Horizon, 1940), by Clement Greenberg, an art critic and a good one, but fatally prejudiced when he leaves modern fine art. By kitsch he means “popular, commercial art and literature, with their chromeotypes, magazine covers, illustrations, advertisements, slick and pulp fiction, comics, Tin Pan Alley music, tap-dancing, Hollywood movies, etc…” All these activities to Greenberg and the minority he speaks for are “ersatz culture… destined for those who are insensible to the value of genuine culture welcomes and cultivates this insensibility” (my italics). Greenberg insists that “all kitsch is academic,” but only some of it is, such as Cecil B. De Mille-type historical epics which use nineteenth-century history-picture material. In fact, stylistically, technically, iconographically the mass arts are anti-academic. Topicality and a rapid rate of change are not academic in any usual sense of the word, which means a system that is static, rigid, self-perpetuating. Sensitiveness to the variables of our life and economy enable the mass arts to accompany the changes in our life far more closely that the fine arts which are a repository of time-binding values.

The popular arts of our industrial civilization are geared to technical changes which occur, not gradually, but violently and experimentally. The rise of the electronics era in communications challenged the cinema. In reaction to the small TV screen, movie makers spread sideways (CinemaScope) and back into space (Vista Vision). All the regular film critics opposed the new array of shapes, but all have been accepted by the audiences. Technical change as dramatized novelty (usually spurred by economic necessity) is characteristic not only of the cinema but of all the mass arts. Colour TV, the improvements in colour printing (particularly in American magazines), the new range of paper back books; all are part of the constant technical improvements in the channels of mass communication.

An important factor in communication in the mass arts is high redundancy. TV plays, radio serials, entertainers, tend to resemble each other (though there are important and clearly visible differences for the expert consumer). You can go into the movies at any point, leave your seat, eat an ice-cream, and still follow the action on the screen pretty well. The repetitive and overlapping structure of modern entertainment works in two ways: (1) it permits marginal attention to suffice for those spectators who like to talk, neck, parade; (2) it satisfies, for the absorbed spectator, the desire for intense participation which leads to a careful discrimination of nuances in the action. There is in popular art a continuum from data to fantasy. Fantasy resides in, to sample a few examples, film stars, perfume ads, beauty and the beast situations, terrible deaths, sexy women. This is the aspect of popular art which is most easily accepted by art minorities who see it as a vital substratum of the folk, as something primitive. This notion has a history since Herder in the eighteenth century, who emphasized national folk arts in opposition to international classicism. Now, however, mass-produced folk art is international: Kim Novak, Galaxy Science Fiction, Mickey Spillane, are available wherever you go in the West. However, fantasy is always given a keen topical edge; the sexy model is shaped by datable fashion as well as by timeless lust. Thus, the mass arts orient the consumer in current styles, even when they seem purely, timelessly erotic and fantastic. The mass media give perpetual lessons in assimilation, instruction in role-taking, the use of new objects, the definition of changing relationships, as David Riesman has pointed out. A clear example of this may be taken from science fiction. Cybernetics, a new word to many people until 1956, was made the basis of stories in Astounding Science Fiction in 1950. SF aids the assimilation of the mounting technical facts of this century in which, as John W. Campbell, the editor of Astounding put it, “A man learns a pattern of behavior – and in five years it doesn’t work.” Popular art, as a whole, offers imagery and plots to control the changes in the world; everything in our culture that changes is the material of the popular arts.

Critics of the mass media often complain of the hostility towards intellectuals and the lack of respect for art expressed there, but, as I have tried to show, the feeling is mutual. Why should the mass media turn the other cheek? What worries intellectuals is the fact that the mass arts spread; they encroach on the high ground. For example, into architecture itself as Edmund Burke Feldman wrote in Arts and Architecture last October: “Shelter, which began as a necessity, has become an industry and now, with its refinements, is a popular art.” This, as Feldman points out, has been brought about by a “democratization of taste, a spread of knowledge about non-material developments, and a shift of authority about manners and morals from the few to the many.” West Coast domestic architecture has become a symbol of a style of living as well as an example of architecture pure and simple; this has occurred not through the agency of architects but through the association of stylish interiors with leisure and the good life, mainly in mass circulation magazines for women and young marrieds.

The definition of culture is changing as a result of the pressure of the great audience, which is no longer new but experienced in the consumption of its arts. Therefore, it is no longer sufficient to define culture solely as something that a minority guards for the few and the future (though such art is uniquely valuable and a precious as ever). Our definition of culture is being stretched beyond the fine art limits imposed on it by Renaissance theory, and refers now, increasingly, to the whole complex of human activities. Within this definition, rejection of the mass produced arts is not, as critics think, a defence of culture but an attack on it. The new role for the academic is keeper of the flame; the new role for the fine arts is to be one of the possible forms of communication in an expanding framework that also includes the mass arts.

Surrealism, Dada and the Abstract Expressionists

•June 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment

When Time magazine reviewed the “Fantastic Art, Dada and Surrealism” exhibition at The Museum of Modern Art in 1936, they described André Breton, the “founder” of Surrealism, as someone “who frequently dresses entirely in green, smokes a green pipe, drinks a green liqueur and has a sound of knowledge of Freudian psychology.” (MF)

Although Breton did have a predilection for the colour green – art dealer Julien Levy later recalled that Breton “never removed his green jacket and vest” (MA273) – he had not actually been to the United States by the time of MoMA’s exhibition and Time magazine’s description of him. The founder of Surrealism arrived in the U.S. in the summer of 1941 – one of the later arrivals of a group of European artists aligned to the Surrealist movement who immigrated to the U.S. during World War II. Wolfgang Paalen, Kurt Seligmann, Matta (née Roberto Sebastian Antonio Matta Echaurren) and Yves Tanguy had all arrived two years prior to Breton – in 1939. (Paalen would move from the U.S. to Mexico the same year that he arrived. (WC)) In 1940 Gordon Onslow Ford and Kurt Seligmann arrived. Breton, André Masson, Max Ernst (accompanied by his wife-to-be Peggy Guggenheim) all arrived in 1941. Marcel Duchamp arrived in 1942 (MD).

THE EMERGENCY RESCUE COMMITTEE

Breton and other emigrating artists were helped by the Emergency Rescue Committee (sometimes referred to as the American Rescue Committee) in Marseilles – an organization that had been set up in the U.S. with financial contributions from private individuals in order to rescue cultural and political refugees threatened by Hitler’s advance into Europe. Varian Fry, a Harvard educated Quaker, arrived in Marseilles during the summer of 1940 to oversee their operations in France – the same summer that the German forces occupied the country. (SS116) At the time of the occupation Breton was enlisted in the French Army. On September 16, 1939 he had written a letter of introduction on behalf on Wolfgang Paalen to Leon Trotsky’s secretary in Mexico in which he noted that he (Breton) would soon be in uniform as part of a medical staff attached to a pilot training school near Poitiers. (SS66/7). By August 1940 Breton was in the city of Salon having traveled there after being demobilized in Gironde. On August 10, 1940 he wrote to Kurt Seligmann in New York from Salon suggesting that he (Breton) give a series of lectures in New York in order to obtain an exit visa from France. (SS114/5) He then left Salon and moved south to Montargis temporarily (where he wrote Plein Marge) before making his way to Marseille where he joined Varian Fry and other artists attempting to leave France.

On December 3, 1940 Breton, who had been a member of the French Communist Party from 1927 – 1935, was arrested in Marseilles and held for four days. Vichy premier Henri Philippe Pétain was due to visit the city the next day. The official report on Breton described him as a “dangerous anarchist sought for a long time by the French police.” In February – March 1941 the publication of two works by Breton – the Anthologie de l’Humeur Noir and his poem Fata Morgana were banned by the Vichy government. Breton finally left France, accompanied by his wife, Jacqueline Lamba, and their child on a transatlantic steamer which departed from Marseilles on March 24, 1941. (FR) One of his fellow passengers on the ship was the anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss.

Claude Lévi-Strauss:

“The scum, as the gendarmes described us, included among others André Breton… Breton, by no means at his ease in such a situation, would amble up and down the rare empty spaces on deck, looking like a blue bear in his velvety jacket. We were to become firm friends in the course of an exchange of letters which we kept up throughout our interminable journey; their subject was the relation between aesthetic beauty and absolute originality.” (FR)

When the ship reached the port of the Fort-de-France in Martinique after about a month at sea, Breton was sent to a concentration camp in Lazaret by the Vichy authorities in Martinique who had been warned about the “dangerous agitator.” Although he was released a few days later he remained under surveillance during the three weeks he stayed on the island. (FR) On April 30th André Masson arrived at Fort-de-France from Marseilles. (Masson would contribute both text and illustrations to Breton’s book Martinique: Snake Charmer.)

André Masson [from La Mémoire du monde (1974)]:

“One day, while strolling on the island’s Atlantic coast, where the lianas in bloom blended with the foam of the ocean waves, Breton, to my great astonishment, spoke to me of Paradise. Not that of the theologians… No, a true Paradise, here on Earth… Reviewing the paradisiacal utopians, we went from the famous ‘withering away of the state’ to the ‘end of History,’ lingering long over Charles Fourier, whom I have always called the Douanier Rousseau of socialism.” [Breton's Ode à Charles Fourier would be published in c. 1947]. (FR)

Breton and his wife finally left Martinique on May 16, 1941, arriving in New York in June after a brief stop in the Dominican Republic where they visited the Spanish Surrealist Eugenio F. Granell. (FR) On June 24, 1941 Breton’s wife wrote a letter of thanks to Varian Fry for helping them get out of France, describing America as “the Christmas tree of the world.” (SS140) (Unknown to the Bretons at the time was the fact that throughout their stay in the U.S. they were kept under close watch by the F.B.I. (FR))

Breton would live in the United States for about 4 1/2 years, returning to France in about May of 1946. (From December 1945 to March 1946 he visited Haiti, Martinique and the Dominican Republic). (FR) It was a time in New York when, according writer Robert Lebel, “everybody met everybody. The influence was collective and this is how it spread. Each one met someone through another one. The Reises had a party at least once a month; everyone met at Peggy Guggenheim’s parties – Pollock, Baziotes, and Rothko… Later the Americans hid their Surrealist paintings, but when we saw Pollock during the war he was like a little boy in front of Max Ernst.” (SS197)

The “Reises” were New York accountant Bernard Reis and his wife, Becky. Bernard was the accountant and treasurer of VVV, the magazine that Breton produced during his stay in the U.S. (HH477) Reis would later act as a advisor to Abstract Expressionists Willem de Kooning, Robert Motherwell and Mark Rothko and also advised Peggy Guggenheim as she went about opening a gallery to house her art collection. Guggenheim and her lover, the Surrealist Max Ernst, arrived in New York about a month after Breton but, unlike Breton, traveled by air on a luxurious Pan Am Clipper plane just two years after its maiden transatlantic voyage. (Guggenheim and Ernst would marry later in the year in Virginia.) In January 1942 Breton contributed an essay on Surrealism to Guggenheim’s catalogue of her collection and came up with the idea of including photographs of the eyes of the artists whose work was included in the collection to accompany their biographies in the catalogue. (MD223) Originally Guggenheim hoped to open a nonprofit museum to house her collection but Bernard Reis suggested that she add a ‘for-profit’ element (a gallery) from which she would be able to deduct expenses. (MD224) She opened her Surrealist art gallery, Art of This Century on October 20, 1942.

