Cover image for On modern American art : selected essays
On modern American art : selected essays
Rosenblum, Robert.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Harry N. Abrams, 1999.
Physical Description:
384 pages : illustrations ; 25 cm
Reading Level:
1740 Lexile.
Format :


Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Item Holds
N6512 .R676 1999 Adult Non-Fiction Central Closed Stacks

On Order



This book collects Rosenblum's 50 best essays from the last 40 years-most never before published in book form-to take readers on an exhilarating exploration of the meanings, movements, personalities, & paradoxes of American art of the 20th century.

Reviews 3

Publisher's Weekly Review

Starting out in the 1950s with Pop and Post-Painterly painting (Frank Stella, Jasper Johns) and ending up with big shots from the 1980s (Eric Fischl, Jeff Koons), these 50 essays revisit every stage of Rosenblum's long career as a critic and reviewer, offering an idiosyncratic tour of recent visual art. Rosenblum (Cubism and Twentieth-Century Art), a professor at NYU, Guggenheim curator and Artforum contributing editor explains that he aims "to translate the visceral experience of art into... modes of language and art history." Usually he succeeds, as his short pieces introduce and make particular cases for Rothko, Cy Twombly, Joe Brainard, Mike and Doug Starn, and others. (All but two of the essays have been published before; many began as reviews of exhibitions.) Equally comfortable with the retrograde, the canonical and the new, Rosenblum gravitates in particular to the ways in which painters consider the history of their form. For Rosenblum, Willem de Kooning's dangerous women revise Ingres' visions, and Andrew Wyeth's famous Christina's World stays true to a peculiarly American reverie. (Sculptors and installation artists make it in; most conceptual art does not.) More general topics addressed include the importance of retrospective and memory in American painting; the heroic ambitions of Abstract Expressionists; Giorgio de Chirico's "historic quotation" and its later equivalents in U.S. paintings; and the perennial question, "What Is American About American Art?" Though it's always clear what he means to say, Rosenblum's prose can be less than compelling. Yet despite some awkward sentences, he makes a convincing case for the painter Mark Innerst, whose "time capsules" neatly reimagine cities' space. 206 b&w illustrations. (Nov.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

Insightful, provocative, and humorous, this anthology of Rosenblum's critical art essays (written between 1958 and 1998) tackles a good cross-section of notable contemporary American artists, including Willem de Kooning, Arshile Gorky, Jeff Koons, Jasper Johns, Roy Lichtenstein, Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, Frank Stella, Andy Warhol, and Andrew Wyeth. The volume is richly illustrated with photographs of many of these artists' works (although none is in color) and contains a complete bibliography of the author's writings. An important work interpreting the American art movement, it is highly recommended for public and academic libraries focusing on 20th-century art and criticism.ÄStephen Allan Patrick, East Tennessee State Univ. Lib., Johnson City (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Choice Review

"Art keeps living in both present and past tense," states Rosenblum (New York Univ.) in the preface to this extraordinary book of 50 serious and sharp, often wittily written, selected essays. The author elucidates in a penetrating manner not only the meanings, art movements, and paradoxes that exist in American art of the 20th century; he also inspires the reader to think again about those artists often neglected by other critics. More than 200 illustrations accompany Rosenblum's rich and enthusiastic text, which ends with 14 pages compiled by Kathleen Robbins, "A Bibliography of Writings by Robert Rosenblum (1953-1999)," and a lengthy index. The author makes leaping connections by juxtaposing representational, abstract, and abstracted works of art not only by American but also European artists; i.e., Turner, Friedrich, Rothko (and there are three superb essays on Rothko). Rosenblum feels strongly that it is clear that art, like people and history, keeps on changing, and he trusts that this erudite anthology will confirm the fact that we must be flexible. We ought to readjust some of our inherited prejudices and aesthetic hierarchies and try always to accommodate the demands of the new and the unfamiliar in art. Upper-division undergraduates and up. I. Spalatin; Texas A&M University-Commerce



