Frank O’Hara: He Made Things and People Sacred

It was 3 a.m. of a Saturday night on Fire Island, pitch black on the beach except for the head­lights of a disabled taxi and those of another jeep headed its way, sloughing through deep ruts at maybe 25 miles an hour.

Frank O’Hara, one of nine tem­porarily stranded passengers, stood alone off in the darkness, his companion and friend J.J. Mitchell wasn’t sure just where. Within inches of the crippled taxi, the second jeep churned past. Evidently O’Hara was just turning to face a blaze of its lights when it ran him down.

Panicked, Mitchell rushed to him. O’Hara stirred, then muttered something. He was in a rage. His delirious fury made it hard to hold him still during the efficient relay from jeep to police boat to ambulance to tiny Bayview Hospital in a place called Mastic Beach. There he subsided, however, and was examined, then laced with innumerable stitches. The doctor was encouraging: contusions, gashes, shock, and a badly smashed left leg, but nothing ostensibly lethal.

Then around dawn O’Hara’s blood pressure fell. Pints of rare RH-negative blood began arriving at the hospital by police car every few minutes. The exploratory operation that afternoon, when enough blood was on hand, revealed a partly ruptured liver and some damage to the kidneys, among other things: The liver, now a good deal smaller, was sewn shut; the kidneys were left for later.

Meanwhile, the New York art world was collectively thunder­struck. In 15 years as a poet, playwright, critic, curator, and universal energy source in the lives of the few hundred most creative people in America, Frank O’Hara had rendered that world wholly unprepared to tol­erate his passing.

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So Much Grace

The next day, Monday, July 25, the day of his death, he seemed to be holding his own, even improving. A very few friends were let in to see him, a few seconds apiece. In his speech at the funeral two days later, Larry Rivers, incensed at fate, said O’Hara “lay in a bed that looked like a large crib” and that he resembled “a shaped wound.” He said he had always expected Frank to be the first of his friends to die, but “romantically,” somehow, voided by his generosities and done in by his methodical excesses, not shattered by a jeep on a white sand beach. Willem de Kooning found O’Hara in terrible pain. “When I spoke his name he opened his eyes and he said, in that way of his, ‘Oh Bill, how nice!’ With such elegance! He had so much grace, that man, even through all the delirium and agony.”

At about 8:50 p.m., very suddenly, he was gone. He was 40 years old.

The sketchy obituary in the Times next morning barely mentioned his poetry, focusing on his role as an assistant curator at the Museum of Modern Art, responsible for the recent Motherwell and Nakian shows. It also rehashed the notoriety of a certain nude portrait of O’Hara (after Gericault, plus combat boots and erection) done by Rivers 11 years ago. The account of O’Hara’s funeral, in Thursday’s Times, led off with an exaggeration of people’s shock at Rivers’ speech, proceeded to misspell 10 of the 25 names it mentioned (uncorrected in later editions) then invented the presence of “many bearded, tieless friends of Mr. O’Hara,” a funny thing to lie about.

Nor did the Times note poet and dance critic Edwin Denby’s remark that O’Hara had been America’s greatest living poet; nor did it refer to poet and art critic Bill Berkson’s eulogy: “Frank was the most graceful, quick, courageous, sometimes terrifying intelligence. Often, no matter how intimate or involved you might be, you could only begin to imagine what and how much he was feeling. It was electric, full of light and air and blood, amazing, passionate, and full of sense. As a poet, a genius, just walking around, talking, he had that magic touch: He made things and people sacred…”

Indian Sutras

Rivers, in his speech, said, “There are at least 60 people in New York who thought Frank O’Hara was their best friend.” Before the funeral, Reuben Na­kian had a member of O’Hara’s family attach to his coffin a terra-cotta sculpture from the se­ries “Voyage to Crete” — work that had moved and excited O’Hara in his preparation of Na­kian’s show. After the funeral, Allen Ginsberg stayed to intone Indian sutras over the grave. Ginsberg: ”I never realized un­til now how attached I was to the presence of that man on Earth.”

His friends, in attempts communicate the breadth of their loss, almost inevitably allude to Guillaume Apollinaire. It’s a na­tural. Both poets were patron spirits of the avant-garde liter­ature, painting, theatre, music, and dance — indeed, the sensibility and moral vision of their times. Both had enormous per­sonal charisma. Both revised the aesthetic assumptions of poetry, leaving poetry changed. And both died horribly, at the height of their powers, leaving life changed.

