WILLEM DE KOONING

“I can change,” Willem de Kooning insisted, even during the later years of his lengthy career. His aesthetic trajectory over the long run was no more predictable than the course of the stop-and-start moments, the scraping-away and plastering-on, the zigs and zags, typical of his development of individual works. The two untitled paintings featured in this brief account, products of 1977 and 1983, are studies in fluid abruptness—a description already in self-denial. Attempts to encapsulate the direction of de Kooning’s art leave the critical observer, no matter how earnestly attentive, exposed to interpretive vertigo.

De Kooning would be the first to admit that a determined sense of purpose can nevertheless waver, establishing one direction, then an opposing one, then reverting. He confessed to feeling most at ease when off-balance, “slipping.” During the early 1940s, he developed a chromatically inventive way of depicting the human figure, rendering both male and female models with luminous hues of acidic green and vermilion, tempered by a range of yellows. Yet, in 1948, for his first one-person show, he exhibited works predominantly in black and white, instances (the critics said) of “abstract art.” Our categories of “abstract art” and “abstraction”—now, and even then—don’t, however, suit this apparent transition from the use of models to something else, some other mode of picturing. Through the decades, de Kooning’s practice blurred any boundary between figuration and abstraction, the objective and the non-objective. The engagingly gestural “contour” strokes seen in his black-and-whites of 1948 resemble the stressed contours of his figures of 1944. His art had changed, though in some fundamental respect, it remained the same. He had slipped from one orientation to another.

Even at his most “abstract” moments, de Kooning never fully abandoned figuration (reference to bodies or objects external to the picture being generated). His exhibitions of the early 1950s featured the female body, boldly confrontational. Among the many possible inspirations for this type of image were wide-eyed Mesopotamian sculptures seen at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art and the figures on certain Byzantine coins, known from illustrated journals. De Kooning’s presentation of female figures led critics of the time to speculate that he had a “woman problem.” Some attributed the artist’s misstep to personal misogyny, others to sexism in American culture in general. If there were allusions to ancient and medieval art or, as de Kooning said, to a rather silly Dutch song recalled from his youth, all this seemed irrelevant.

Yes, the Woman was hardly beautiful by representational (as opposed to painterly) standards. But a significant number of critics nevertheless celebrated de Kooning’s work for its daring transgression of norms, including those established by the recent avant-garde. A few reviewers combined aesthetic critique with social critique, recognizing that these representations of womanhood were challenging the pin-up, pop-culture image of “all-American” beauty, evident in billboard and magazine advertising (on occasion, de Kooning had been employed as a commercial designer). Here was “pop art” as “high art” a decade before Andy Warhol did something of the same by abusing the press images of celebrities.

“I can change,” Willem de Kooning insisted, even during the later years of his lengthy career. His aesthetic trajectory over the long run was no more predictable than the course of the stop-and-start moments, the scraping-away and plastering-on, the zigs and zags, typical of his development of individual works. The two untitled paintings featured in this brief account, products of 1977 and 1983, are studies in fluid abruptness—a description already in self-denial. Attempts to encapsulate the direction of de Kooning’s art leave the critical observer, no matter how earnestly attentive, exposed to interpretive vertigo.

De Kooning would be the first to admit that a determined sense of purpose can nevertheless waver, establishing one direction, then an opposing one, then reverting. He confessed to feeling most at ease when off-balance, “slipping.” During the early 1940s, he developed a chromatically inventive way of depicting the human figure, rendering both male and female models with luminous hues of acidic green and vermilion, tempered by a range of yellows. Yet, in 1948, for his first one-person show, he exhibited works predominantly in black and white, instances (the critics said) of “abstract art.” Our categories of “abstract art” and “abstraction”—now, and even then—don’t, however, suit this apparent transition from the use of models to something else, some other mode of picturing. Through the decades, de Kooning’s practice blurred any boundary between figuration and abstraction, the objective and the non-objective. The engagingly gestural “contour” strokes seen in his black-and-whites of 1948 resemble the stressed contours of his figures of 1944. His art had changed, though in some fundamental respect, it remained the same. He had slipped from one orientation to another.