Chapter One WHAT IS AMERICAN ABOUT AMERICAN ART? 1990 What was once a burning question in the 1930s and 1940s--"What is American about American art?"--is not asked or answered very often in these days of airport internationalism, when McDonald's can open in Moscow, maple syrup can turn up on the breakfast table of a hotel in Kyoto, and another Disneyland is scheduled to open northeast of Paris. That old question, in fact, seems to have had to do with the cultural inferiority complexes of the Roosevelt era, when it was clear to almost everybody that the best art of the century was coming from across the Atlantic and landing at the Museum of Modern Art and that the native product, if obviously not the equal of Matisse, Picasso, and Mondrian, might be defended by claiming that it had distinctive qualifies that could only be found on these shores and that ought to be cherished and preserved against the aesthetic onslaught from alien territories. But with what was to be called in the title of Irving Sandler's important study of Abstract Expressionism The Triumph of American Painting , it became equally clear that American artists in the post-Roosevelt era had miraculously emerged as the torchbearers of not only the best and most inventive of modern art, but also of an art that was universal in character, an art so surprisingly cosmic in scope that issues of nationalism seemed piddling. Not only had the once uneven competition between European and American art apparently and unexpectedly been won by the 1950s, but it had been won on so grandiosely abstract a level that the search for an American identity seemed an embarrassing memory of a parochial past.     Nevertheless, that heroic myth, in which a provincial grass-roots patriotism is conquered by a language of international breadth that can be understood around the planet, is, like most myths, both true and false. If it is true that the pictorial worlds of Pollock or Still seemed to leap from American earth to timeless nature and emotions, it is also true that when such paintings were first seen in Europe in the 1950s, foreign critics often commented upon what they felt were peculiarly American qualities--a more expansive sense of scale consonant with the vastness of the American continent; a toughness and crudity of paint handling that spoke of traditions less suave and hedonistic than those familiar to French painting; a rejection, either through intention or incompetence, of the more harmonious compositional conventions common to European painting. Although it was and still is difficult to articulate intuitions about why we feel that something, whether it be an oil painting, the taste of butter, or the cut of a suit, belongs to one country and not another, such efforts to characterize these responses suggest that the question of national character is a very real one. In fact, just in terms of ordinary experience, even in these days of nonstop tourism with internationalized hotels, fast-food chains, and shopping centers, we know that when we cross a border from one country to another, our antennae are alert to exactly those differences that would distinguish, say, Belgium from Holland or Spain from Portugal. Even in North America, who has not crossed the Canadian border without discerning that something, however subtle, has changed? And though we would be very hard put to define that change in words an outsider might understand, we would still know the experience to be true. But however distinctive, the smallest, not to mention the largest, of nations still belong to communities of international experience, sharing a broad range of space-time coordinates we might lump together under the vague rubric of Western culture.     So it is that the story of more than three centuries of American painting can be read in varying ways. We may concentrate on the American accent of the individual voices, or we may try to hear each voice in the context of an international chorus whose whole is more than the sum of the parts. Characteristically, American museums, at least when dealing with art before 1945, tend to segregate American art from its European counterparts, keeping it to its own galleries, curators, and publications. Europe is elsewhere when we visit, say, the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York, the National Museum of American Art in Washington, the Terra Museum of American Art in Chicago, or the Butler Institute of American Art in Youngstown, Ohio; and if we go to the Oakland Museum, we may even think that California has its own radiant tradition as many light-years away from New York as it is from Paris or London. But there are also other ways of shuffling this familiar deck. For example, at the Spencer Museum in the University of Kansas, American art is completely integrated with its European siblings, so that what emerges is less the particular flavor of the American tradition than a United Nations history of Western art in which American artists join forces with their transatlantic colleagues in the experience of living in, say, 1790 or 1840 or 1890.     Such an approach, in keeping with today's world of jet travel, tends to narrow rather than to widen the Atlantic Ocean, making American achievements belong more to a communal rather than a local history. A telling case in point here concerns the two painters who are generally considered the founding fathers of the American tradition in painting: John Singleton Copley and Benjamin West, both born, conveniently for this venerable genealogical table, in the same year, 1738. As for Copley, it has long been a convention to divide the course of his life and art into two sharply divided, even antagonistic, parts. Act I took place in colonial America, concluding in 1774, two years before the Revolution, when he sailed from New England to Old England, never to return to his birthplace; Act II took place in the center of the