Another dark parallel, one that O’Hara himself might richly have appreciated, takes in Jackson Pollock. O’Hara’s first major work of art criticism was a book on Pollock, a massive retrospective of whose work he was just beginning to assemble when he died — two weeks short of the 10th anniversary of Pollock’s death, also in an auto accident on Long Island. The two men’s graves, in the little cemetery of the Springs, are a few yards apart.

Such references correspond to a certain essence of the man. O’Hara’s life was measured out in a sort of endless homage to his heroes — the great exemplars of personal and artistic integrity like Pollock, Franz Kline, and especially Boris Pasternak; the ­revolutionaries of poetic attitude and style like Apollinaire and Mayakovsky, and the forms of emotional identification, the movie stars like James Dean, Carole Lombard, and so many others, whom he celebrated bril­liantly without embarrassment and with only the slightest, functional trace of irony.

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Every Area

This attitude of reverence and enthusiasm may in part account for the virtual mystique O’Hara generated around himself, for it extended into every area of his life, attaching to whatever and whomever he found in the least admirable or delightful — and triggering responses so intense his oldest friends do not affect to understand them. Everything about O’Hara is easy to demonstrate and exceedingly difficult to “understand.” And the aura of the legendary, never far from him while he lived, now seems about to engulf the memory of all he was and did.

Little is generally known about his early life, except that he was born in Baltimore on June 27, 1926, and raised in Grafton, Massachusetts, serving with the Navy in the Pacific from 1944 to 1946, when he entered Harvard. The one member of his family to whom he was close, a younger sister (now Mrs. Maureen Smith of Brooklyn Heights), respects his unwillingness to speak of those years.

In the spring of 1949, when O’Hara was a junior at Harvard, John Ashbery was a senior. As an editor of the Harvard Advocate, Ashbery had published some of O’Hara’s first literary efforts (mostly in prose) but knew of him only by his reputation as a hotshot intellectual with something of an undergraduate following. One afternoon in a bookstore, Ashbery heard a voice behind him airily expounding on the then almost totally unknown French composer Poulenc. Fascinated, he eavesdropped. The voice said: “Let’s face it, ‘Les Secheresses’ is much greater than ‘Tristan.’ ” Ashbery instantly turned and introduced himself; and their friendship was joined. “That,” he recalls, “was the sort of thing NOBODY said in those days. It didn’t matter that he was wrong.”

O’Hara’s first visits to New York, while finishing at Harvard and getting his M.A. at University of Michigan (where he also won the prestigious Hopwood Award for poetry), were suitably auspicious. In Ashbery’s Jones Street apartment and at gathering places of what would be known as the New York School “Second Generation” painters, he met Kenneth Koch, Larry Rivers, James Schuyler, Jane Freilicher, Mike Goldberg, Grace Hartigan, Joan Mitchell, and scores of other young artists and poets, all engaged in a kind of vertiginously euphoric life and activity which O’Hara’s presence seemed just naturally to grace with point and inevitability. He was the first of the young New York poets to start reviewing for Art News (to be followed by Ashbery, Schuyler, and Barbara Guest) and in the fall of 1951 he was hired by the Museum of Modern Art, a tenure he was never, save for one two-year hiatus, to relinquish.

Exclamation Point

Frank O’Hara’s body was small and lean — classically “bantam” — and was topped by a face organized around a preposterous Roman nose, like a falcon’s beak. He had a smallish, sensuous mouth; a high, freckled forehead, and limpid blue eyes of a certain hypnotic charm. His every movement bespoke will and self-assurance, poise, and a kind of unmannered courtliness. His physical presence in a room was like that of an exclamation point on a page. That presence quickly became one of the most sought-after, and one of the most freely granted, in the city. The painter Helen Frankenthaler says personal invitations to parties in the ’50s often carried the information “Frank will be there” — the ultimate inducement to attend.

O’Hara seemed to be every­where at once. He attracted no­tice even on the Olympian heights of “The Club” on 8th Street, fabled clearinghouse of the New York School. De Kooning recalls: “I liked him immediately, he was so bright. Right away he was at the center of things, and he did not bulldoze. It was his manner and his way.

“There was a good-omen feeling about him.”

Delmore Schwartz had given O’Hara his first professional poetic acceptance in 1950, taking a poem for Partisan Review and strongly encouraging the young poet who was to outlive him by two weeks. His first book, A City Winter, was published in 1952 by John Myers at the Tibor de Nagy Gallery, then virtually the only showcase for the overshadowed young talents of the “Second Generation” — among them, Miss Frankenthaler, for whom O’Hara’s effulgence of creative and emotional excitement “smacked of Paris scenes in the ’20s, their principle of passionate involvement with one’s comrades. As the circles and dimensions of our thing grew, everybody had moments of feeling intensely close to Frank. He climbed into your life.”

