April 15 to May 15, 2021
60 Lispenard Street, between Church Street and Broadway
New York City, canadanewyork.com

Alexi Worth moderated an ad hoc roundtable on the new social media Clubhouse May 13, under the auspices of Dumbo Open Studios in Two Coats of Paint publisher Sharon Butler’s “room”, in which he asked a few critics and artists to give shout outs for current shows that struck then as memorable and groundbreaking. This naturally gave rise to more general discourse on what constitutes anything so august. Blake Gopnik, distinguished former critic of the Washington Post and author of the recent Warhol biography, who offers a daily pic at his website and is thus to the manor born of bestowing aesthetic imprimatur, sounded a pessimistic view on art of significance in our moment, suggesting that like the waning days of mannerism before the advent of the baroque, or the (to his mind) benighted year 1895, art is treading water: lots of people do fine stuff but there is nothing truly important happening.

Well, I beg to differ, and would offer as singular proof of a multiple truth my own clarion choice, Katherine Bradford, whose show at CANADA, her third at that gallery since 2016, closes tomorrow. Grab your vax certificates and don’t let niceties of social distancing prevent you from seeing art history in the making. A show by Bradford, an artist at the height of her powers, is an event.

Gopnik would have a point still if one could say that a solo show of new work by Bradford either breaks into a new genre for this mythopoeically heartfelt narrator in paint, but within what one would call the artist’s trademark painterly idiom, or intensifies that idiom exponentially but in reference to familiar motifs or tropes. But Bradford is not that kind of artist. Each of her three CANADA presentations constitutes a chapter in an unfolding chronicle in which form and content are mutually embedded in one another.

Her 2016 CANADA debut, “Fear of Waves”, put bathers into the cosmos amidst shooting star dabs and drips; these images managed to evoke Bonnard, Cézanne, Hödler, Chagall and Milton Avery, all with a native Mainer’s earthy humor and a Williamsburg habitué’s cunning iconoclasm. There is actually a bit of me that feels oafish speaking about Bradford’s profundity not because she lacks it, one iota, but because she is so funny as an image maker, so salty, so unprententious, that it feels like a betrayal of mood to write in terms that she nonetheless commands. It would be exalting Cardy B in language suited to Bob Dylan. But what can one do: these women are geniuses?

“Friends and Strangers,” her 2018 solo spot, not only moved to dry land, leaving the swimming pool in outer space and grounding characters in complex social interactions; it accentuated the themes of distention, distortion and elongation while following a less pictorial and more figural logic in determining tensions of space and color. A levitating personage is held afloat by vintage rocket engines, a raucous collision of the ethereal and the steam punk.

You (or Blake Gopnik) might want to say, OK so her pictorial language and thematics shift from show to show, but aren’t these just the incremental meanderings of any lively artist’s career? For sure, the sensibility is always, unmistakably, Bradford. A humorous humanism, a narrative feeling for color, an AbEx manipulation of forms until a composition gels: these constitute her modus operandi. But each turn is simultaneously two turns, of subject and style, and a combined turn in a direction, an insight, in which the artist’s restless search over five decades has not yet taken her. When the arc of her career is scrutinized, this is an artist, it emerges, disinclined towards repetition even as she digs deeper into familiarities.

And then comes the Mother paintings. I’m one of those gallery goers who reads the press release after seeing the show, not to allow gallerists (or even the artist) to police my reactions. What I saw on the walls were people, familiars, groups, relations, support systems. Unlike the levitator from “Friends and Strangers,” a supine old woman has no invisible or magical means of transport; she is carried by two all-too-human, dedicated ladies, who are most certainly not assisted by a ghostly, inverted third. There seems to be an elderly balding bloke in one painting looking particularly gormless in a cocktail dress. He bestows an ambivalent gaze upon three scrubbed-out gatherings around tables that somehow read as hieroglyphs of distressed communality.

More strikingly inventive but with no gratuitous stylization in evidence is a riff on the elongations in the last show which now have an anatomical-cum-psychological function, arms that reach further than nature intended so that a figure can embrace, or at least lay claims to, other figures beyond her singular reach. When we learn that the paintings depict “mother” it makes sense; unlike many-armed Indian goddesses,  Maine earth mothers have, instead of multiple arms, the ordinary two, it’s just that they’re longer. In Mother’s Lap, (2020) the larger-than-life maternal form is like a chunk of furniture, a right-angled entity, recalling for me Henry Moore’s madonnas which follows simultaneously vertical and horizontal thrusts; and like Moore, Bradford’s mothers are also hieratic and naturalistic, schematic and tender, in ways that elide the distinction between archetype and real human presence.