Anglo-American empire, London, where Copley lived out his long life as a flourishing artist in the middle of a sophisticated art world. Those who would nurture the values of America versus those of Europe tend to make a case for the probity and the superiority of the portraits Copley painted in Boston, often implying that in London his art was gradually diluted and, by implication, corrupted by association with standards foreign to his roots. Indeed, some early writers on American painting even infer that an act of aesthetic as well as patriotic treason was involved in Copley's switch of allegiance. But this simple parable is far more complex and demands international angles of vision. When Copley's 1765 portrait of his half-brother Henry Pelham, Boy with a Squirrel , was sent to London from Boston for exhibition at the Society of Artists in 1766, it became not only the first American painting to be seen in Europe, but a painting that some British artists thought to be a work by one of their own up-and-coming masters, Joseph Wright of Derby, Copley's almost exact contemporary. Wright of Derby's portraits, usually ignored by Americanists seeking the pure American truth in Copley, are in fact in every way comparable to Copley's, look-alikes that also reflect a tough new mid-eighteenth-century breed of well-heeled and hardworking sitters and their wives and children, a social type that grew rapidly in the Midlands as in the colonies and that wanted the material facts of their lives to be painted as if they could be touched, grasped, and bought. Both Copley and Wright of Derby can be seen as brilliant provincial painters in a new Anglo-American world of commerce and industry, standing in a similar relationship to the more artificial and tradition-bound styles of the capital, which, as in Sir Joshua Reynolds's portraits, were generally more suitable to dyed-in-the-wool aristocrats than to the growing new world of self-made men and women. Moreover, Copley's tough, foursquare Bostonian portraits, with their hard-edged polished tables and sharp-focus still lifes, may even find affinities on the Continent. Many of David's own portraits of friends and family, painted both before and after the Revolution, reveal a like insistence on the palpable facts of faces, clothing, and things unpolluted by arty conventions that falsified the truth of the material world. Seen in such lights, Copley's archetypal Americanism in his Bostonian portraits can also be interpreted as one more manifestation of a new international style that mirrored deep social changes on the eve of revolutions that were gradual and sudden.     But Copley's pictorial output in London is no less blurry when it comes to national classifications. Because Watson and the Shark (fig. 1) has always been considered a textbook classic of American painting, one tends to forget that its hero and patron, Brook Watson, was, after all, a Londoner who commissioned the picture for a London audience at the Royal Academy exhibition of 1778. And the success of this reportorial canvas, with its news-camera clarity of horrific detail, would be amplified by Copley in the next decade with his fancier account of the on-the-spot drama of another Englishman, Major Francis Peirson, giving his life for his country on the island of Jersey. But if these paintings are steeped in British history and culture, they also have American reverberations. Watson and the Shark has been convincingly interpreted as, among other things, a contemporary allegory of American independence; and Major Peirson's more rhetorical agonies provided the formula for many American history painters, especially John Trumbull, who would patriotically document the wars of independence for posterity.     As for West, although he, too, is worshiped as an American ancestral figure, it should be recalled that he got out of the colonies even earlier and, in artistic terms, far more prematurely than Copley, sailing in 1760 from Philadelphia to Livorno before settling in 1763 in what he called "the mother country." A resident of London for the remaining fifty-seven years of his life, West loomed so large in the British art establishment that he not only could paint the king and queen, his devoted patrons, but could also become, after Reynolds's death in 1792, the president of the Royal Academy itself. It would be hard to be more British. On the other hand, even if his ambitions could quickly rise to the classical mythologies or biblical ghost stories that were growingly fashionable in the British milieu of the 1760s and 1770s, he shrewdly hawked the wares of his American origin, recording exotic Indians and faraway North American battles, features prominent in his famous Death of General Wolfe (fig. 2), which probably had as much issue in Britain and in the circle of David as it did among West's own American students. As for Indians, even if they seemed to be one of West's trademarks and selling points, they were also painted, after all, by Wright of Derby, not to mention many other British and French artists of the period. Indeed, such international exchanges of North American Indian lore continued well into the nineteenth century, when, for example, George Catlin's "Indian Gallery," with its portraits of Indians and Wild West hunting scenes, was displayed to the London of Queen Victoria and the Paris of King Louis Philippe.     