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Secret Continuum

Ashbery: “He gave you the feeling of belonging to an exclusive club with him, as if you had hooked into some big, secret continuum of life. Frank had a personal kind of idea about things, which made you feel you could think independently too.”

Ginsberg: “His feelings for me seemed to vibrate with my feelings for myself. I think he saw my ideal self-image; he articulated it and made it sound right.”

Berkson: “If you were one of Frank’s friends, you were given a grand permission to be direct and interesting, to be full of ideas and feelings.”

Collaboration, a direct extension of O’Hara’s mode of living, is a good metaphor for the manner of his relationships — an intimate competition in which each participant goads the other toward being at his best. Among the artistic collaborations: poems with Ashbery, Koch, Berkson, and the French language (before he learned it); the famous “Stones” lithographs with Rivers; painting-collages and the book “Odes” (Tibor, 1960) with Mike Goldberg; comic strips with Joe Brainard; “Four Dialogues for Two Voices and Two Pianos” with composer Ned Rorem; the movie “The Last Clean Shirt” with Al Leslie (shown at the New York Film Festival), and innumerable others. In his life, something of the same impulse was everywhere at work — ­to the ultimate dismay of some friends. Not everyone could cope for long with a mind that leapt at everything and missed noth­ing. Berkson: “I never heard Frank say ‘I don’t know what I feel about that.’ He could sum­mon a response, not just an opin­ion but a real emotional re­sponse, for anything.”

Goldberg: “If you were close to him, Frank forced you to live at a terribly high intensity. You were always scrambling to keep up with him. He ran through people; almost everyone fell by the wayside at one time or an­other. It was his incredible ap­petite for life…”

If O’Hara had a motto, it was perhaps his own summary of his approach to poetic composition: “You go on your nerve.” Or, meaning the same thing, a line of Pasternak’s: “It’s past, you’ll understand it later.” At any rate, O’Hara was not always tolerant of friends whose nerve failed them, who looked back. On rare occasions, drunk at some late hour, he would mount titanic and vituperative personal rages. He could instill misery and dread to the same extent that he habit­ually evoked affection and joy. Yet, in the words of a young poet who knew him, “No matter what he did, he never lost that movie-star quality, in the best sense. He never seemed less than glamorous and heroic.” Most people saw, at very least, a certain “rightness” to even his wildest tirades, perhaps because, as Goldberg says, “Frank almost always concealed the side of him that was deeply hurt and suf­fered; you only knew it must be there.” So his anger had the inexorable “justice” of a vol­cano. And when he demanded a return on the love he usually lav­ished, it had, with whatever an­guish, to be credited.

Tactic of Survival

For a man who, in the words of one friend, “indulged every feeling he ever had,” this may have been the simple tactic of survival.

If “other people,” Sartre’s Hell, were O’Hara’s element and atmosphere, other people’s art was his constant source of inspiration and delight. Jewish Museum Director Kinneston McShine, who worked with him at the Modern, speaks of O’Hara’s “amazing clarity” in instantly perceiving the special, most in­teresting aspect of any work. Painters, poets, and musicians speak of the quality of his con­cern. He was, on the pattern of Apollinaire, “a poet among the painters,” an artist whose do­main was all of art.

Elaine de Kooning: “He had a sense of what painters are after, he helped you see what you wanted to do.”

Rorem: “What amazed me most about Frank’s interest was that he really wanted you to be good, he really wanted to like your work.”

Ginsberg attributes to O’Hara’s persuasive enthusiasm his own first whole-hearted appreciation of the poets Peter Orlovsky, John Wieners, and Gregory Corso: ”He had the genius’s insight into other genius, plus total lyrical sympathy and magnanimity.”

And perhaps no poet since Apollinaire was the subject of so many portraits.

It is generally agreed among the current crop of young “New York poets” that whatever sense they may have of common identity, and of identification with the older, established poets, is due largely to O’Hara. Certainly his loft at 791 Broadway — as, earlier, his apartment on East 9th Street — was a depot for poets re­gardless of age, clique, or stylis­tic allegiance. Koch: O’Hara acted as though “being an artist were the most natural thing in the world.” Also, he acted as though the art and literary scenes were really for artists and poets, any artist and any poet who wanted to move in them. He held parties expressly for the purpose of bringing peo­ple together; at one such he in­troduced dozens of young writ­ers to the venerable Italian poet Ungaretti. His personal, direct (never patronizing) warmth had a way of melting one’s feelings of intimidation at the threshold to his world. Now, it seems, all that may be gone forever.