TRUTH AND AUTOMATISM

At the Reis’ frequent gatherings Breton would often lead the guests in a game of Truth in which they were expected to answer personal questions (often about sex), with complete honesty. (MD224) The game was treated seriously. Violators of the rules were fined. (MD224) In addition to Breton, artists who attended the Reis’ parties included Kurt Seligmann, Max Ernst, André Masson, Arshile Gorky, David Hare, Fernand Léger, Piet Mondrian, Marc Chagall, Pavel Tchelitchew and Matta. Matta, an on-again off-again follower of Breton, held his own gatherings of artists where Surrealist techniques such as automatism would be explored.

Matta:

“Automatism is a method of reading ‘live’ the actual function of thinking at the same speed as the matter we are thinking about; to read at the speed of events, to grasp unconscious material functioning in our memory with the tools at our disposal, with the language we possess, if possible grasping instantly, all at once, one and once make it. Automatism means that both the irrational and the rational are running parallel and can send sparks into each other and light the common road… Automatism is purposeless on purpose.” (PF6-7)

Artists who gathered at Matta’s studio to explore automatism included Robert Motherwell, and (briefly) Jackson Pollock.

Irving Sandler [art writer]:

“Matta had a perverse love-hate attitude toward André Breton and his coterie. Bob [Robert Motherwell] recalled: ‘Matta wanted to show them up as middle-aged, gray-haired men who weren’t zeroed into contemporary reality.’ … Matta then tried to put together a group of young artists who would be daring in their exploration of automatism… At first he enlisted Esteban Francis, Gordon Onslow-Ford, and Bob. But he wanted more New Yorkers in his group, and he asked Baziotes, whom he recently met, to recommend artists he knew on the Federal Art Project. Baziotes suggested Pollock, de Kooning, Peter Busa, and Gerome Kamrowski. Baziotes and Bob visited them, and Bob ‘taught’ them the theory of automatism, or so he claimed. De Kooning was not interested in the surrealist ‘adventure,’ but Pollock, who drank through the meeting, liked the idea, although he would not join a group. Then Matta capriciously gave the whole thing up. Only Arshile Gorky was accepted into the Surrealist inner circle.” (IS90)

Jackson Pollock, William Baziotes, and Gerome Kamrowski produced several collaborative works around 1940/41 in which they experimented with an ‘automatic’ technique of painting.

From Surrealism in Exile and the Beginning of the New York School by Martica Sawin:

“One evening in the winter of 1940-41, [William] Baziotes brought Jackson Pollock over to [Gerome] Kamrowski’s studio, and the three artists began experimenting with quick-drying lacquer paint that Baziotes had bought at Arthur Brown’s art supply store. They spread some cheap canvases out on the floor and began brushing and then dripping the paint onto them. In the process of ‘fooling around,’ as Kamrowski called it, they all worked on the same canvases and during the course of the evening produced a number of collaborative spontaneous works. All three artists already had some knowledge of Surrealism and were familiar with the concept of ‘pure psychic automatism,’ and they were trying to find ways in which the new quick-drying paint developed for commercial use could be put to this end. When Kamrowski moved out of that studio… he threw out most of these experimental canvases but kept one as a kind of souvenir, and this three-man canvas [Collaborative Painting] has surfaced in a number of recent exhibitions as a kind of proto-abstract expressionist work. Although each artist made use of dripped paint and a gestural approach in combination with other techniques during the next few years, it wasn’t until 1946 that dripping lacquer began to be the basis for an entire painting and that Pollock reached what Kamrowski referred to as ‘his greater freedoms.’” (SS169)

DADA

The result of automatic painting or drawing was visual images arranged randomly, by chance – a concept which had previously been explored by the Dada movement which Breton had been involved with prior to founding Surrealism. Dadaist Jean (Hans) Arp had produced a series of collages in 1916 whose elements were arranged by chance. (TJ23)

Georges Hugnet [from The Dada Spirit in Painting (1932/34)]:

“… it seems fitting to mention some of Arp’s experiments which were of far-reaching importance because they were in line with activities that were later to play a large part in the theory of prospecting in the land of the unconscious. Each morning, whether inspired or not, Arp repeated the same drawing, and so obtained a series showing variations which indicated the curves of automatism. He also experimented with chance, putting on a piece of cardboard pieces of paper that he had cut out at random and then coloured; he placed the scraps coloured side down and then shook the cardboard; finally he would paste them to the cardboard just as they had fallen.” (RD134)

Arp’s collages were “Untitled” but subtitled “According to the Laws of Chance.” Arp later wrote that the “law of chance which comprises all other laws and surpasses our understanding… can be experienced only in a total surrender to the unconscious.” (LZ37)

Three years before Arp’s collages, Marcel Duchamp had created Three Standard Need Weavings (1913) using a similar random technique.

Georges Hugnet [from The Dada Spirit in Painting (1932/34)]:

“This was the experiment: Duchamp took three threads, each a meter long, and these he let drop successively, from a height of one meter, on three virgin canvases. He then scrupulously preserved the contour of the fallen threads, fixing them with a little varnish; the result was a dessin du hasard, a chance design or drawing… Again and again we encounter Duchamp, both in Paris and New York, and in Picabia and Man Ray, this obsession, in various forms, with the laws of chance…”(RD140)

André Breton, as a writer and poet, experimented with automatism through automatic writing. In May/June 1919 He produced, in collaboration with Philippe Soupault, a text written ‘automatically’ titled Les Champs magnétiques. (WB) In The Dada Spirit in Painting, Hugnet noted the influence of Breton’s use of written automatism on visual automatism when referring to the Surrealist Max Ernst: “The works of Max Ernst, collages or imaginary paintings, based on technical inventions that are a pictorial application of automatic techniques similar to those used by Breton and Soupault in their book, Les Champs magnétiques, bring to Dada painting a new and very personal vision which foreshadows Surrealism.” (RD178) Les Champs magnétiques was first published in Breton’s Littérature magazine, a Dada- friendly journal published from 1919 to1924 in France. (The first issue was February 1919.) (HB/WB)

Litterature

Cover of Littérature, vol. 2 no. 13, Paris 1920
edited by Louis Aragon, André Breton and Philippe Soupault

Georges Hugnet [from The Dada Spirit in Painting (1932/34)]:

“Louis Aragon, André Breton and Philippe Soupault were contributors to various advance guard magazines, among others Sic… In 1919 they founded Littérature… These men, whom we shall call the ‘Littérature group,’ represented a poetic and critical position between Rimbaud and Lautreamont on the one hand and Jarry and Apollinaire on the other; they supported the effort to liberate the mind in progress since the second half of the nineteenth century… they were immediately attracted to the activity proposed by Dada… they saluted Dada, a phenomenon bursting forth in the midst of the post-war economic and moral crisis, a savior, a monster, which would lay waste everything in its path. They felt that it would be an offensive weapon of the first order. Thus, through the word Surréalisme, borrowed from Apollinaire and already full of meaning, was regularly used by the Littérature group and their friends, their magazine, for want of an alternative course at the moment, gave itself to Dada, a scarecrow erected at the crossroads of the epoch.” (RD165/167)

TRISTAN TZARA

Although Breton initially embraced Dada and would borrow from it for Surrealism, his relationship with the movement became strained after the arrival in Paris at the end of 1919 of one of Dada’s founders, Tristan Tzara (born Samuel Rosenstock on April 16, 1896 in Moinesti, Romania). Tzara edited his own Dada magazine, simply titled Dada, in Zurich (the first issue was July 1917 (RD34)) and also contributed to Breton’s Littérature magazine beginning with the second issue. One of the first Dada events that Tristan participated in after arriving in Paris was organized by Breton and the Littérature group – the “Premier Vendredi de Littérature” which took place on January 23, 1920 at the Palais des Fêtes. Tzara promised to read a new manifesto at the event but instead read a newspaper article. According to Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes in History of Dada (1931), “when Tzara, after announcing a manifesto, merely read a vulgar article taken out of some newspaper, while the poet Paul Eluard and Theodore Fraenkel, a friend of Breton, hammered on bells, the public began to grow indignant and the matinée ended in an uproar.” (RD109) The uproar included cries of “Back to Zurich!” from the audience. (DC441) During another event, the Dada Festival, which took place on May 26, 1920 at the Salle Gaveau, Tzara couldn’t get his “Vaseline symphonique” to work. Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes recalled about the “symphonique” – “though scarcely very musical, it encountered the open hostility of André Breton, who had a horror of music and suffered from being reduced to the role of an interpreter.” (RD111)

The “open hostility” of Breton mentioned by Ribemont-Dessaignes may also have had something to do with an insulting unsigned letter Tzara received prior to the Festival which was suspected to be from Breton or the Littérature group.

Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes [from History of Dada (1931)]:

“It was also at Picabia’s, between the Maison de l’Oeuvre Dada demonstration [March 27, 1920] and the next [the Dada Festival on May 26, 1920], that we experienced the repercussions of a strange event known in the Dada archives as the ‘affair of the Anonymous Letter.’ Tristan Tzara had received a highly insulting unsigned letter, and its terminology led one to suspect that it had been written by either one of the Dadaists or one of their close enemies. Through application of the Hegelian-Dadaist dialectic, we came successively to the conclusion that the letter had been written by one of the members of the Littérature group, by Breton or Aragon, or possibly even by Philippe Soupault, Theodore Fraenkel or Francis Picabia, or, finally, by Tristan Tzara, who perhaps had written the letter to himself in order to foster demoralizing suspicion amid his own group.” (RD111)

The relationship between Tristan Tzara and Breton’s group of Dadaists became strained even further after negative comments made by Tzara during a mock Dada trial organized by Breton in 1921 and Tzara’s failure to endorse a Dada congress which Breton attempted to organize not long after the trial. The “Trial and Sentencing of M. Maurice Barrés by Dada,” took place at the Salle des Societies Savantes in the Rue Danton on Friday evening, May 13, 1921. (RD116) Maurice Barrés was a liberal writer who, during World War 1, became a staunch nationalist. Breton set himself up as judge for the mock trial and published the proceedings in Littérature. (PJ354)

Georges Hugnet [from The Dada Spirit in Painting (1932/34)]:

“The Littérature group put on the most subversive meeting, from the moral point of view, in which Dada had ever been involved. The ‘Barrès trial’ forced Dada to take a position on several concrete questions. On Friday, May 13, [1921] in the Hall of Learned Societies, Maurice Barrès was “indicted and tried by Dada.” André Breton, president of the tribunal, had drawn up a stern and scathing indictment… In announcing the verdict, Breton declared ‘Dada, judging that the time has come to endow its negative spirit with executive powers, and determined above all to exercise these powers against those who threaten its dictatorship, is beginning, as of this date, to take appropriate measures…. Dada accuses Maurice Barrès of offense against the security of the spirit.’ … The tone of the verdict is somewhat different from that of the usual Dada writing… Practically speaking, the result of the new extravaganza was general dismay, expressed, as far as the critics were concerned, in a threat never again to mention Dada in their columns. Once again Dada had been unable to reply categorically: the role of judge did not suit it at all.” (RD184-5)

Although Tzara participated in the trial he used his testimony to attack it, declaring “I have no confidence in justice, even if this justice is made by Dada.” He referred to both the accusers and the accused as “a bunch of bastards… greater or lesser bastards is of no importance.” (PJ354) When Breton attempted to get Tzara’s support for his idea of a Congress of Paris (with Breton as the director), Tzara refused to get involved. (The initial committee for the Congress consisted of seven people – Breton, Georges Auric, Fernand Léger, Robert Delaunay, Amédée Ozenfant, Jean Paulhan and Roger Vitrac.) (PJ372fn69)

Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes [from History of Dada, 1931]:

“Breton’s personal reactions led him to conceive of a grandiose undertaking in which he would have played the leading role. This was to be a super-congress of all intellectuals wielding influence on the state of the modern mind, in order to determine what was modern and what was not, in short, a grand congress of the mind… But the Dadas were not in agreement. Tristan Tzara, in particular, supported by Ribemont-Dessaignes, raised numerous objections because of the dogmatic aspect such an undertaking would assume… With him Paul Eluard, Theodore Fraenkel, Ribemont-Dessaignes and Eric Satie withdrew. But the publicity which the Congress of Paris had received prevented Breton from retreating. So he persisted and, despite the defection of the greater part of Dada – it is true that he had the support of Picabia who had become anti-Dada – he continued his work as director of the Congress. But new difficulties arose, and certain members of the committee resigned. To add to all this the poet Roger Vitrac, head of Aventure magazine, on which Breton counted heavily, fell ill. This finally discouraged Breton: he abandoned the undertaking on which he had so set his heart.

The bitterness Breton felt led him to cast the main responsibility for the failure on Tristan Tzara and to indulge in open vengeance. He published in Comoedia several articles in which, scorning Dada amorality, he adopted a bourgeois point of view toward Tzara’s conduct. He specifically accused Tzara of not being the father of Dada and of having defrauded Serner by claiming authorship of the Dadaist Manifesto of 1918… In writing of Tzara, he used pejoratively such terms as ‘arrived from Zurich,’ just as Picabia had called him a ‘Jew’… Finally, he called Tzara a publicity-mad imposter, and concluded with a pathetic appeal in favour of himself who ‘proposed to consecrate his life to ideas.’” (RD119)

Breton’s comments to “the readers of Comoedia” were later published in the “After Dada” section of Breton’s Three Dada Manifestos.

André Breton:

“… I inform the readers of Comoedia that M. Tzara had nothing to do with the invention of the word ‘Dada,’ as is shown by the letters of Schad and Huelsenbeck, his companions in Zurich during the war, which I am prepared to publish, and that he probably had very little to do with the writing of the Dada Manifesto 1918 which was the basis of the reception and credit we accorded him. The paternity of this manifesto is in any case, formally claimed, by Max Serner, doctor of philosophy, who lives in Geneva and whose manifestos written in German before 1918 have not been translated into French. Moreover it is known that the conclusions formulated by Francis Picabia and Marcel Duchamp, even before the war, plus those formulated by Jacques Vaché in 1917, would have been sufficient to guide us without the manifesto. Up to now, it has seemed distasteful to me to denounce the bad faith of M. Tzara and I have allowed him to go on using with impunity the papers of those whom he robbed. But now that he has decided to exploit this last opportunity to be talked about, by wrongfully attacking one of the most disinterested undertakings ever put under way [the Congress], I am not reluctant to silence him.” (RD205)

Tzara later explained the problems he had with the Congress (and the Dada movement in France) in a letter to Christian Zervos dated February 16, 1937. In the letter Tzara complained about a “newspaper release” that referred to him as a “publicity hungry imposter” which “occurred only a few days after the official invitation to participate in the Committee of said Congress” – presumably a reference to Breton’s comments in Comoedia. (RD304). He also made reference to a performance of his play Le Coeur a gaz which took place at the Galerie Montaigne in Paris on June 10, 1921 as part of the Salon Dada Exposition Internationale exhibition which ran from June 6 to June 30, 1921. Although the performance of Tzara’s play was meant to be the high point of the program of Dada performances, the audience walked out soon after it started. (PJ355/356) Tzara asked in his letter to Zervos, “Is it not likely that this demonstration, the hostility of which was directed… against the second part of the program, the performance of my play Le Coeur a gaz, was not the expression of a principle, but of a personal vengeance directed against myself?” (RD305).

THE DEATH OF DADA AND THE BIRTH OF SURREALISM

According to Ribemont-Dessaignes, “the situation [between Tzara and Breton] became so strained that it was decided to liquidate. A meeting took place at the Closerie des Lilas, the old cafe on the Place de L’Observatoire. Breton was summoned to explain his ‘un-Dadalike’ conduct… Far from pacifying tempers, this effort merely brought about a final break, and officially marked the death of Dada.” (RD117-19) The funeral of Dada in France took place on November 30, 1924. An announcement of the funeral appeared in Le Mouvement accéléré: “The friends and acquaintances of Dada, deceased in the prime of life from acute literaturitis, will assemble the 30th of November 1924 at 2:30 around the tomb of their brother in nothingness so as to observe a minute of silence. We will gather together at the entrance gate of the Montparnasse cemetery. – Attendees are asked not to wear any badge of a literary school.” (AI263) About a month before the funeral of Dada, Breton published a manifesto for a new movement – Surrealism. (The term “Surrealist” was first used in print in 1917 when the poet, Guillaume Apollinaire, subtitled his play Les Mamelles de Tiresias as a “Drame Surrealiste.” (MF))

André Breton [from the Manifeste du surréalisme (published October 15, 1924) (AJ)]:

“We are still living under the reign of logic… Under the pretence of civilization and progress, we have managed to banish from the mind everything that may rightly or wrongly be termed superstition, or fancy; forbidden is any kind of search for truth which is not in conformance with accepted practices. It was, apparently, by pure chance that a part of our mental world which we pretended not to be concerned with any longer – and, in my opinion by far the most important part – has been brought back to light. For this we must give thanks to the discoveries of Sigmund Freud… Freud very rightly brought his critical faculties to bear upon the dream. It is, in fact, inadmissible that this considerable portion of psychic activity… has still today been so grossly neglected…. I believe in the future resolution of these two states, dream and reality, which are seemingly so contradictory, into a kind of absolute reality, a surreality, if one may so speak. It is in quest of this surreality that I am going, certain not to find it but too unmindful of my death not to calculate to some slight degree the joys of its possession.”

Included as part of the manifesto was Breton’s definition of Surrealism:

“SURREALISM, n. Psychic automatism in its pure state, by which one proposes to express — verbally, by means of the written word, or in any other manner — the actual functioning of thought. Thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern. Surrealism is based on the belief in the superior reality of certain forms of previously neglected associations, in the omnipotence of dream, in the disinterested play of thought. It tends to ruin once and for all other psychic mechanisms and to substitute itself for them in solving all the principal problems of life.”