Again and again, what might be viewed as something singularly American often turns out to be part of an international network. Gilbert Stuart's picture of a young Scotsman, William Grant, on ice skates (fig. 3), a surprising portrait inspired by an adventure both artist and sitter had had on the thin and melting ice of the Serpentine in Hyde Park, may seem like a one-shot image of daring candor that only an unpretentious Yankee would have the audacity to exhibit at the Royal Academy in 1782; but in fact, there are at least two other late-eighteenth-century portraits of gentlemen on ice skates--one by the Scotsman Sir Henry Raeburn, the other by the Frenchman Pierre Delafontaine--which, together with Stuart's, would compose a beguiling international trio.     Even Luminism, that American style and viewpoint most often singled out as offering an authentic and unique contribution to nineteenth-century painting, though it was only baptized in 1954, a century after it flourished, is better served when seen as part of a phenomenon familiar to many North European landscape painters. To be sure, the eerie, all-engulfing light that dominates the silent, unpopulated landscapes of Martin Johnson Heade (fig. 4) or Fitz Hugh Lane may evoke peculiarly American myths and experiences of an awesomely vast, primeval terrain in which something akin to God casts immaterial rays upon a land of blessed purity and innocence; but such a vision of what has been called "natural supernaturalism" can be found in many earlier European masters, whether as famous as Friedrich and Turner or as up-and-coming in reputation as the Danes Christen Købke and Christoffer Eckersberg, all artists whose comparably "Luminist" visions have begun to work their way into more sophisticated recent studies of American landscape painting.     In many cases, beginning with Copley and West, the practice of declaring artists American because they were born in America might well be challenged. Although Whistler has become an icon of American culture, he, in fact, left the States for Europe in 1855, at the age of twenty-one, and, like West, became a mature painter only within a foreign context. In looking at his Symphony in White No. 2: Little White Girl , we might well forget his New England roots, for here it is the tale of two cosmopolitan cities, London and Paris, that counts. Shown in London in 1804, at the Royal Academy exhibition, it absorbs not only the literary aestheticism of both Swinburne and Gautier, but also visual references to both Millais and Ingres. And if we had to locate the painting in a friendly group, it would probably be happiest in the company of works by Whistler's own British and French acquaintances and contemporaries: Rossetti, Degas, Manet, Fantin-Latour. Even more to the point of American birthplaces not making American artists, there is the case of Mary Cassatt, who left her native Pennsylvania for Europe in 1866 at the age of twenty-two and, despite a few short visits to the States, took firm roots in Paris. Not only did she exhibit at the Salon in the early 1870s with Manet, but she was also an integral part of the Impressionist group exhibitions from 1879 to 1886, where she shared the walls with her close friend Degas and other French masters such as Renoir, Monet, and Gauguin. But she could also send her pictures back home for public display, so that, for example, At the Opera of 1879 was first shown in New York, in 1881, at the Society of Artists, where it stuck out as a precocious example of an unfamiliar new style of split-second, candid observation in which women could play worldly rather than domestic roles.     In the same expatriate category, there is John Singer Sargent, whose confusing national identity made it possible for him to have, within recent memory, retrospective exhibitions at both the National Portrait Gallery in London and the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York. To thicken this international stew, Sargent, who was actually born abroad, in Florence, though of American parents, traveled widely on the Continent; studied with a French master, Carolus-Duran; exhibited in, among other art capitals, New York, Paris, Brussels, London; frequented and painted the international jet set of his day, who might be found anywhere from Majorca to Blenheim Palace. And if he was grand enough to paint the duke of Marlborough's family, he was also esteemed enough in democratic America to be commissioned to do murals for the Boston Public Library. Yet if we would understand his art, we would do far better to look not to America, but to an international style of around 1900, whose pictorial and social luxuries were also reflected in the equally cosmopolitan work of artists such as the Italian Giovanni Boldini, the Spaniard Joaquín Sorolla, the Frenchman Jacques-Émile Blanche, and the Swede Anders Zorn.     