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Uncanny Ability

Unquestionably O’Hara’s continuous involvement with others hurt his own poetic production, though to balance it he had the uncanny ability, as Koch tells it, “to write while other people were talking, or even to get up in the middle of a conversation, get his typewriter, and write a poem, sometimes participating in the conversation while doing so.” Moreover, there was in principle no absolute cleavage between his social and artistic spheres. To a degree more radical than that of any poet before him, O’Hara made his whole life, his milieu and experiences and friends, the raw subject matter of his work.

To Donald Allen’s endlessly influential 1960 anthology, “The New American Poetry” (in the assembling of which he was a main force and arbiter), O’Hara contributed 15 poems and a “statement on poetics” which reads in part: “What is happening to me, allowing for lies and exaggerations I try to avoid, goes into my poems… My formal ‘stance’ is found at the crossroads where what I know and can’t get meets what is left of what I know and can bear without hatred… It may be that poetry makes life’s nebulous events tangible to me and restores their detail; or, conversely, that poetry brings forth the intangible quality of incidents which are all too concrete and circumstantial. Or each on specific occasions, or both all the time.”

Human Perceptions

As it is written, O’Hara’s poetry is tough, dazzling, supple and fast, very funny but incipient with the deepest feelings, aglimmer with linguistic and human perceptions, and subject at any moment to lyric eruption or the breakthrough of intelligence.

Ashbery: “His poetry, more than anyone else’s, reconciles all sorts of conflicting material. In it, things exist in a sort of miraculous emulsion.”

Ginsberg: “Of course he had a tremendous sensitivity for style, for chatty campy style and also for real high style… He was at the center of an extra­ordinary poetic era, which gives his poetry its sense of historic monumentality… And he integrated purely personal life into the high art of composition, marking the return of all author­ity back to person. His style is actually in line with the tradi­tion that begins with Independ­ence and runs through Thoreau and Whitman, here composed in metropolitan spaceage architec­ture environment.

“He taught me to really see New York for the first time, by making of the giant style of Mid­town his intimate cocktail en­vironment. It’s like having Cat­ullus change your view of the Forum in Rome.”

O’Hara’s major books are “Meditations in an Emergency” (Grove, 1957), “Lunch Poems” (City Lights, 1964), and “Love Poems (Tentative Title)” (Tibor, 1965). His reputation, as Ted Berrigan suggests in an article in the current East Village Oth­er, will probably ultimately rest on such poems as “Second Aven­ue,” “In Memory of My Feel­ings,” “For the Chinese New Year (and for Bill Berkson)” and “Rhapsody,” but already a handful of his short poems, em­bodiments of unique and perhaps unprecedented ways of thinking and feeling about things, seem destined for a kind of immor­tality — e. g., “The Day Lady Died” and “Why I Am Not a Painter.” His best plays include “Awake in Spain!” and “The General Returns from One Place to Another.”

And much of O’Hara’s work is yet to be published, exactly how much is not immediately clear.

O’Hara did not, while he lived, win a very extensive poetic reputation. For one thing, his preference for the “commercial” world of art over the academic “community of letters” cut him off from the latter’s well-oiled media of (relative) fame. The New York Times, as it has again so eloquently indicated, is innocent of poetry unless informed of it through proper channels. Beyond that, O’Hara deliberately neglected measures, such as simply sending off his work to the prestige magazines or using his influence with larger publishing houses, by which he might effortlessly have ascended into a more general view. In the early ’50s he published frequently in Poetry, for example, but never since 1956.

His reluctance to be bothered with literary renown bespeaks the confidence of a man who knew he had it coming. But, more than that, it testifies that the locus of his ambition lay elsewhere. O’Hara affirmed, in an essay on Doctor Zhivago, Pasternak’s (and his own) “belief that the poet must first be a person, that his writings make him a poet, not his acting of the role.” And what is the alchemy by which a poet is first a person? An O’Hara line: “Grace/to be born and live as variously as possible.”

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To the Harbormaster

I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks, it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.