Surrealism then, was initially conceived by Breton as “psychic automatism” in its “pure state” – or the application of automatism to the psyche. The “unconscious” or subconscious was more important than the conscious or rational state. The “superior reality” was based not on God or religion but on the “omnipotence of dream,” “previously neglected associations,” and “disinterested play of thought.” God was replaced by Freud and the search for a “new myth.” When Breton contributed “The Legendary Life of Max Ernst” to the April 1942 issue of Charles Henri Ford’s View magazine, he subtitled the article, “preceeded by a brief discussion on the need for a new myth.” (VP33)

Max Ernst issue of View

André Breton [from "The Legendary Life of Max Ernst preceeded by a brief discussion on the need for a new myth," View (April 1942):

"... I have often reflected on the fact that the average man, in France, for example, derived less and less support from secular beliefs and institutions during the last twenty years. No further point can be reached in the process which has separated the symbol from the thing for which it stands. Very well then, making a clean break with all that benefits only from external marks of veneration or respect, I do not fear to say that I have seen engendered - oh! after how many attempts! - the embryo of new signification... The prophets are Rimbaud, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, many others: only yesterday there were more than enough of them to agitate the schools. You cannot deny that some of them handle imperatives powerful enough to deflect the course of a young man's life and to decide the adoption of heroic careers. This much I can assure you of. The obscurity of their language as it reflects their exhortation is not different in kind from that of John or Daniel. Notice, too, that the most active are those who left no portraits: Sade, Lautréamont, or those who have left ambiguous testaments: Sade, Lautréamont, Seurat. You see, I cannot grant you that mythology is only the recital of the acts of the dead..." (VP34)

VVV

Breton had been contributing articles to View magazine before he arrived in the U.S. and continued to contribute after he arrived.View was an American avant-garde magazine edited by Charles Henri Ford which initially focused on Surrealism but became increasingly oriented toward Existentialism during the mid - late 1940s . (View was published from September 1940 to Spring (March) 1947.) When Breton began producing his own magazine in America, VVV, he also explored the concept of myth in the first issue. (The first issue - No. 1 - was the June 1942 issue. The last issue was No. 4 - the February 1944 issue.)

VVV first issue

VVV No. 1 (1942)

The first issue of VVV featured a cover by Max Ernst and contributions from Robert Motherwell, André Masson, Kurt Seligmann, Gordon Onslow Ford and Charles Henri Ford, among others. David Hare was designated the editor of the magazine. Matta had originally suggested that Robert Motherwell be the editor and Motherwell had written to William Carlos Williams suggesting that he become the American literary editor of the magazine. In his letter to Williams, Motherwell noted the importance of automatism to his own work: "Now I have taken a partisan stand, in the creative sense that Surrealist automatism is the basis of my painting." (SS214) By the time the first issue of VVV was published Motherwell had resigned.

Robert Motherwell:

"I'll tell you what I remember - and there's a lot I don't remember. In France before the war I think Skira - but I'm not sure - published an extremely elaborate deluxe art magazine called Minotaure that increasingly became a vehicle for the Surrealists. The Surrealists were proselytisers. Which the other artists weren't at all. They very badly wanted a vehicle here. By hook or by crook slowly some money was raised. The actual editor was André Breton who always was the chief of everything Surrealist. I think Marcel Duchamp and Max Ernst if I remember were associate editors. But the Surrealists had a feeling - not really realizing that artists in America are not taken very seriously - that they were politically radical, etcetera, they were aliens, exiles, etcetera, and that ostensibly there should be an American editor. There was also some effort to get some Americans to contribute. William Carlos Williams and so on. And so for a time I accepted the role simply to help them out. Then one day it became clear to me in an angry discussion in French, which I only partly understood, that they had also assumed that I had American connections and could raise some money. Which I didn't have, and couldn't. Then I got furious and resigned. And the compromise was that Lionel Abel and I co-edited. And then what transpired was that Abel, who had no job, no money, no anything, asked for the colossal sum of twenty-five dollars a week simply in order to exist while he was gathering the manuscripts and all the rest of it. And again, they got furious at that and fired him. Then I said, "I resign." Then David Hare who had, I think, an independent income agreed to be the nominal editor. (SR)

Motherwell, who in 1951 would publish an anthology of Dada painters and poets, also provided an explanation of the title of Breton's magazine. VVV was meant to be a new letter of the alphabet.

Robert Motherwell:

"Something very interesting to me... is how the name VVV came about. They wanted to invent a twenty-seventh letter in the alphabet. In French the letter W is double V (VV). And so they hit on the idea of having triple V (VVV) as the twenty-seventh letter. And Breton also didn't know a word of English. And as sort of their American adviser, lieutenant, liaison officer, I pointed out to him that for reasons I didn't understand double V in English is pronounced double U so that it would not translate; in English you would have to call it triple U when nevertheless the sign was three V's and it really wouldn't work. He would not accept that it wouldn't work. And it used to confuse everybody. People didn't know whether to say V-V-V or triple V or triple U or whatever. But if it were literally transcribed into English the proper title would have been triple U. And the fact that they choose V with the way that English-speaking people say V made it not translate. Well, if you said triple U [as] the name of the magazine [then] immediately Americans would have got the point. But it was always called triple V and nobody got the point. It seems senseless.” (SR)

For the first issue of VVV Breton promised a new manifesto but instead provided a “Prolegomena” – in which he railed against Salvador Dalí, Aragon and Paul Éluard and those “who follow either the Bible or Lenin” as well as Surrealist imposters (“Tomorrow it will be Matta’s turn to be imitated.”) He then asked “Can society exist without a social myth?”

André Breton [from "Prolegomena to a Third Manifesto of Surrealism - or else," VVV no. 1 (Spring 1942)]:

“Man is perhaps not the center, not the focus of the universe. One may go as far as to believe that there exists above him on the animal level beings whose behaviour is as alien to him as his own must be to the day fly or the whale. There is nothing that would necessarily prevent such beings from completely escaping his sensory frame of reference since these beings might avail themselves of a type of camouflage, which no matter how you imagine it becomes plausible when you consider the theory of form and what has been discovered about mimetic animals.” (SS215)

The article was accompanied by a drawing by Matta, presumably his interpretation of Breton’s ‘camouflaged’ beings as the new myth, titled The Great Transparents. In 1943 Kurt Seligmann would also take up the concept of invisible myths and paint Melusine and the Great Transparents. The American Surrealist artist, Gerome Kamrowski who attended Matta’s gatherings during the early 1940s, would later refer to the Great Transparents as “a myth that didn’t fly.” (SS217))

MYTH, ROTHKO, GOTTLIEB AND FREUD

Around the same time that Breton and Matta were attempting to create a new myth, the concept of myth was also being explored by some of the New York artists who would later be referred to as Abstract Expressionists, particularly Mark Rothko and Adolph Gottlieb. Both artists were classified as Surrealists in Sidney Janis’ book Abstract and Surrealist Art, when it was published in November 1944. (SS351) According to Janis, Rothko had specifically requested to be included in Surrealist section of book.

Sidney Janis:

“My book Abstract and Surrealist Art was finally published in 1944. It included many artists who had not yet reached their image – works that might be termed Pollock before Pollock, Hofmann before Hofmann, Rothko before Rothko. When I visited Rothko at his studio in 1943, I selected a picture for my book that was quite unlike those of his later years. At the end of the evening, Rothko asked me, ‘What section do you think you’ll put me in? I would like to be in the Surrealist section.’” (AD35)

Robert Motherwell later recalled that “Mark [Rothko] was very interested in psychic automatism,” adding that “He was one of the few American painters who really liked Surrealist painting, went to Surrealist shows and understood” what they were doing. According to Motherwell, Rothko told him that “there was always automatic drawing under those larger forms” of Rothko’s paintings. (RO185)

Rothko devoted a considerable amount of space to the subject of myth, including two sections titled “The Myth” and “The Attempted Myth of Today” in a book he worked on during 1939 – 1941. The notebook/folder containing his essays was discovered after his death and published in 2004 as The Artist’s Reality: Philosophies of Art with an introduction by his son, Christopher Rothko. In his introduction to the book, Christopher notes that “the bulk” of Rothko’s “book” was probably written around 1940 – 1941 – the same period that Rothko and Gottlieb were painting mythological subjects. (CRxvii)

artists reality cover
Cover of Mark Rothko’s Artists Reality

Mark Rothko [from "The Attempted Myth of Today" in The Artist's Reality: Philosophies of Art]

“Ultimately, this attempt to represent the universal rests upon one of a few solutions. The artist must either fall back upon the treatment of a single figure… or they must await the evolvement of a series of anecdotal myths which will give a universal significance to their newly found unity, or they must fall back upon the allegories of the past… In the hope for the heroic, and the knowledge that art must be heroic, we cannot but wish for the communal myth again.” (CR104)

Rothko’s use of the term “communal myth” can be likened to Breton’s search for a new “social” myth. But whereas Breton, Matta and other Surrealists were searching for a new myth, such as the “Great Transparents,” Rothko, as well as Gottlieb, turned to classical mythology for inspiration. The first time that Rothko’s myth paintings were displayed publicly was at the “Contemporary American Paintings” exhibition/sale at Macy’s department store in January 1942 which included Rothko’s Antigone and Oedipus paintings. (RG185) Gottlieb also borrowed from the Oedipus ‘myth’ for two pictographs he painted in 1941 – Oedipus and The Eyes of Oedipus. Two other mythological paintings by Gottlieb and Rothko were included in the third exhibition of the Federation of Modern Painters and Sculptors in June 1943 – Gottlieb’s Rape of Persephone and Rothko’s The Syrian Bull. When Gottlieb was later asked why he and Rothko adopted mythological themes, Gottlieb recalled that he came up with the suggestion. According to Gottlieb he asked Rothko “How about some classical matter like mythological themes?” and “we agreed… Mark chose to do some themes from the plays of Aeschylus, and I played around with the Oedipus myth, which was both a classical theme and a Freudian theme.” (AG35)

Adolph Gottlieb:

Well, I think what happened in the early Forties after the war started was, first of all, a number of Surrealists came to this country and we were able to see them in the flesh, and see that they were just ordinary people such as we are. Then we were also cut off from the periodicals that used to come over like Cahier des Arts. So that we weren’t so continuously immersed in French art. I think there was some kind of sense of crisis so that you had to, at least I felt that I had to, dig into myself, find out what it was I wanted to express, what it was possible for me to express. .. That was when I started doing what I called the pictographs which a lot of people think have something to do with primitive art, my interest in primitive art. Like when you were saying that Surrealists seemed to think it had something to do with some sort of universals. My recollection is that it was Jung who came out with the idea of the collective unconscious. I was interested in reading Jung at the time and the idea interested me. Then it just appeared; I mean it just corroborated my idea that I wasn’t really interested in primitive art, that if I decided to use certain symbols in my painting, for example an egg shape, I did this without extending it to be a symbolic reference. Why couldn’t I come up with the idea of an egg as signifying fertility just as well as some aborigine in Australia? …