The English child psychologist D.W. Winnicott famously observed that what he found in his waiting room was not mothers and children but singular units of mother-child. This shouldn’t be understood as misogynist; he fully understood that the mother, as an adult, had a life apart, but the child is helplessly anchored in this duo. Winnicott formulated a theory of the environment-individual set up, a complex dynamism that at once entails and belies individuality. Without setting out to illustrate any textbook theories, Bradford’s painterly approach seems to mirror, or vindicate, this way of seeing while developing suitably non-binary scenarios of maternal support as befits an LGBT-icon who is also a mother and grandmother.

But Object Relations notwithstanding, in my pre-press release exposure to Bradford’s show I found myself luxuriating in a formal duality that has nothing immediately or obviously to do with motherhood. Color blazes in this show like never in Bradford’s oeuvre. Just to take the last three shows, ‘Waves’ had the almost ecclesiastical purples of night skies, while “Friends,” with its lemon and lime grounds, was weighted towards mustards and almost 1950s pinks. But color here has the ferocious autonomy of tachisme or art informel or Hans Hofmann at his most chromatically impertinent. And yet, as much as colors sing in their singularity, the tonality in Bradford is an equally powerful force in these paintings. The bold, emphatic contrasts in Bus Stop (2020) of both gender and hue – the discs of the female’s breasts, the alternating pink and yellow of the man’s pants – evolve amidst scruffy, distressed canvas-and-ground-baring scumble; if her color here is almost conceptual – as in the idea of such and such a color – her tones are contingent, mired, grounded, incremental.

Such is the purposiveness of every formal decision in Bradford, however, that this duality of chroma and tone actually feels like it has symbolic weight;  one that’s tethered to another duality, the archetypal and the all-too-human, that pervades her explorations of motherhood, of mother-offspring relations, mother-father, mother-environment. But this is not conceptual art. It is not a grand scheme of dualities and counterweighted abstractions. Bradford is about tentative, exploratory, possible, intuited meanings and values. Winnicott’s best known concept – again, not antifeminist (says this male critic!) – was the notion of the “good enough mother”. By this he meant the human mother whose “failings” are a gift to the growing child. In the same spirit, let’s say of Bradford’s Mother Paintings, groundbreaking and significant not simply for Bradford but for everyone who cares about painting and has or had a mother, that these are good enough masterpieces.

The post Good Enough: Katherine Bradford’s Mother Paintings at CANADA appeared first on artcritical.

September 14 to October 21, 2018
333 Broome Street, between Chrystie Street and Bowery
New York City, canadanewyork.com

At first glance, Katherine Bradford doesn’t seem eager to get too specific. Her figures often have no faces nor even much by way of hands. Gender and race feel indicated without necessarily being perfectly legible. And though maybe she is ingenuously concealing a lack of facility, it is more likely that it is precisely in that twilight between the apparent arbitrariness of a brush stroke and the haptic perception of a particular feeling that Bradford has staked her territory. Ambiguity plays a special role in complicating the tension between the ideas of painting and the way Bradford uses them to define sexuality, gender and race, and how that might influence the way we intuitively observe human relationships.

While this new show at Canada, Friends and Strangers, is not exactly a departure from the greater arc of her work, one thing that stands out is that she no longer feels the need to use overt themes like ships, superheroes, or bathers to unify a body of work. The eleven paintings here were done this year and range in size from 4 x 5 feet, to 6½ x 11 feet. They all contain at least one figure and up to around 13 (if you count fragments). But these paintings are not only large in size: The figures that inhabit them are also large-scale, and all the while Bradford paints them in a way that retains a genetic memory of color field abstraction.

Most of the paintings here employ abstract painting ideas to produce fantastic kinds of subject matter, where a figure may levitate, or levitate and squirt milk not just from her breasts, but also from the whole length of her body. Or sit on a giant firearm gathering snowball ammunition. Or drip heads from beneath a skirt. They just cry out for interpretation. But even the most simple and direct of the images here, a painting titled Couple No Shirts, demonstrates what might be at stake in the kinds of ambiguities Bradford constructs.

Nothing surreal is happening, just two people, sitting and facing out. Though for faces there are only large mauve brush strokes where eyes and mouths would be. At five feet, the height of the painting makes them slightly larger than their viewers.