— Frank O’Hara


Second Time Around: On the Importance of Being Ernest Briggs

Born in 1923, in San Diego, Ernest Briggs served in India during World War II and then studied at the California School of Fine Arts in San Francisco. During the immediate postwar era, artists on the West Coast — like their counterparts in the New York School — were questioning the relevance of representational art, especially after the figure had been propagandized in social realist tableaux during the war. Following nearly two decades of noble farmers, industrious workers, and sturdy soldiers being depicted on murals from Moscow to Berlin to Jefferson City, Missouri, the search was on for dynamic forms pulled from the artist’s psyche rather than simply as a reaction to external stimuli. As David Park, one of Briggs’s instructors, put it, “We don’t have a model; we don’t have still life; we just paint.”

Another of Briggs’s teachers at the California School of Fine Arts, Clyfford Still, was known for his opinionated (not to say, bombastic) pronouncements concerning the evolution of painting. When asked who had influenced him, Still made the grandiose claim, “My work is not influenced by anybody.” (This was serious hyperbole — all American artists owed a huge debt to the cubists and surrealists of Europe, as well as to such nonobjective painters as Kandinsky, Mondrian, and Malevich.) Still encouraged his students to find their own paths: “I do not want other artists to imitate my work — they do even when I tell them not to — but only my example for freedom and independence from all external, decadent, and corrupting influences.” This was a more dogmatic view of American painting’s breakthroughs into abstraction than was shared back East, where Jackson Pollock was actively seeking to subsume nature into his very being and Willem de Kooning was celebrating the “melodrama of vulgarity” with slashing brushstrokes over bits of newspaper collage.

“Palermo” (1964)

Briggs moved to New York City in 1953, part of a wave of second-generation abstract expressionists that included such talented painters as Edward Dugmore and Grace Hartigan. A year later, the poet Frank O’Hara was so impressed with Briggs’s first solo exhibition, at the Stable Gallery, that he wrote in Art in America, “From the contrast between the surface bravura and the half-seen abstract shapes, a surprising intimacy arises, which is like seeing a public statue, thinking itself unobserved, move.” In the concise Briggs show of twenty-plus works now on view at the Anita Shapolsky Gallery, a viewer gets some idea of what got O’Hara so excited more than half a century ago. In Untitled (Yellow), from 1958, vertically oriented blobs of black on the left are offset by horizontally arrayed reddish-brown swathes on the right. Jags of yellow enter from the top, emphatic as lightning, keying the bold energy O’Hara imagined as moving stone and bronze. In the firm contours of the yellow one can see the influence of Still’s rigid fractures and stark crevices of paint, but Briggs achieves a more mellifluous animation by varying his textures across the canvas, as in the rounded black globules juxtaposed against strokes that taper like a spearhead.

An off-kilter grid in the roughly three-foot-square Palermo (1964) imparts an architectonic vibe, but a snaking bolt of red and white mixed wet-into-wet on the canvas chronicles the painter’s physical movements as emphatically as a tennis stroke. The bold design — a bar of yellow starts in from the left and is interrupted and rerouted by knots of black and gray before reappearing against a white ground — imbues the composition with a jaunty rhythm.

With its exposed brick walls, patterned rugs, and modernist furniture, the Shapolsky gallery presents a homey postwar ambience, and it doesn’t surprise a viewer when Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five,” a popular jazz single from 1959, wafts from the sound system. That well-polished hit is an apt metaphor for the difference between the first generation of abstract expressionists who, as de Kooning said of Pollock, “broke the ice,” and later practitioners such as Briggs, Dugmore, and Hartigan, who may have lacked the searching rawness found in their elders’ compositions, but expanded the movement with grace and studious sophistication.

“Sketch for a Crucifixion” (1981)

Briggs died young, in terms of a painter’s career, in 1984, at age 61. His nearly six-foot-tall Sketch for a Crucifixion (1981) shows the artist reaching past modernism to millennia-old subject matter. Light seeps around emphatic black verticals, dusky yellow down the middle with grayed-out rectangles to either side — perhaps implying the intrigue-filled passageways told of in ancient tales; red angles and dark horizontals of varying weights imply the crosspieces of Roman justice. Briggs conveys, with an almost pure abstraction of simple, human-scale grid and bold palette, biblical anguish as well as the beauty that comes from perseverance, whether of a divine or an artistic nature.

‘Ernest Briggs: Four Decades of Abstract Expressionism’
Anita Shapolsky Gallery
152 East 65th Street
Through June 15


Irving Sandler, 1925–2018

Irving Sandler, the pioneering, on-the-scene art critic whose lively early histories of abstract expressionism were written from within the artists’ New York studios, and who later expanded his interests to the anti-modern tendencies of the next generation, died on June 2 in Manhattan from complications related to lung cancer. He was 92.