Even at his most “abstract” moments, de Kooning never fully abandoned figuration (reference to bodies or objects external to the picture being generated). His exhibitions of the early 1950s featured the female body, boldly confrontational. Among the many possible inspirations for this type of image were wide-eyed Mesopotamian sculptures seen at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art and the figures on certain Byzantine coins, known from illustrated journals. De Kooning’s presentation of female figures led critics of the time to speculate that he had a “woman problem.” Some attributed the artist’s misstep to personal misogyny, others to sexism in American culture in general. If there were allusions to ancient and medieval art or, as de Kooning said, to a rather silly Dutch song recalled from his youth, all this seemed irrelevant.

Yes, the Woman was hardly beautiful by representational (as opposed to painterly) standards. But a significant number of critics nevertheless celebrated de Kooning’s work for its daring transgression of norms, including those established by the recent avant-garde. A few reviewers combined aesthetic critique with social critique, recognizing that these representations of womanhood were challenging the pin-up, pop-culture image of “all-American” beauty, evident in billboard and magazine advertising (on occasion, de Kooning had been employed as a commercial designer). Here was “pop art” as “high art” a decade before Andy Warhol did something of the same by abusing the press images of celebrities.

“I can change,” Willem de Kooning insisted, even during the later years of his lengthy career. His aesthetic trajectory over the long run was no more predictable than the course of the stop-and-start moments, the scraping-away and plastering-on, the zigs and zags, typical of his development of individual works. The two untitled paintings featured in this brief account, products of 1977 and 1983, are studies in fluid abruptness—a description already in self-denial. Attempts to encapsulate the direction of de Kooning’s art leave the critical observer, no matter how earnestly attentive, exposed to interpretive vertigo.

De Kooning would be the first to admit that a determined sense of purpose can nevertheless waver, establishing one direction, then an opposing one, then reverting. He confessed to feeling most at ease when off-balance, “slipping.” During the early 1940s, he developed a chromatically inventive way of depicting the human figure, rendering both male and female models with luminous hues of acidic green and vermilion, tempered by a range of yellows. Yet, in 1948, for his first one-person show, he exhibited works predominantly in black and white, instances (the critics said) of “abstract art.” Our categories of “abstract art” and “abstraction”—now, and even then—don’t, however, suit this apparent transition from the use of models to something else, some other mode of picturing. Through the decades, de Kooning’s practice blurred any boundary between figuration and abstraction, the objective and the non-objective. The engagingly gestural “contour” strokes seen in his black-and-whites of 1948 resemble the stressed contours of his figures of 1944. His art had changed, though in some fundamental respect, it remained the same. He had slipped from one orientation to another.

Even at his most “abstract” moments, de Kooning never fully abandoned figuration (reference to bodies or objects external to the picture being generated). His exhibitions of the early 1950s featured the female body, boldly confrontational. Among the many possible inspirations for this type of image were wide-eyed Mesopotamian sculptures seen at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art and the figures on certain Byzantine coins, known from illustrated journals. De Kooning’s presentation of female figures led critics of the time to speculate that he had a “woman problem.” Some attributed the artist’s misstep to personal misogyny, others to sexism in American culture in general. If there were allusions to ancient and medieval art or, as de Kooning said, to a rather silly Dutch song recalled from his youth, all this seemed irrelevant.

Yes, the Woman was hardly beautiful by representational (as opposed to painterly) standards. But a significant number of critics nevertheless celebrated de Kooning’s work for its daring transgression of norms, including those established by the recent avant-garde. A few reviewers combined aesthetic critique with social critique, recognizing that these representations of womanhood were challenging the pin-up, pop-culture image of “all-American” beauty, evident in billboard and magazine advertising (on occasion, de Kooning had been employed as a commercial designer). Here was “pop art” as “high art” a decade before Andy Warhol did something of the same by abusing the press images of celebrities.