The right sitter has arms folded over straight legs, and the other sits crossed-legged, with her left hand resting on the shoulder of the other figure. Though I am using the female pronoun, that assumption is just one of several that might end up a bit awkward, especially with these paintings. And especially right now in a cultural moment where categories that used to be quite clearly defined, like gender, sexuality, race, etc., are now much more fluid. We can’t be really certain whether this couple is two women, two men, or mixed. But our brains nevertheless seem compelled to leap to quick categorizations, which in Bradford’s pictorial reality become suspect upon scrutiny. Bradford seems to exploit this by getting fuzzy just at the instant where we make those assumptions.

“Couple No Shirts”: There is an implication of semi-nudity, relationship and sexuality in that title. But you can’t rely too much on the title because, despite the “no shirts” stipulation, one of the figures seems to sport an ultramarine one (or is it a jacket?) that is open in front. Exposed female breasts in paintings might be conventionally titillating, but the right figure’s shoulders are broad, hair short, and because the revealed breasts are also small, they could be male breasts.

And yet Bradford is really subtle about this ambiguity. That chest is a painted cloud of about three overlapping wan colors close in tone. There is a slightly darker brush stroke that runs just under the nipples which perhaps defines the shape of the breasts as female, but it is so matter-of-factly brushed that one may feel a little pervy for needing to look that closely.

The couple does sport the same milky blue hair color, though Left’s hairstyle is slightly longer and on a man would look like a Prince Valiant cut. Right is wearing pants that aren’t as tight as Left’s red pants that cling to her thin calves. Because of this fashion choice, the delicate, bare feet, and slightness of the upper torso (Bradford really outdoes herself in the economical painting of that slightly curved belly) I have already unconsciously registered Left as female. Though to further challenge masculine/feminine convention, if you examine Left’s lower calf, Bradford has painted a thin wash over tiny short dark marks to indicate hair.

Bradford continually lets us believe she is casually doing hardly anything when she is in fact subtly constructing significance through weight and volume. Looking closely at the way she paints the hand resting on the companion’s shoulder, even though the fingers are barely indicated, it is impossible not to feel tenderness in the way it rests so caressingly.

But who are these people and what is their relationship, and why is Bradford presenting them to us so anonymously yet so insistently? In my mind this is a lesbian couple. Further I conjecture it is a self-portrait of Bradford and her long time partner, Jane O’Wyatt, though I’m aware I have possibly gone way too far in making this hypothesis. Bradford, by coyly scattering conflicting signifiers wants viewers to question assumptions of gender, age, and relationship precisely such as this one. This constant questioning and recalibration process is the experience not only of looking at any Bradford painting, it also goes to the heart of how one forms attitudes and fantasies about other people in the world.

Bradford expresses her ambition not only through scale, but also through a desire for universality, to illuminate what it might be like to be alive at this moment. We want good art to feel universal, yet if we look around us these days just crossing the street, everyone we encounter projects signifiers of their own strange particularities, not just of socioeconomic status but of personal history, interests, attitudes, proclivities, pains, fears, desires. And body types to satisfy those desires of which universal norms no longer apply. To attend to the conversations of strangers might lead one to believe we could be living among aliens. So painting specific people to represent humanity can end up being unrelatable for large groups of people, and yet generalized depictions risk becoming boringly generic.

This is Katherine Bradford’s predicament. She confronts it with thoughtfulness, diligence, and humor. Her approach here seems threefold. Some of her paintings like Water Lady or Yellow Dress construct metaphors for private psychological states, which might not be specifically familiar, but are legible as the kind of specifically interior feelings we all have. And some of her paintings like Wedding Circle, Lunch Painting and Waiting Room, depict group experiences that in their anonymity could be familiarly alienating for everyone. But in a few of her paintings like One Man’s Tub, where a wide-eyed man in underpants lies stretched out beside his coffin-like bathtub, and Couple No Shirts, it feels like in their ordinariness there is a tacit acknowledgement, whether alone or as a couple, of what we all eventually must face.

The post Subtle Ambiguities: Katherine Bradford at CANADA appeared first on artcritical.

click any image to view in slide show with captions

The post Katherine Bradford’s Opening at CANADA appeared first on artcritical.

Supports/Surfaces
Canada
June 7 to July 20, 2014
333 Broome Street (between Bowery and Chrystie)
New York City, 212 925 4631

Right now there is a great deal of interest within the New York art world in looking backward, seeking visual inspiration in modernism. Two current group shows are exemplary models of this revisionist historical thinking. Starting in the 1960s, many otherwise varied artists in Europe and New York employed shaped canvases. Inspired by the 1964 Guggenheim Museum exhibition “The Shaped Canvas,” Luxembourg & Dayan, housed on three floors of a majestic, very narrow Upper East Side townhouse, has organized an exhibition of 28 paintings employing this device. Starting around 1966, a group of Frenchmen of the Supports/Surfaces movement developed a remarkable synthesis of deconstructive philosophy, the political ideas of Mao and the decorative pure color found in Matisse’s late cutouts. Canada, a downtown gallery, has assembled a show of 22 paintings by these artists, in collaboration with the Parisian Galerie Bernard Ceysson.