I decided to restrict myself to those shapes which I felt had a personal significance to me. And I wanted to do something figurative. Well, I couldn’t visualize a whole man on a canvas. I couldn’t see him in a flat space. I felt that I wanted to make a painting primarily with painterly means. So I flattened out my canvas and made these roughly rectangular divisions, with lines going out in four directions. That is, vertically and horizontally. Running right out to the edge of the canvas. And then I would free associate, putting whatever came to my mind very freely within these different triangles. There might be an oval shape that would be an eye or an egg. Of if it was round it might be a sun or whatever. It could be a wriggly shape and that would be a snake — whatever I felt like doing. Then there would be very little editing or revision…” (AS)

In “playing around” with the Oedipus myth, Gottlieb was looking for new symbols or a new meaning for old symbols or symbols used merely as visual elements without any other meaning. In Artists Reality, Rothko also explores the use of symbols in one of the few references he makes to Surrealism in his book, noting that the Surrealists are “attempting to bridge the impassable darkness between the world of the mind and the world of emotion” through “symbolism and the study of dreams and other atavistic, subconscious repositories of this, at once, new and old demonology, hoping that through ordering the symbols they can reconstruct the expression of this essence.” (CR108) Gottlieb’s pictographs can be seen as an attempt at such an “ordering” of symbols. Gottlieb’s comments about using symbols with a “personal significance” or the use of a symbol “without extending it to be a symbolic reference” are similar to Breton’s comments about “new signification” and the separation of “the symbol from the thing for which it stands” as quoted earlier. The technique used by Gottlieb of painting by free association with “little editing or revision” is also reminiscent of the Surrealist technique of automatic writing or painting – a correlation he draws himself in another interview when discussing his interest in Freud and Jung – an interest also shared by Breton and the Surrealists. Breton visited Freud in Vienna in 1921 in addition to corresponding with him during the 1930s. In 1937 Breton asked Freud to contribute to a planned anthology, Trajectoire du rêve, which Breton published in 1938. (AQ)

Adolph Gottlieb:

“My interest in Freud and Jung started with my interest in Surrealism – because the Surrealists were interested in Freudian theories of dreams. In the early 1940s I was very much influenced by Surrealism and was using a type of free-association which was one of the Surrealist techniques. I was putting images into the compartments of my painting as if I were doing automatic writing… I admired Miro, early [Salvador] Dali, Max Ernst; the automatism of Masson certainly was an influence. At the same time Rothko was also doing some mythological subjects, partly semi-abstract, partly Surrealist in style.” (SS299)

Although Gottlieb and Rothko borrowed from Surrealism during the early 1940s, they were never particularly close to its founder on a social level. Breton spoke hardly any English and tended to socialize with the other European exiled Surrealists. Breton was also primarily a literary figure rather than an artist. Matta, who had arrived in the U.S. a couple of years prior to Breton, socialized more with the New York artists than Breton and, being a visual artist himself, exerted more of an influence on their work. Of the artists already living in New York at the time of the Surrealist invasion it was probably Arshile Gorky who was the closest to Breton on a personal level. Matta would also befriend Gorky but with ultimately tragic consequences.

ANDRÉ BRETON AND ARSHILE GORKY

Arshile Gorky had emigrated to the U.S. in February 1920 after surviving the Armenian Genocide (see April 1915). Barnett Newman would later refer to Gorky as “the white-haired boy of Breton and the Surrealists” (HH557) It was largely through Breton’s efforts that Gorky got his first dealer – Julian Levy – and his first solo show in New York for which Breton wrote the preface to the catalogue. Breton’s preface (“The Eye-Spring: Arshile Gorky”) would also be included in the second edition of Breton’s book Surrealism and Painting published in 1945.

andre breton and gorky

Arshile Gorky (L) and André Breton
Roxbury, Connecticut (March 1945)
(Gorky’s daughter is on his shoulders)

Andre Breton [from "The Eye-Spring: Arshile Gorky"]:

“The eye-spring… Arshile Gorky – for me the first painter to whom the secret has been completely revealed!… One can admire today a canvas signed by Gorky, The Liver is the Cock’s Comb, which should be considered the great open door to the analogy world… Gorky is, of all the Surrealist artists, the only one who maintains direct contact with nature – sits down to paint before her… Here is an art entirely new… a leap beyond the ordinary and the known to indicate, with an impeccable arrow of light, a real feeling of liberty.” (HH478)

Gorky did not actually meet Breton until early 1944. Jeanne Reynal, a friend of Gorky’s wife, wanted to meet Breton herself so she asked Isamu Noguchi to help arrange a dinner that included herself, Gorky, Gorky’s wife Mougouch and Breton. Jeanne and Mougouch could speak French and acted as translators for Breton and Gorky during the dinner. Mougouch later recalled that Gorky “had found a soul mate” in Breton. According to Mougouch, “Breton promised to see Gorky’s work in the next day or so” and “Gorky and I danced all the way home.” (HH450) They invited Breton to Gorky’s Union Square studio for dinner and a chance to look at Gorky’s work.

Mougouch [Arshile Gorky's wife]:

“I had never had a poet to dinner… I walked all over New York getting out dinner. We had artichokes, rice pilaf and a large Brie for dinner… We scrubbed the darkest corners [of their apartment] but it couldn’t have mattered if we had sat in the dust and eaten straw, it was all so emotional and exciting. Breton gave without measure, and this was what Gorky needed; Breton didn’t, as Gorky said, ‘miss the point.’ He understood about all those childhood memories, all the mythology of Gorky’s childhood, he didn’t laugh or look embarrassed but instead made sympathetic noises and had tears in his eyes and was exquisitely polite, and Gorky and I nearly went up to heaven then and there with happiness.” (HH430)

Gorky had, of course, been aware of Surrealism for a considerable period of time prior to meeting Breton. Gorky’s first dealer, Julien Levy, later recalled that when Levy’s book, Surrealism, was published in 1936, “he [Gorky] straightaway read it in the back room of my gallery and soon borrowed it to take home.” (MA284) Initially Levy was reticent to take on Gorky.

Julien Levy:

“Arshile Gorky did not come to my gallery directly to show me his own work. In the winter of 1932 he came urging me to look at the work of a friend of his named John Graham, and it was Graham who generously suggested that I also look at a portfolio of Gorky’s own drawings. ‘My portfolio is already in your back office,’ Gorky reluctantly confessed, and my secretary told me that ‘that man is always leaving his portfolio in the back office. He comes back days later and pretends he has forgotten it.’ ‘Yes,’ said Gorky shamelessly, ‘and I always expect you will have opened it and discovered masterpieces….’ So I sorted through them, and I answered Gorky gently… I listened to the woes of his financial disorder, and I lent him $500. Later, when he couldn’t repay, I bought some of his drawings. But I could not promise him an exhibition.” (MA283)

Levy overcame his initial reticence at showing Gorky’s work after Breton’s endorsement of the artist. Gorky signed with Levy’s gallery in 1944. His first solo show opened on March 6, 1945. (HH474) On New Years Eve in 1944 Breton visited the Gorkys and helped to name the paintings that would be included in the first show. On January 10, 1945 Mougouch wrote to Jeanne Reynal, “Breton came down new years eve and gorky told him something associated with or of each painting and breton with his marvelous incision picked those of g.s. words which made a title. They are very nice I think, they are gorky not surrealism… and andre was very anxious to maintain that you know he did not want to make them surrealist.” (HH465/original grammar retained) Despite Mougouch’s assertion that the titles were “gorky not surrealism” the names of the ten paintings that were included Gorky’s first exhibition at Levy’s gallery do reflect a Surrealist influence: The Leaf of the Artichoke Is an Owl, One Year the Milkweed, Water of the Flowery Mill, The Sun, The Dervish in the Tree, The Horns of the Landscape, They Will Take My Island, The Pirate, Love of a New Gun, and How My Mother’s Embroidered Apron Unfolds in My Life.” (HH467)

The show was, unfortunately, badly hung (according to Breton) and poorly attended. Julien Levy had neglected to mail out the announcements in time for the opening. He also, apparently, didn’t understand the paintings he was exhibiting. Gorky’s wife Mougouch later reported to Jeanne Reynal that at the opening of the show, “Julien was half drunk. He was a heavy drinker and he always smelled of Roquefort cheeze. At the opening Gorky overheard Julien explaining his paintings to someone, and it made him so angry he went into a corner and started to sharpen his pencil. He was just horrified. Then he realized that Julien didn’t really understand his paintings at all and was just backing him because he thought he would take off and he was getting Gorky for nothing.” (HH474-5)

Mougouch [from a letter to Jeanne Reynal in early April]:

“I guess to tell the truth it was sort of disappointment to us because we had both thought of something really good in the way of presentation he had everything paintings and andre’s beautiful preface which he [Levy] badly translated so many things that julien muffed like only printing a couple of hundred catalogues so that now there are no more… Everyone said (except andre who told julien it was badly hung and framed and now thats a new swords point) it looked very beautiful and of course it couldn’t help but… but all this made us very worried about he opening and we got there a bit late and drank a lot of cocktails furnished by an old friend of Gorky’s and very soon gorky had that wild disheveeled look… By that time julien had so tactfully and understandingly told him that the critics who had been there through the afternoon had been stonier and more unresponsive than he had ever known them…” (HH275)

In her letter to Reynal, Mougouch also mentioned going to the Reis’ home for a dinner party. Presumably this was the first time that Gorky and his wife attended one of the Reis’ gatherings. According to Mougouch the party was “full of surrealists” most of whom “were not on speaking terms” with Breton.

