new-york

Birdie Lusch, Untitled, 1973, collage, marker, ballpoint pen on paper, 18 × 12".

Birdie Lusch

Kerry Schuss

Birdie Lusch, Untitled, 1973, collage, marker, ballpoint pen on paper, 18 × 12".

Imagine, for a minute, a history of modern art told only through still lifes of flowers, a subject precariously close to kitsch. (Many of modernism’s central movers and shakers—including Manet, who called the still life a painter’s touchstone—would play a major role. But this thought experiment entails imagining a modernism without inside or outside, or in which outside is literally brought in.) Imagine the basic, daily scenes that would accumulate, bloom, and change over time; imagine a slight easing of gender, socioeconomic, and geographic gaps in art history’s narration; imagine the artists who would then emerge. (Jane Freilicher would surely lead the postwar charge.) Imagine encountering the serial collaged bouquets of Birdie Lusch, a factory worker in Columbus, Ohio. She made art her whole life, but picture one specific album she worked on over three months in the

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