In the more than 75 books, catalogs, interviews, and contributions to publications he wrote since 1956, when he got his start as a reviewer for ArtNews magazine, Sandler wrote from the perspective of an insider whose close ties to artists such as Willem de Kooning, Philip Guston, and Joan Mitchell, among many others, enriched his criticism with a sense of personal investment.

“At the time,” he wrote in 1996, “the American art-conscious public was still hostile to abstract expressionism. In response I wrote as an embattled partisan, from within the movement, as it were.” Yet unlike the polemicists of the day — Clement Greenberg and Harold Rosenberg chief among them — Sandler took a bird’s-eye view of the scene as a whole, setting aside stern judgments in favor of firsthand description. “Back in the Fifties, I thought that my mission (and I was not alone in this) was to educate the public about avant-garde art,” he told the Brooklyn Rail in 2006. “That was what we really tried to do. I think we succeeded.”

Sandler was born on July 22, 1925, in New York City to Jewish refugees from Ukraine who fled the Russian Revolution. His childhood was spent in Philadelphia. At 17, he joined the U.S. Marines and served three years during the Second World War. By the mid-1950s, an interest in abstract art led to a job as manager of the Tanager Gallery on East 10th Street, an artist-run cooperative through which he forged many early connections. In 1958, he married his second wife, Lucy Freeman, a historian of medieval art to whom he dedicated many books and essays.

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Sandler’s first major publication, The Triumph of American Painting: A History of Abstract Expressionism (1970), chronicled the rise of New York as the center of modern art in the postwar period through the work of Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, Robert Motherwell, and others. The book eventually became the first of a four-volume epic of twentieth-century art history, which included The New York School: The Painters and Sculptors of the Fifties (1978), American Art of the 1960s (1988), and  Art of the Postmodern Era: From the Late 1960s to the Early 1990s (1996).

Each book was written with an eye toward the unity and diversity of American art — and, increasingly, with an awareness that critics must doubt their crafts. “Art history is not transparent,” Sandler wrote in the preface to Art of the Postmodern Era. “It is written by individuals, who bring to it their own personal baggage of appetites, psychological makeups, ethnic identities, social positions, political and religious persuasions, and so on. Claims to objectivity notwithstanding, the historian’s idiosyncrasies shape art history.”

What made Sandler so remarkable was the flexibility of his taste. As pop art and minimalism began to eclipse abstract expressionism in the 1960s, Sandler opened his mind to these radically combative movements, which replaced the passions of painterly abstraction with cool, detached aesthetics. “I must admit that at first I was antagonistic,” Sandler later said. “In time, my attitude changed.”


Maureen McFadden, Irving Sandler, and Helene Winer (from left) at Artists Space, September 23, 1977:

What allowed him to absorb these later styles was his deep sense of responsibility to artists. In 1972, he was among the co-founders of Artists Space, a nonprofit gallery devoted to supporting young artists working in a variety of ways. Graffiti was the subject of a show in 1975; two years later, the critic Douglas Crimp organized the radical “Pictures” show, from which the Pictures Generation emerged, and which set a tone radically different from that of de Kooning or Pollock. At the opening, Sandler was photographed smiling with Helene Winer, who later opened the Metro Pictures gallery in 1980.

Yet Sandler, who was so open to changes of direction, later voiced some concerns about the direction of art criticism, which increasingly turned away from art and artists and toward theory and speculation. “I find it objectionable,” Sandler said in 2006 of critics who celebrated their own minds instead of attending to the work at hand. “They are guilty of the deadly sin of envy. It’s artists who create, not art critics or theorists.”

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But through it all, a spirit of generosity remained. Last July, Sandler and Lucy invited me over for a glass of scotch — their beverage of choice — and entertained me with stories about old New York. The decor of their home — which was handsomely packed with paintings and gifts of art from friends — spoke to how widely they are admired. On one wall, there was a portrait by Philip Pearlstein of a young Sandler; another had a text painting by Glenn Ligon that borrowed phrasing from The Triumph of American Painting. It was a gift from the artist.

Nearby, there was a large abstract painting by Joan Mitchell from the late 1950s. Sandler had seen it in progress and admired the work, but Mitchell was displeased with it. One day, she called to say she was about to destroy it. He tried to persuade her otherwise. “She told me, ‘Look, if you can get here in a half-hour, it’s yours,’” he explained to me. So he rushed down to her studio and saved the picture — and that’s just one of the many ways Irving Sandler helped preserve history.