Mougouch [from the letter to Jeanne Reynal]:

“… well anyway at our opening pierre matisse asked us to come to dinner on Thursday so we decided to sell my diamond pin and just stay for three days and debauch which we did… [Gorky and Mougouch were living in David Hare's home near Roxbury Connecticut at the time. (HH470)] We had supper with andre [Breton] and elisa [Claro] who is awfully sweet and she just loves gorky… andre gave us his manuscript for the preface and I am sending it to you to read it is so different in french and the they took us to some party in some people named reis house they have many paintings and the party was full of surrealists and most of whom were not on speaking terms with andre… at this party andre had a loud verbal fight with seligman while everyone looked on terrified while they waved their pipes and pranced at each other and gorky just went on talking about maro [their daughter] to the hostess how she said ge ge at the moon… (HH477)

The woman who Mougouch named as accompanying Breton to dinner – “Elisa” – was Elisa Claro (née Binhoff) who would soon become Breton’s third and final wife. Breton’s book, Arcane 17 – written while Claro and Breton were visiting Canada (c. summer – October 1944) was largely inspired by Elisa. (FR/AJ) Jacqueline Lamba, Breton’s current wife, had been having an affair since 1943 with David Hare who worked with Breton on VVV. Breton was aware of the affair. During the summer of 1943 Lamba and Hare stayed with Breton in a rented house in Hampton Bays where he wrote his epic poem Les Etats Genereaux. (AX) Breton divorced Lamba and married Claro in Reno Nevada during the summer of 1945. (PH)

In early January 1945, prior to Breton’s divorce from Lamba, Gorky and Mougouch moved into Hare’s property near Roxbury Connecticut on 148 Good Hill Road where they would live until about September 1945. While staying at Hare’s property they subleased their New York apartment at Union Square West to relatives of Mougouch. In April 1945 Breton visited them at Hare’s house and asked Gorky to do some illustrations for his soon-to-be published book of poems, Young Cherry Trees Secured against Hares. (HH469/481). The same month, Jacqueline Lamba visited the Gorkys with her daughter and was particularly bitter about Breton. After the visit Mougouch wrote to Reynal about Breton and Lamba splitting up, “All I can say is may such a horrible nightmare never happen to us.” (HH482) Three years later, in 1948, an even worse “nightmare” did happen to Mougouch and Gorky after Mougouch fell in love with Matta – the consequences of which would be far more tragic than the split-up between Lamba and Breton.

Breton visited Gorky and Mougouch again at Hare’s property in May 1945 before he and Elisa headed for Reno where he divorced Jacqueline and married Elisa. During his visit with Gorky, Breton encouraged him to move to Paris and also asked if he would contribute some drawings to an American issue that he hoped to publish of a British Surrealist publication titled Message from Nowhere. (HH483) About a week after Breton’s visit, Mougouch wrote to Jeanne Reynal that her and Gorky were planning to move to Paris “in the spring of next year.” (HH485) In addition to going to Reno in 1945, Breton also went to Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona where he visited several Indian reservations including the Pueblo, Hopi and Zuni tribes. (FR)

Breton was still in Reno in July 1945. Marcel Duchamp wrote him there on July 2, 1945 suggesting a front cover for the second edition of Breton’s book, Surrealism and Painting: “Take the bare feet, Magritte’s shoes. Instead of black, make a print in sanguine on pink paper (or just white). This bloodshot reproduction would be imprinted in the middle of the board and also imprinted your name, the title of the book… and Brentano’s below.” (DW) Breton followed Duchamp’s suggestion and used Magritte’s Le Modèle Rouge (or Red Model) for the cover. The image was also used as part of the Brentano’s window display for the book. Swiss artist Isabelle Waldberg, who lived in New York from 1941 – 1946, contributed a mask to the Brentano’s display. On November 10, 1945 she wrote to her husband in Paris “Yesterday morning, we did the window at Brentano’s Surréalisme et la peinture. Marcel [Duchamp] naturally did everything, all design and execution. Here’s a drawing of it.” (DW) As the display took place in November the book probably came out around the same time.

surrealism and painting cover

The front cover of the second edition of
Surrealism and Painting by André Breton (1945)

Breton and his new wife left the United States not long after the publication of the book, leaving on December 4, 1945 to travel first to Haiti, Martinique and the Dominican Republic before returning to Paris. (FR) Prior to Breton’s departure the Gorkys moved (in c. mid-late September) from Hare’s Roxbury house to a farmhouse owned by Jean and Henry Hebbeln in Sherman, Connecticut. An agreement was worked out where Henry Hebbeln would share Gorky’s Union Square studio and Gorky and Mougouch would rent the Hebbeln farmhouse after it was remodeled. (HH487). According to Gorky biographer, Hayden Herrara, “the Hebbelns made bad housemates. Henry was mostly in New York living with a male lover, but he sometimes came to Sherman on weekends. Childless, married to a homosexual, and already deeply descended into alcoholism, Jean Hebbeln needed the Gorkys to share her home.” (HH493) When the Hebbelns were in Sherman on the weekends, Gorky and Mougouch were able to stay at Union Square on their occasional visits to New York. (HH496-98) Presumably they were staying there when they attended a farewell dinner for Breton organized by Matta at the La Parisienne restaurant on Forty-sixth Street in Manhattan. By the time of the dinner, Matta had also divorced his wife, Anne, after she gave births to twins. He hosted the farewell dinner with his new wife, Patricia. (HH498) After dinner, they played the game of Truth.

From Arshile Gorky: His Life and Work by Hayden Herrera:

“After dinner the guests sat around the table and played the Surrealist game of Truth or Consequences or Le jeu de la verité, in which players take turns at being asked embarrassing questions, usually involving love and sex. Those interrogated must answer truthfully or accept the consequences, which could be even more embarrassing – for example, they might be told to kiss someone in the room, preferably someone else’s spouse, or, when these games got out of hand, they might be told to pretend to masturbate in public. Mougouch was asked, ‘What part of a woman’s body do you kiss most attentively when making love to her?’ She blushed and said she didn’t know. Gorky glowered. Sensing trouble, Breton, who always played master of ceremonies at these events, announced, ‘Passons!’ He then patted Mougouch’s hand and the players went on to the next victim. At the end of the evening came another sort of Surrealist game – Matta absconded without paying the bill. As Mougouch wrote to Jeanne, ‘We were all suddenly asked to pay the bill – André was in a rage from start to finish but I began to think they just love to be outraged.’” (HH499)

Breton finally returned to his Paris apartment at 42 rue Fontaine in late May of 1946 and continued to encourage Gorky to come to Paris. (SS387) Jeanne Reynal wrote to Mougouch on October 6, 1946 that Breton had told her that Gorky was “the one artist for whom he would do something in Paris.” (HH528) The same day Mougouch wrote to Breton telling him they hoped to move to Paris and suggested that a small house near the city would be appropriate accommodation. On November 4th Breton wrote back with words of encouragement. He was planning a large Surrealist exhibition to take place the following year and wanted Gorky to participate. (HH531)

EXPOSITION INTERNATIONAL DU SURRÉALISME

The exhibition that Breton was busy organizing was “Le surréalisme en 1947: Exposition international du surréalisme” which opened in early July 1947 at the Galerie Maeght in Paris. It included the work of about 100 artists from 24 countries. Gorky contributed How My Mother’s Embroidered Apron Unfolds in My Life. Other artists associated with Breton’s stay in the U.S. who also showed at the exhibition included David Hare, Gerome Kamrowski, Frederick Keisler (who had designed Peggy Guggenheim’s Art of This Century gallery), Kay Sage (Tanguy’s wife) and Man Ray. The exhibition focused on alchemy, esotericism and myth. The gallery was arranged as though it was a place of initiation. After climbing twenty-one book steps visitors crossed the Hall of Superstitions into a labyrinth, inspired by voodoo rituals, containing alters dedicated to “a being, a category of beings, or an object, real or imaginary, capable of being endowed with a mythical life, such as the Great Invisibles.” (SS395)

A limited edition of the exhibition catalogue was produced which featured a rubber breast on the cover designed by Marcel Duchamp. A copy of the catalogue can be seen at:
http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/89754.html. (If you own one of these catalogues and have noticed breast deterioration the Victoria and Albert Museum in London has published a guide to preserving the breast which asks “How do you dissuade those enquiring fingers from having a feel and why should you?” You will find the V & A guide at:
http://www.vam.ac.uk/res_cons/conservation/treatment/core/ob_story/index.html)

Although meant to be a major exhibition that would reinvigorate the Surrealist movement in France, Breton’s “Exposition international du surréalisme” failed to live up to its promise. Surrealism had lost the ability to shock. In the July 9, 1947 issue of Figaro Albert Palle wrote, “We are no longer moved by it [Surrealism]… the enormous destruction of the world which we lived through during the dark years has emptied Surrealism of its explosive force.” The Paris correspondent for Time magazine agreed: “After the gas chambers, those heaps of bones and teeth and shoes and eyeglasses, what is there left for the poor Surrealists to shock us with?” (SS398) David Hare attended the show (accompanied by Breton’s ex-wife, Jacqueline Lamba) and, on August 8, 1947, wrote a letter to Enrico Donati giving his own impressions of the show. (Donati was also included in the exhibition and had worked with Duchamp on the cover of the catalogue. (SS394))

David Hare [from the letter to Donati (August 8, 1947) - grammar and spelling as per the original]:

“The show finely opened after all the various disagreements that you so well emagin since you remember VVV. However the public didn’t know all that so they are labering under the imprestion the surrealists are one big happy family. Surrealism is accepted as past history. The gallery is crowded with humanity with nothing better to do on an afternoon. There are no discussions, no fights, no real interest and yet it is a suces as a publicety stunt for the gallery. .one would say it was a popular success, but an intellectual failure… a small group of people amusing themselves with ideas which they invented in 1929. (SS398)

Arshile Gorky never made it to the exhibition and would never move to Paris. He committed suicide in 1948 after a series of misfortunes. First he was diagnosed with cancer, then on June 26, 1948 Julien Levy crashed his car into a roadside post while Gorky was his passenger. Gorky suffered a broken collarbone and two fractured vertebrae in his neck. HIs painting arm was paralyzed. Although the paralysis would partially subside the traction device he was required to wear after the accident made movement difficult and painful. In July 1948 Gorky’s wife, Mougouch, told him that she was in love with Matta. (In late June Mougouch and Matta had had a secret romantic rendezvous.) Mougouch told Gorky that although she loved Matta, she loved Gorky more. (MS364) On July 21, 1948 Gorky’s body was found hanging from a noose in a shed on the Connecticut property. A short suicide note was scrawled on a nearby crate. His neighbours Peter Blum and Malcolm Cowley found the body. According to Blum, the suicide note read “Good-by my loves.” According to Cowley it read “Good-by all my loved.” (HH612/613)

After Gorky’s death, Matta telephoned Breton in Paris to defend his behaviour in Surrealist terms. He attributed his affair with Mougouch to the “unrestrained pursuit of desire,” pointing out that the Marquis de Sade had been revered by the Surrealists. Breton called him a murderer and hung up on him. (HH623) On October 25, 1948 Breton’s group of Surrealists issued a statement that expelled Matta. (SS)

Eleven years later Matta was accepted back into the Surrealist fold when he participated in a Jean Benoît Surrealist performance piece titled Execution of the Testament of the Marquis de Sade at the apartment of the poet Joyce Mansour.

