Jim Lewis


It was a year so devoid of real aesthetic pleasure that I thought about withdrawing from the art world, once and for all. Instead I found that for sheer endorphin inspiration, history meant more to me than anything “current,” hence museums (Cézanne in Paris, Mondrian at MoMA, the always redemptive Frick Collection) meant more than galleries. And then, on the border of past and present, there were ANDY WARHOL’s Rorschach paintings at Gagosian Gallery, which I hereby nominate as the best show of a bad year. Of course, the series was, in Warhol’s perfect-pitch way, a joke of sorts, and the conceit, in its simplicity and cleverness, might have been a little too facile, were it not for the complexity of the underlying concept and the individual paintings’ success in the event. Because after all they were such beautiful things to look at—and they stared back at you, meaning whatever

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