Saul Steinberg

Pace | 32 East 57th Street

Saul Steinberg’s America is a peculiar place; its buildings tend to be absurdly big, its people absurdly small. Arrogantly abstract freaks, Steinberg’s Americans move mechanically through the country’s streets like wind-up toys, traversing a place where everyone is on the move, travelling fast to nowhere in particular. Steinberg’s America is indeed “nowhere”—an artistic utopia in which the abstract and concrete are one and the same because the balance between them has not been worked out by history. Whether one tilts toward the abstract and artificial or the concrete and natural one is in the same utopian place—an artistic never-never land populated with illusory types that, because they are self-caricaturing, seem remarkably individual. Every last one is entirely a product of Steinberg’s wizardry, of an imagination in hot pursuit of the bizarre effect which unexpectedly turns out to be

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