“Well, I’m through,” said photographer Alfred Stieglitz
in April 1917 as he closed up shop at 291, the progressive art gallery that
had become a regular meeting place for the New York avant-garde. “But,”
he added triumphantly, “I have given the world a woman!”
Over the years, Stieglitz, whose renown as a critic and curator was beginning
to outstrip his glowing reputation as the man who finally brought photography into
the realm of fine art, had introduced America to the works of such notable
European artists as Rodin and Matisse. He had been the first person to show works by such
provocative Americans as Arthur Dove, Charles Demuth, and Marsden
Hartley. But in spite of all this, he believed
that introducing the world to a female artist as accomplished and progressive as any
male painter of the day was by far his greatest achievement. The painter in question
was Georgia O’Keeffe, a young art teacher who would eventually become Stieglitz’s
second wife.
O’Keeffe was no doubt seething on the inside over her lover’s comment, though
she never said as much. Could anyone — even Stieglitz, whose opinion she held in the
highest regard — make such a self-serving comment? A comment that was ultimately so
dismissive of her own inherent potency? O’Keeffe hadn’t just fallen off the
tomato truck, after all. She made up her mind to become a great
artist when she was still a child in Sun Prairie, Wisconsin.
Nobody gave her to the world; she flung herself at it. And while there was something
decidedly feminine about her work, she hated being labeled a “female artist.” She was clearly
interested in helping define her gender outside the pervasive confines of the male
perspective, but she didn’t want to be defined by her gender.
There is something missing from the Brooks Museum of Art’s exhibit
“Georgia O’Keeffe and the Calla Lily in
American Art 1860-1940”: the spirit of
Georgia O’Keeffe. The exhibit’s title implies that O’Keeffe’s work will dominate the
landscape or, at the very least, set the standard by which all the other works are to
be judged. Neither is the case. Of the 30 artists (painters and photographers all)
collected for this exhibit, O’Keeffe is, in terms of sheer numbers, perhaps the best
represented. Her contemporary and compatriot at 291, Marsden Hartley, ranks a close
second. But, of all O’Keeffe’s work, only one rather small painting from 1923,
Calla Lily with Red Background, seems to capture the sexual energy and not-so-fragile beauty that set
her apart from the pack. In it, two curvaceous fields of deep red part like thighs and
between them rests a calla lily, its jagged edges seeming every bit as
dangerous as its folds seem inviting. The yellow stamen wickedly asserts itself. In spite of this remarkable piece, O’Keeffe is not
truly the star of this star-studded exhibit: the calla lily is. The often poster-ized O’Keeffe, whose
name and reputation have only grown since her death 20 years ago, has merely been given top
billing to broaden the exhibit’s popular appeal.
Though O’Keeffe often painted clouds, trees, and scenes from the American
Southwest, she also tried her hand at precisionism as well as completely abstract experiments with
color and form. Still, she is probably best known for her large flower paintings. She was
certainly not the first painter to devote herself to the tried-and-true subject matter, not even the
first modern. As calla lilies go, that honor belongs to Hartley. But O’Keeffe
brought something to her florals that had never really been there before: a social theory.
“Most people in the city
rush around so, they have no time to look at a flower,” she said. “I want them
to see it whether they want to or not.” With this statement, her work became
a kind of social realism in reverse: recognizing the rush and crush of urban
life, the artwork itself screams, “Stop and smell the roses.” Or at least the calla
lilies. It is this kind of command that is missing from the Brooks’ exhibit.
A mid-1930s drawing by Kalman Kubin places a potted calla lily down
in the middle of a city, with smoke-belching factories in the background and
with trains, trucks, and skyscrapers flanking it. A discarded newspaper with the
emphatic headline “Yanks Win!” threatens to cover the flower, and people walk
by without seeming to even notice it. Kubin’s piece is a perfect visual essay
of O’Keeffe’s rationale, but nowhere in the exhibit’s text is this point made clear.
If you aren’t an art historian, or at least an avid horticulturist, you
might find yourself wandering around this exhibit dumbly muttering, “Calla
Lily, calla lily, calla lily ” — the repetition of form can be that numbing.
But if you can avoid this fate, there are some definite wonders to behold.
Man Ray’s Calla Lily is every bit as darkly erotic as any of his famous portraits
of Kiki. Marguerite Zorach’s 1916 painting New England Family
is a bourgeoisie precursor to American
Gothic as seen through the eyes of a German
expressionist. Charles Demuth’s nonrepresentational portrait of vaudeville’s
premier drag performer Bert Savoy is a masterpiece of both kitsch and
graphic design. Hartley’s paintings, while not nearly as interesting as his own
nonrepresentational portraits, dominate the show, and they have to be seen
in person to be appreciated. The textures are that nice and that important.
And if you feel let down by the O’Keeffes, you can always seek out a small,
dark, pre-1900s painting by Anna Sellers. As delicate and detailed as a
Rembrandt, this piece places a calla lily on a
black background between two exploding red geraniums. The folds of the
white flower are positively pornographic, and yet there can be little doubt that
this was intended to be nothing more than the exact representation of a
flower. Except for sheer presence, this little painting has everything you could
ever want from even the largest O’Keeffe and, in its lack of presumption,
much, much more. n
“Georgia O’Keeffe and the Calla
Lily in American Art: 1860-1940” is at the Brooks Museum throughMay
4th.
