By Ed Huyck
By Melissa Wray
By Patrick Strait
By Jonathan McJunkin
By B Fresh Photography
By Ryan Siverson
By Kendra Sundvall
By Ed Huyck
When Alice Neel got her first retrospective she was 74 years old--a Methuselah by art-world standards. The exhibit, at the Whitney, was apparently a rather slipshod affair, and Neel's paintings were wedged clumsily into an exhibit of American folk art. Last summer, when the Whitney debuted a major Neel retrospective celebrating the artist's centenary, which is visiting the Walker through September 2, those same paintings were clumped in with an installation by the decidedly unfolksy agitprop artist Barbara Kruger. Even 17 years after her death, it seems, no one has quite figured out how to shoehorn Neel into the art world: Was she a traditional portraitist in the vein of Mary Cassatt, or a feminist pathfinder who blazed a trail for artists like Kruger? Most now agree that she was some kind of American original. The question is, Which kind?
Neel's legacy is complicated by the fact that, during her lifetime, she was always slightly out of step with the art world's march. In the 1930s, when Neel lived in Greenwich Village, she fell among beats (an affiliation retrospectively inflated by her appearance in the 1959 Robert Frank/Jack Kerouac film Pull My Daisy). But Neel's bohemianism (like that of many other beats) was mostly a put-on. She was, in fact, born into a respectably bourgeois Philadelphia family. As a "woman painter," Neel was also inevitably lumped in with the fledgling women's movement--one of the few commissions she received during her long and commercially un-illustrious career was for a Time cover portrait of Kate Millett. Neel seems to have enjoyed the attention: In a documentary film, included in the Walker exhibit, she compares her career to Napoleon's famous self-coronation. "In my day I was scandalous," the lively 78-year-old says. "I did as I pleased."
Yet, while Neel was happy to ride either wave to renown, she rarely flogged her feminist or her bohemian credentials. Throughout her career, in fact, the art of self-promotion--then, as now, as integral to success in the art world as technique--seemed to confound her. In one instance she convinced the poet Frank O'Hara, then curator of the Museum of Modern Art, to sit for a portrait. Her motive was transparent: She wanted a solo exhibition. And her portrait of O'Hara, done in heroic half-profile, is embarrassingly flattering. When she'd finished the first painting, though, Neel dashed off a second (which, for some reason, hangs all the way across the Walker gallery from the first). In her second portrait, we see what Neel really thought of O'Hara: She gives him rotten teeth, a madman's stare, and what appear to be nests of acne. No surprise, she never got her show.
Neel was an honest portraitist, which might have kept her from ever being a commercially successful one. Unlike an inspired sycophant like Singer Sargent, who painted people the way they saw themselves, Neel painted what she saw in them. Which isn't to say she was a realist: She was drawn to her subjects' physical deformities, and she regarded their lumpy, misshapen bodies with an unsentimental, almost clinical, gaze. Neel was always cajoling her sitters into posing nude, not because she was interested in the topography of the human body--her pictures of people, with their bugging eyes and outsize features, are more caricature than portraiture--but because she wanted to breach their psychic armor. In one late portrait, for instance, Andy Warhol is seen shirtless, gunshot scars crisscrossing his abdomen and a girdle apparently keeping his guts from falling out. Warhol, the larger-than-life celebrity, is exposed, not as a fraud--which Neel thought he was--but as the inhabitant of a standard-issue human body. When one looks at the painting now, Neel doesn't seem cold so much as melancholy: This is the way of all flesh, she seems to be saying. Warhol's nakedness levels the playing field.
In her illuminating catalog essay, the exhibit's curator, Ann Temkin, argues that Neel's frankly carnal style was central to her identity as a female artist. For centuries, the female body was recruited, dissembled, and idealized by male painters. Neel's gaze was implicitly female, unabashedly sexual, often bemused, occasionally angry. She was, in some sense, reclaiming Olympia, the nude female odalisque turned by Manet into an objet d'art and embraced by the French impressionists as the feminine ideal. In Neel's case, however, it was Olympia who was doing the watching. Considering impressionism's influence on Neel, Temkin writes, "Instead of taking Cézanne's work in a direction leading art away from life, [Neel] explored how it might lead painting toward life, toward private meaning, and in her case, toward imagery directly connected to the life of a woman."
Neel's posthumous canonization might smack of revisionism. In most cases, anyway, a revival of interest in a largely forgotten artist says more about our current cultural mores than about that artist's individual merits. But it's not hard to make a case for Neel's importance. Her obscurity in the Forties and Fifties seems mostly attributable to the art world's tastes: Abstract Expressionism was in; everything else was out. As a figurative painter, Neel earned the disdain of blowhards like Hilton Kramer, and little attention from disciples of Pollock's macho primitivism. Neel was perhaps less behind her times than ahead of them, though, and with the current revival of representational art, her work looks better than ever. At worst, her paintings are never less than compelling; at best, they represent a missing link between Cassatt and today's figurative painters.
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