Still, even granting the obvious internationalism of so many artists who hold firm places in American biographical dictionaries, there is always the nagging question of whether their art does not somehow disclose a distinctively American inflection that would single it out from a multinational crowd. The question is relatively easy to answer in the case of such American classics as Winslow Home? and Thomas Eakins. Both of them had experienced art in Paris--Homer on a ten-month visit in 1866-67, when he showed at the Paris world's fair; and Eakins, in a more sustained and influential way, since he studied there between 1866 and 1869 with Jean-Léon Gérôme and Léon Bonnat, two masters whose imprint can often be discerned in his work. In the case of Homer, paintings like Breezing Up and Northeaster might strike even Europeans as quintessentially American images of the salt-sprayed rigors of the North Atlantic coast, but other paintings of his beg revealing comparisons with their European counterparts. For example, his 1869 view (fig. 5) of the salubrious beach resort at Long Branch, New Jersey (which, for chic, had been dubbed "the American Boulogne"), instantly recalls, in its tonic breeze and glare, the Channel coast scenes of vacationers painted by Monet and Boudin in the same decade. But, this said, we also intuit a very different mood in which even such a scene of overt pleasure and camaraderie reveals a bare and lonely emotional skeleton. The two fashion-plate ladies in the foreground, each with a parasol, are aligned in tandem but appear as strangely isolated from each other as the lone male figure on the cabin porch surrounded by drying linens; and the relationship of these figures to this place on the American continent, which juts out into the immensity of the ocean, is almost that of intruders upon a still uninviting and unpopulated land. It is an experience that runs counter to the French sense of layered social history in a territory that has long been inhabited and civilized. Moreover, the white intensity of the sunlight, rather than pulverizing and fusing figures and landscape, produces quite the opposite effect, starching clothing, hardening earth and grass, clarifying simple architectural shapes pitted against the rawness of nature. Looked at from an American rather than a European angle of vision, the feeling here is less akin to Monet than it is to Edward Hopper, whose figures, whether in city or country, similarly seem to intrude upon a bleak environment of blanching light and primitive geometric order.     As for Eakins, this dour mood of lonely human presences in an environment that reaches out to nowhere is equally apparent, especially in the company of French parallels. His 1873 painting of the Biglen brothers in a scull on the Schuylkill River reveals in unexpected ways Eakins's training with Gérôme, who constructed many exotic boating scenes on the Nile with the same perspectival precision and photographic detail that characterize the quasi-scientific approach of Eakins to the facts of the seen world. But the American painter has turned these Orientalist travelogues into a scene of inwardness and solemnity in which each of the two scullers, brothers though they are, seems alone and in which the river and the far bank suggest such vast expanses of water and land that the few people we see recall early settlers on unfamiliar soil. Inevitably, Eakins's boating scenes (see fig. 158) echo the many French paintings of the 1870s and 1880s that depict sportily dressed men and women rowing on the Seine; but here, too, the Parisian mood of cheerful, breezy conviviality on a bustling waterway underlines the austere silence of Eakins's American view. No less telling is Eakins's Concert Singer (fig. 6), in which, despite the obvious clues that this is a live performance before a conductor and an audience, we feel that the contralto, Miss Weda Cook, is totally alone, lost in a dark and empty space and absorbed in the private reverie inspired by the aria she sings from Mendelssohn's Elijah . It is tempting to discern in this mood and image something that speaks with an unmistakably American voice of a kind that became almost a trademark in Andrew Wyeth's Christina's World .     Still, such black-and-white distinctions between America and Europe can always be turned into shades of gray, especially when one recalls, while thinking of Eakins, how the psychological ambience of meditation and withdrawal, often prompted by music, gradually permeated later nineteenth-century European painting as well, a stop on the way to that universal domain of frail, visionary fantasies most conveniently categorized as Symbolism. Americans, too, contributed to this ubiquitous world of twilight reverie that cast an eerie spell over Western art at the turn of the century; and it has recently become clearer that what used to be thought of as a weird cluster of downright eccentric American artists that kept popping up as the century drew to a close--Elihu Vedder, Ralph Blakelock, Arthur Davies, Louis Eilshemius, Thomas Dewing, and, above all, Albert Pinkham Ryder (fig. 7)--could be put in this pan-European melting pot. All these artists looked so far inward that the visible, palpable world was gradually replaced by wispy dreams of longing and fevered imagination, frequently inspired, as in the more empirical approach of Eakins, by music, whether the long-ago sounds of a lute in a painting by Dewing or the surging new sounds of Wagner's Ring Cycle in a painting by Ryder. It was the kind of search that could lead eventually to the mysteries of pure chromatic abstraction, a goal theoretically justified by analogies with music and one attained in Paris on the eve of the First World War by what was again an international community of artists that, in addition to the Czech Kupka and the Frenchman Delaunay, included two Americans, Stanton Macdonald-Wright and Morgan Russell, who, in the name of Synchromism, would also try to hear the music of the spheres as generated by their fantasies of free-floating prismatic color.     