Costume for Execution of the Testment of the Marquis de Sade

Costume from Execution of the
Testament of the Marquis de Sade
(http://homepage.mac.com/photomorphose/benoit0.html)

Hayden Herrera [from Arshile Gorky: His Life and Work]:

“Eleven years later, at a kind of happening, entitled the Execution of the Testament of the Marquis de Sade, Matta was reinstated. Some two hundred members of the Parisian haut monde and intelligentsia stood in a semicircle, their mood made suitably solemn by a tape recording of Breton reading from Sade’s Justine against the background sound of an erupting volcano. An artist dressed as a devil came onto the stage dragging a black coffin with an erect penis poking through its lid. A woman undressed him, revealing a body covered in black paint, and the devil then grabbed a red-hot iron and branded the word Sade on his heart. ‘Who is next?’ he asked, and the tipsy Matta, happy to be back in Breton’s company, rushed forward, bared his chest, and branded his left breast.” (HH623)

The performance took place on December 2, 1959 – two weeks prior to the opening of another “Exposition Internationale du Surréalisme” organized by Breton with the help of Duchamp. The exhibition took place at the Galerie Daniel Cordier in Paris from December 15, 1959 to February 14, 1960. Artists included Robert Rauschenberg (RC) and Jasper Johns (Target with Plaster Casts (1955)). In 1965 Breton organized his final exhibition of Surrealism, “L’Écart absolu” at the Galerie L’Oeil. He died the following year on September 28, 1966 in Paris.

From André Breton’s obituary in The New York Times:

“When Mr. Breton returned to France in 1946, the world had changed. If such painters as Matta or Wilfredo Lam had given Surrealist art a new lease on life, existentialism was dominating the literary scene… Nevertheless he continued to write, publishing two magazines, a work on Rimbaud, poems and essays… The last years of his life were spent in a country house in southwestern France and in an apartment at the bottom of Montmartre littered with manuscripts, books and African art. He was suffering from Marcel Proust’s disease, asthma, and recently told a friend that the one writer he envied was Victor Hugo ‘because at his funeral were all the people of Paris.’ (BC)

Inside Andy Warhol – Interview with Andy Warhol, 1966

•June 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment

Inside Andy Warhol by Sterling McIlhenny and Peter Ray – the following interview with Andy Warhol appeared in the men’s magazine, Cavalier, in 1966, taken from Waholstars.org. (The original article also included an introduction by Nat Finkelstein.)

To conduct the interview that follows we took our tape recorder to the “Factory,” as Warhol calls his studio, which is located on the fourth floor of a rickety loft building in Manhattan’s east forties. The interior of the Factory – walls, ceiling, and floor – and everything in it, is painted silver or covered with a veneer of Reynolds Wrap – which produces a curiously timeless, abstract feeling. About the only furniture, aside from a few props left over from movie-making, is a couple of pieces in the 1930’s ‘moderne’ style – a lucite-and-glass china cabinet and the semi-circular couch on which we conducted the interview. In the center of the Factory six or seven youths, male and female, all sporting tight pants and long hair, were languidly frugging to the Beatles’ latest number, blasting from a loudspeaker.

A few minutes after we arrived, the silver door to the Factory opened and Andy Warhol stepped in to offer us an inanimate handshake. Except for his hair, which, like the interior of the Factory, seems to sport an applied silver color, Warhol creates a completely unobtrusive presence. He is pale and slight. He uses few gestures, speaks softly, sometimes almost inaudibly, and wears dark glasses indoors and out. It is almost impossible to tell whether the aura of bland self-concealment that surrounds him is a mask assumed to create a paradox or, true paradox, is simply like the real man himself.

This interview may be read as a Pop Art psychodrama. The cast of characters includes, besides the subject, a number of Assistants to the Artist, who, abandoning the Beatles, draped themselves around our couch.

Before we could get our tape recorder warmed up, Andy Warhol produced his own transistorised set and placed the microphone before us.

Andy Warhol: Have you ever been taped before?

Cavalier: No. At any rate not as a part of the underground movement.

Andy Warhol: We should make a video tape of this interview at the same time so we could look at it.

Cavalier: This is a very interesting looking place, although the Reynolds Wrap seems to be coming loose here. Is there any particular meaning behind everything being painted silver?

Andy Warhol: Well, you might say I have a fondness for silver, or even gold for that matter.

Cavalier: The gold seems to be well hidden. Where did you get this cellophane-wrapped couch?

Andy Warhol: It just arrived one day. Apparently someone made a mistake in the address and had it delivered here.

Cavalier: You didn’t tell them it was a mistake?

Andy Warhol: No. We didn’t want them to have to move something that heavy again after they’d already brought it here.

Cavalier: About when did the Pop Art movement begin?

Andy Warhol: I guess about five years ago.

Cavalier: Salvador Dali has been quoted as saying that he is the father of Pop Art. Have you any comment on that?

Andy Warhol: I don’t know. He’s certainly been around a long time. But it’s hard to understand what he is saying most of the time.

Cavalier: What were the first Pop Art things you did?

Andy Warhol: I did comic strips and ads. A great many artists were working on different ideas at the same time. Things just fell together to create the Pop Art movement.

Cavalier: Why did you start with comic strips? Were you interested in them as an entertainment medium or, as some intellectuals regard them, a kind of illustrated modern mythology?

Andy Warhol: I don’t know. Just as comic strips, that’s all. They were things I knew and they are relatively easy to draw or, better still, to trace. I also did movie stars – Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Troy Donahue – during my ‘death’ period. Marilyn Monroe died then. I felt that Elizabeth Taylor was going to die too, after her operation. I thought that there were a lot of people who were going to die – like Troy Donahue.

Cavalier: Why did you think Troy Donahue was going to die?

Andy Warhol: I don’t know. He just looked like it. I concentrated on a series of Marilyn Monroe. She fascinated me as she did the rest of America. I did about forty paintings of her. Most of them are in gallery shows and private collections. But I still have some of them myself.

Cavalier: Are they all different?

Andy Warhol: Most of them are. I used photographs. I made multiple-color silk screen paintings – like my comic strip technique. Why don’t you ask my assistant Gerry Malanga some questions? He did a lot of my paintings.

Cavalier: Mr. Warhol, what’s your role in making the paintings?

Andy Warhol: I just selected the subjects, things that I didn’t have to change much.

Cavalier: With such a lack of involvement in your own work, what value if any could your painting hold for you?

Andy Warhol: Oh, I don’t know… (At this point a lanky, wavy-haired young man dressed in short pants, sandals, and sun glasses appeared in the silver entrance to the Factory.) Oh! Ondine does some of my Pop Art work. Come here, Ondine, we’re being taped. Just a few words.

Ondine: I have to go to the bathroom first.

Andy Warhol: Oh, no, come here first.

Cavalier: Do you have any feeling at all about the images you create?

Andy Warhol: Ondine, you’re not going to the bathroom.

Cavalier: By the way, you have a great mirror in there. It’s very narcissistic.

Andy Warhol: Really? Where is it? I don’t remember.

Cavalier: Behind the door. It gives you a two-way view of yourself using the toilet. But let’s get back to art. Most of the things you paint are simply exact re-creations – rather than interpretations – of perfectly ordinary things: Brillo boxes, dollar bills, matchbook covers. Some are recognizable as art only because they are displayed in a gallery instead of a supermarket. When you paint these objects do you have a specific audience in mind?

Andy Warhol: No.

Cavalier: What is your feeling then? Do you want anyone to react to them, or do you paint them just to please yourself?

Andy Warhol: It gives me something to do.

Cavalier: As opposed to what? Nothing to do?

Andy Warhol: Yes.

Cavalier: There must be more rewarding things to do than printing dozens of Brillo labels by hand. It must take a great deal of time and effort.

Andy Warhol: It doesn’t take long, especially when you have a lot of people helping you.

Cavalier: Do you expect people to regard them as works of art?

Andy Warhol: No, we don’t have any feeling about them at all, even when we are doing them. It just keeps us busy. It’s something to pass the time.

(Ondine comes out of the bathroom.)

Andy Warhol: Oh, Ondine – don’t disappear again. Please.

Cavalier: Why is Ondine emptying a bucket of water into the toilet?

Andy Warhol: It’s very important. The toilet doesn’t work very well.

Cavalier: To return to the fine arts: Why do people buy your art?

Andy Warhol: I don’t know.

Cavalier: Isn’t there a slight chance that you’re trying to find out just how far the public will follow your artistic experiments?

Andy Warhol: No. It just gives me something to do.

Cavalier: Have you ever met anyone who has bought your work?

Andy Warhol: Just one – and they keep sending it back without paying for it. Usually for personal reasons.

Cavalier: What do you mean? That they’ve hung it wrong or you don’t like it?

Andy Warhol: No. They just keep sending it back. It’s not the price. They can afford the money. Oh! Ondine. Please say a few words. Come on.

Ondine: When shall I ever get to bed?

Andy Warhol: Just sit right here next to me.

Ondine (To Cavalier): Hello. How are you? What’s that (indicating microphone)?

Cavalier: That’s Warhol’s – this is ours (microphone) – the real taping.

Ondine: Then I’ll talk into Warhol’s.

Andy Warhol: Ondine was the subject of my six-and-a-half-hour movie Sleep. He was the only thing on camera for the entire film. [Note: The real star of Sleep was, of course, John Giorno. gc.]

Cavalier: Ondine, then, is living, walking subject matter.

Andy Warhol: Well, walking, yes.

Ondine: I am just walking: I have a terrible cold. I haven’t been able to sleep in almost three days.

