new-york

Shirley Goldfarb, Yellow painting #7, 1968, oil on canvas, 77 x 77".

Shirley Goldfarb

Loretta Howard Gallery

Shirley Goldfarb, Yellow painting #7, 1968, oil on canvas, 77 x 77".

My first memory of Shirley Goldfarb is as a model at the Art Students League summer school in Woodstock, New York. It was 1951 and I was sixteen. She had Louise Brooks–like black bangs and an exophthalmic gaze (a source of great unhappiness, as recorded in her journals), which she kept hidden beneath her signature huge round-lensed sunglasses. “Shirlay” (as the French called her) and I would occasionally run into one another at the turn of the 1960s, when—each from our different corners—we were part of a miscellany of Americans in Paris. I eventually left, but Goldfarb stayed on for thirty-six years and became, in her adoption of an almost mythically adored France—well, Paris, really, and of Paris, just Saint-Germain-des-Prés—part of a loose affiliation that included Beauford Delaney, Leon Golub, Nancy Spero, Joan Mitchell, Sam Francis, and her husband, Gregory

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