But such adventures into the most daring reaches of modernism, often learned directly at their European sources, could also be translated into a self-consciously American idiom by the choice of specifically American icons of modernity. Whether the New York subway's rush hour, as evoked by Max Weber, or New York's answer to the Eiffel Tower, the Brooklyn Bridge, as praised again and again in works by John Marin and Joseph Stella, it was New York's urban themes that often inspired a Machine Age dynamism, which asserted how the most vital energies of the new century were to be found on new American soil. Small wonder that two French masters of mechanical fantasy, Duchamp and Picabia, thrived in New York and, for once, helped to form on the American rather than the European side of the Atlantic a cosmopolitan group of artists that could set on fire the wildest imaginations of Americans like Man Ray or John Covert.     Such alliances preview the accelerating speed of transatlantic dialogues in our own' century, when we may often think that the world has become a space-time blur in which the nonstop traffic of art and people instantly homogenizes everything in collections, publications, and exhibitions that can mix David Salle and Anselm Kiefer, Jennifer Bartlett and Francesco Clemente. Indeed, so international has art become in the late twentieth century that many admirers of, say, Jasper Johns or Andy Warhol hardly notice that the choice of the American flag or a Campbell's soup can is as willfully American a subject as was, say, Grant Wood's choice of the Daughters of the American Revolution or Albert Bierstadt's of the Rocky Mountains. Contemporary sophistication, in fact, tends to ignore the old-fashioned question with which we began, "What is American about American art?" Yet Americans belong not only to the world but to their own singular traditions and experiences. When we look at a painting by Rothko, we may well be reminded of many European masters, from Turner to the late Monet, but we also sense indigenous roots whose ancestry might take us not only to the realm of American Luminism but to such oddball visions of American eternity as provided in Elihu Vedder's Memory (see fig. 68). And when we look at Eric Fischl's The Old Man's Boat and the Old Man's Dog , even though the painting finds its home in an international collection of contemporary art in London, we would be hard put to understand it without recalling the marine paintings of Winslow Homer in which the dramas of American nature and American passions are played against each other. Like American people, American art lives both at home and abroad. "What Is American about American Art?" Published as the introduction to Donald Goddard, American Painting (New York: Hugh Lauter Levin Associates, 1990), pp. 10-15. Copyright © 1999 Robert Rosenblum. All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Prefacep. 9
What is American About American Art? 1990p. 11
Resurrecting Augustus Vincent Tack 1986p. 22
A Dada Bouquet for New York 1996p. 29
Reconstructing Benton 1992p. 37
De Chirico's Long American Shadow 1996p. 42
Remembrance of Fairs Past 1989p. 57
American Painting Since the Second World War 1958p. 62
The Abstract Sublime 1961p. 72
Arshile Gorky 1958p. 80
Jackson Pollock 1988p. 84
The Fatal Women of Picasso and De Kooning 1984p. 86
Notes on De Kooning 1990p. 95
Rothko's Surrealist Years 1981p. 100
Rothko and Tradition 1987p. 109
My Life with Rothkop. 122
A View of Andrew Wyeth 1987p. 127
Morria Louis at the Guggenheim Museum 1963p. 130
Louise Nevelson 1959p. 135
James Bishop:Reason and Impulse 1967p. 139
Cy Twombly 1984p. 141
Jasper Johns 1960p. 147
Johns's Three Flags 1980p. 153
Jasper Johns: Realm of Memory 1997p. 155
Frank Stella, Five Years of Variations on an "Irreducible" Theme 1965p. 164
Frank Stella, 1958 to 1965 1986p. 170
Stella's Third Dimension 1983p. 180
Pop Art and Non-Pop Art 1965p. 186
Roy Lichtenstein and the Realist Revolt 1963p. 190
Roy Lichtenstein: Past, Present, Future 1991p. 198
Andy Warhol: Court Painter to the 70s 1979p. 205
Andy Warhol: Portrait of the 80s a Postscript 1993p. 215
Warhol as Art History 1989p. 217
Mel Ramos, How Venus Came to California 1994p. 238
Notes on Sol Lewitt 1978p. 250
Dan Flavln, Name in Lights 1997p. 264
Alex Katz's American Accent 1986p. 268
George Segal 1986p. 274
Alfred Leslie 1976p. 279
Remembering Joe Brainard 1997p. 285
Robert Moskowitz 1983p. 290
A Postscript: Some Recent Neo-Romantic Mutations 1993p. 294
Scott Burton: the Last Tableau 1991p. 305
Sturtevant 1987p. 310
Mike Bidlo 1989p. 312
Ric Fischl 1984p. 317
David Salle 1985p. 322
Mark Innerst's Time Capsules 1990p. 327
Jeff Koons 1992p. 330
Mike and Doug Starn 1990p. 339
Mcdermott and Mcgough: the Art of Time Travel 1997p. 344
A Bibliography of Writingsp. 352
List of Illustrationsp. 366
Indexp. 376