Gabrielle Schwarz

  • Carolee Schneemann, Snows Drawing, 1966, watercolor, crayon, and ink on paper, 12 1⁄2 × 20".

    Carolee Schneemann

    “I’m a painter,” Carolee Schneemann once said. “I’m still a painter and I will die a painter.” Right up until her death in 2019, the artist insisted on the centrality of painting to her wide-ranging and profuse body of work. Across six decades’ worth of performance, film, photography, drawing, sculpture, installation, artist’s books––and, yes, some painting––she always maintained that the eye and hand of Schneemann the painter could be discerned: in her work’s intimate tactility, in its attentive treatment of color and form, and often also in the literal presence of paints or painterly apparatus.

  • Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven, Earring-Object, ca. 1918, steel watch spring, celluloid, ebony bead, brass ear screws, plastic screw guards, pearl earrings, metal wire, wood and glass display, 4 1⁄4 × 4 1⁄4 × 4 1⁄4".

    “The Baroness”

    WHEN I WAS / YOUNG—FOOLISH— / I LOVED MARCEL DUSHIT / HE BEHAVED MULISH—. This snippet of poetry by the Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven is printed on a wall next to the bathroom door at Mimosa House, beside a projection of Alfred Stieglitz’s photograph of an upturned urinal signed R. MUTT 1917. The proximity of the Baroness’s handwritten lines to the widely known signature underscores their remarkable similarity: a nod to the spirited debate that has emerged in recent years about the true authorship of the most famous art object of the twentieth century. Did Marcel Duchamp steal the credit

  • Eliot Elisofon, Marcel Duchamp descends staircase, reproduced in Life magazine, April 28, 1952. Photo: © Eliot Elisofon/The LIFE Picture Collection via Getty Images. Courtesy Marcel Duchamp Archives, Paris.
    books January 24, 2022

    Duchamp and Circumstance

    MARCEL DUCHAMP, BY ROBERT LEBEL WITH MARCEL DUCHAMP, ANDRÉ BRETON, AND H. P. ROCHÉ. New York: Hauser & Wirth Publishers, 2021. 252 pages. 

    TOWARD THE END of his life, in 1966, Marcel Duchamp was asked why he had never had a solo exhibition in his native France. “I don’t know. I never understood. I think it’s a question of money,” he replied. “The dealers have nothing to gain from me. . . The museums are run, more or less, by the dealers.”

    This candor was calculated, all part of Duchamp’s schtick. Since the mid-1920s—after a terrifyingly productive decade in which he reimagined Cubist painting,