Cavalier: Is Ondine a Pop artist?

Andy Warhol: No, but he does some sculpture. What would you say, Ondine?

Ondine: I hope people never will buy anything that I do. I never want to be popularly accepted. For instance, I won’t appear in any movies other than Andy Warhol’s, and they aren’t popularly accepted.

Cavalier: Does he pay you?

Ondine: Of course not. I do it for love.

Cavalier: Why, again, Mr. Warhol, do you think people go out and buy a brillo box painted by you when they can just as well buy the real thing for a few cents, if they regard this as art?

Andy Warhol: They could get SOS, the rust-free soap pads. Ondine, what kind do you use?

Ondine: I use any kind that will give my complexion that fresh scrubbed look. Sunkist like a lemon.

Andy Warhol: I thought your mouth was sunkist.

Ondine: My mouth? Oh, no. That’s a dew drop.

Andy Warhol: Somebody get Ondine a glass of water.

Cavalier: Ondine, do you like other people’s Pop Art?

Ondine: I don’t know other people’s Pop Art. I only know Andy’s.

Cavalier: That’s hard to believe. Mr. Warhol, have you, like many other artists today, ever been in analysis, or taken any hallucinogenic drugs?

Andy Warhol: No, I think I face everything straight on.

Cavalier: Do you think this is reflected in your painting?

Andy Warhol: I think it is. Ondine, do you like the magic book I gave you? Are you a witch, Ondine?

Ondine: Yes, I do like the book but I couldn’t be a witch, I’m not from the Bronx.

Cavalier: Do you have to be from the Bronx to be a witch?

Ondine: All the witches I’ve met are from the Bronx.

Cavalier: Mr. Warhol, did you ever study art?

Andy Warhol: No I never did, but Ondine did in High School.

Ondine: Yes, but I only paint myself. White. With water-soluble paint. I was at Henry Geldzahler’s and he was painting the bathroom. I got some paint on myself and decided to take my clothes off and paint myself all over. Then he took the brush away from me.

Cavalier: Mr Warhol, you just said that you hadn’t studied painting. Has there been a strong influence in your work?

Andy Warhol: Mark [sic] Chagall. I love his work very much. I never had any thought of copying his art, but I did feel that I could express my ideas as he has.

Cavalier: When did you start painting?

Andy Warhol: About four or five years ago.

Cavalier: What about the time prior to that?

Andy Warhol: Before that time I was very young.

Cavalier: Yes. I’m sure you were. Are you interested in what the critics say about your work?

Andy Warhol: No, just Henry Geldzahler. He’s a good friend – a fan. And I want him to care. Whatever anyone else says has no value to me concerning my work. I don’t need approval. I have confidence in what I’m doing.

Cavalier: What is the future of Pop Art?

Andy Warhol: It’s finished.

Cavalier: What will you do?

Andy Warhol: I’ll become more involved in my movies. I haven’t done any painting since May of last year.

Cavalier: Have you made any money from your paintings?

Andy Warhol: Yes. But it just covers the cost of making movies. I don’t pay any of the people who act in them or help conceive the ideas, but film and processing cost a lot, and the rent of the Factory and the props.

Cavalier: Could you tell us something about your movies?

Andy Warhol: It would take too long. There are over forty of them.

Cavalier: Film Culture magazine has said that your “Underground” movies are a “meditation on the objective world, in a sense… a cinema of happiness.” Some of your films, however, are about rather bizarre aspects of the objective world. For example, Eat is forty-five silent minutes of a man eating a mushroom, Empire is eight solid hours of the world’s tallest building. blow Job has been described as one half hour of ‘a passionate matter handled with restraint and good taste.’ One of your newest sound films, Vinyl, has a couple of scenes of what the Victorian english referred to as ‘buggery,’ a subject which, by any name, is still regarded rather gravely by polite society. In view of such controversial subjects, have you ever encountered any trouble showing your films?

Andy Warhol: In the past there has ben at least one bad scene I can recall – a police raid. But I think they’ve about gotten over this by now.

Cavalier: When did you first start making movies?

Andy Warhol: About two years ago. I just suddenly came up with the thought that making movies would be something interesting to do, and I went out and bought a Bolex 16mm camera. I made my first movie in California, on a trip to Los Angeles. I went there with Taylor Meade [sic], an Underground movie star. We stayed in a different place every day. We took some shots in a men’s room out at North Beach and we used one of the old Hollywood mansions for for some of the inside shots. The movie we were shooting was Tarzan and Jane Regained Sort of. Taylor Meade [sic] called it his most anti-Hollywood film. [Note: Tarzan and Jane was not Warhol's first film - see filmography. gc.]

Cavalier: Where do you show them?

Andy Warhol: They were showing one at the Cinematheque the other night. And they play at the Astor Playhouse.

Cavalier: Is there any relation between your paintings and your movies?

Andy Warhol: No, but there will be. Henry Geldzahler said I could combine my movies and my paintings.

Cavalier: What do you mean?

Andy Warhol: I don’t think I should go into details right now.

Cavalier: Who besides Ondine has played in your films?

Andy Warhol: Baby Jane used to . Edie Sedgwick is our new superstar.

Cavalier: Where do you make your movies?

Andy Warhol: Nearly all of the indoor shots can be done here in the Factory, as the props are very stark, almost severe. The outdoor shots are done wherever we feel like doing them. In the beginning when we first started with film we went about it in the traditional way technically. They were cut and edited as any other films are. We’ve given that up now. We feel we’re beyond that.

Cavalier: Not long ago you were experimenting with video tape. In fact you said you might do all your future work with tape.

Andy Warhol: Well, yes, we were working with some equipment form the Norelco people. It was all here at the Factory, and as you can see, it’s gone now. They made a promotional thing of it including an underground party on the railroad tracks underneath the Waldorf Astoria, down where the tracks run towards Grand Central Station. It was climaxed by the filming of a duelling scene. Video tape has its advantages, such as immediate playback and you can get by with very little light. It allows for instant retakes and with this you can maintain the particular mood that has been created for a scene.

Cavalier: You must have some sort of crew for making these movies.

Andy Warhol: Well I do, and then there are two secretaries for correspondence and answering on the phone and changing records on the phonograph.

Cavalier: What movie are you doing now?

Andy Warhol: We are doing a movie called Breathe, and after that we’ll do a movie a week, but they’ll be straight movies.

Cavalier: What do you mean by ’straight’ movies?

Andy Warhol: I can’t define it – Let’s just say something that ’s not vacuous.

Cavalier: Do you have any particular person in mind for these movies?

Andy Warhol: Edie Sedgwick will be in all of them.

Cavalier: In 1964, when she was named ‘Girl of the Year,’ Baby Jane appeared in many of your movies. Do you think her parts in your films had anything to do with her other successes?

Andy Warhol: Oh, yes. She really hadn’t done anything until she joined our group.

Cavalier: How did that come about?

Ondine (interrupting): She just appeared here one afternoon. She was swept in by a group of fairies and then decided to come back every now and then.

Cavalier: Do you have fun making your movies?

Andy Warhol: Oh, yes, I enjoy it.

Cavalier: Even the one showing Ondine sleeping for over six hours?

Andy Warhol: Well, I’ve never watched all of that one. I just fed film into the camera and made sure it was taking the pan shots and other shots that I wanted. In the end, thought, we only used 100 feet of the film we shot, running it over and over again for eight hours. We don’t edit any of the films. What I sometimes do is use two reels of the three reels we may have shot. [Note: Sleep was actually edited fairly extensively by Sarah Dalton according to Warhol's instructions.gc]

Cavalier: Do you want a lot of people to see your films?

Andy Warhol: I don’t know. If they’re paying to see them. By the way, they can be rented. There’s a catalog, and the cost is nominal: one dollar per minute. A 30-minute film can be rented for $30. Sleep rents for $100, at a special rate, and you can get all eight hours of Empire for $120.

Cavalier: A lot of people have said that these are pretty boring films.

Andy Warhol: They might be. I think the more recent ones with sound are much better.

Cavalier: You say you are not going to continue painting in order to concentrate on movie-making. Is there any one particular reason for this?

Andy Warhol: I decided to concentrate entirely on films when I met the most fantastic man in the world, Huntington Hartford. He is very enthused about what we are trying to do. He has offered us the use of his Paradise Island in the Bahamas to make our next film.

Cavalier: Knowing the kind of conservative art that is shown in Mr. Hartford’s Gallery of Modern Art it is hard to imagine him taking part in such an avant-grade venture.

Andy Warhol: Well, along with everyone else he is very excited about this project. It’s to be our first full-length picture. By that I mean it will have a large cast and a complete crew of technicians and a carefully prepared script.

Cavalier: What will distinguish this from your other films besides the large cast and crew?

Andy Warhol: We plan to make money from it. Not just enough to cover the rent here at the Factory and the cost of processing films but a good deal of money.

Cavalier: Can you tell us something about this film?

Andy Warhol: It will be Jane Eyre. Chuck Wein is writing the shooting script. We know we want a total running time of one hour and forty minutes and that Edie Sedgwick will be the star. Why don’t you ask Chuck some questions.

Cavalier: How do you do, Mr. Wein? How did you get involved with Andy Warhol?

Chuck Wein: It was an accident. I was at a party with Edie and Andy asked me if I’d like to write a movie for him. I said yes. So far I’ve done Poor Little Rich Girl, Party, It Isn’t Just Another Afternoon, and some others.

Cavalier: Mr. Warhol, why did you pick Chuck as a script writer?

Andy Warhol: When I met him at the party I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Cavalier: The average person may not know much about art, but if he follows the gossip columns and watches the ‘night’ shows on television, he knows something about you. For example, recently a photograph appeared in the society sections of the New York papers of you and Edie Sedgwick at a ‘Mod Ball’ at the Rainbow Room in Rockefeller Center. You have become a real social phenomenon, in a peculiar sense.

Andy Warhol: The part about the parties I attend is probably overplayed. Most of them are well covered by the press. That accounts for my name appearing so often. I’ve been on some radio and television shows, but I usually bomb out. I’ve given up saying anything.

Cavalier: Anything?

Andy Warhol: Just about.