New York

Louise Nevelson

Pace | 32 East 57th Street

Often, critics belittle an artist and, in so doing, belittle criticism; they may despair of an artist who is unregenerate, impervious to constructive criticism and manipulative of the public, and feel that a critical travesty (arched name-calling) is necessary to repudiate an esthetic travesty. Such is the case with critics and Louise Nevelson, and it does no one any good.

But the fact remains that she does gear her sculpture toward taste and fashion; there are no grounds for a sincere study of the work. It is especially hard to think well of the recent show, however much one would like to. The materials are familiar: box-composites full of wooden odds and ends (knobs, bolts, utilitarian and otherwise), painted black (no easier solution to formal unity) and made into that lofty thing, the relief. And the concerns are familiar: a cubist-cum-expressionist format, the vacillation of structure

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