Harvey Quaytman, Elizabeth Murray and Kenneth Noland painted abstractions on shaped frames; Claes Oldenberg, James Rosenquist and Tom Wesselmann used them to present figurative subjects. Some painters, such as Ron Gorchov, used the shaped canvas as a way to structure their pictures. Richard Prince, whose 1994 Untitled (Protest Painting) contains the outlined shape of a sloganless protest sign, is exemplary of artists who set shaped structures within a pictorial rectangle. In presenting a marvelous variety of shaped canvases, Luxembourg & Dayan generates some surprising, unexpected juxtapositions: Pino Pascali’s Coda di Delfino (1966), a jokey dolphin-shaped painting on wood, is set alongside Creede II (1961), a copper-colored, shaped work by Frank Stella. Jeremy De Prez’s Untitled (2014), which presents a seemingly rumpled plaid design, is hung next to John Armleder’s Lotta di gladiatori — The Best (2014). The exhibition ends with two marvelously funny pictures, Steven Parrino’s very orderly The Chaotic Painting (2006), a triangle shape, and Jacob Kassay’s Partial Credit (2014), a not-quite-rectangular canvas with the title printed on the right edge of the frame.

The Supports/Surfaces painters were a loosely organized movement centered in the South of France, linked together, at least initially, by their fascination with bookish philosophizing. Searching for an alternative to the practice of Clement Greenberg’s color field painters, these artists freely appropriated ideas from Michael Fried’s formalism and the Marxism of Marcelin Pleynet and Philippe Sollers, writers associated with the Parisian journal Tel Quel. Jean-Michel Meurice created strips of intense color like Vinyle (1976); Claude Viallat presented repeated patterns on dyed fabric or rope lattices hung directly on the wall, as in 1972/F14 (1972); Louis Cane employed repetitive rubber-stamping — Toile tamponnée (1967) is an example.

Artists who otherwise had no connection with one another have employed the shaped canvas. Using a shaped canvas doesn’t require any high-powered theorizing. And so it’s unsurprising that this pictorial format has been adapted by such a motley assortment of figures as Lucio Fontana, Mary Heilmann and Damien Hirst, on view at Luxembourg & Dayan. By contrast, although the Supports/Surfaces works can be seen as deconstructed paintings, what remains of that art form when you remove the stretcher and display the unstretched canvas or, conversely, present just the frame, sans canvas? This style of art making was parasitic upon what now seem like dated critical, cultural, and aesthetic theories. French writers drew an equivalence between what in the catalogue Joe Fyfe calls “the fabric of society” and the structures of bourgeois painting, making a link between the “radical social engagement” of French Maoists and deconstructive visual practice. If you remove the unstable supporting synthesis of formalist interpretation and political analysis, all that remains of Supports/Surfaces art is good looking decorative constructions. That perhaps explains why these artists haven’t had much impact within the American art world. When the New York artists looked to Europe for inspiration, it looked to Germany. As yet these Frenchmen don’t belong in the post-modernist canon. The show at Canada was handsomely hung, but by presenting this art with too little reference to its original context, the catalogue did not adequately support what could have been an important revisionist exhibition.

Note:

My account of Supports/Surfaces borrows from Raphael Rubinstein, “The Painting Undone: Supports/Surfaces” at https://www.artcritical.com/2004/02/01/the-painting-undone-supportssurfaces. The quotation from Joe Fyfe comes from the foreword of Surface/Support (New York and Paris: Canada Gallery with Galerie Bernard Ceysson, 2014).

The post Outside the Box: David Carrier on the Legacy of Shaped Canvases appeared first on artcritical.

Carrie Moyer continues to agitate…beautifully.  Over the last decade she has used a layered graphic aesthetic to express solidarity with ideals of political, social and sexual equality.  In her 2006 exhibition, titled The Stone Age, she breathed new life into still life and abstract painting alike by fusing modernist painting from both sides of the Atlantic with silhouetted Paleolithic figures. Today, Moyer continues to reap the benefits of pluralism while joyously surfing in the wake of “the death of painting”, casting a net that is smart, wide, and fearless.

In Canonical at Canada Gallery, Moyer charts new and unexpected territory. Rock Candy Chrysalis unfolds bilaterally within a flat, black-winged lattice that frames our view of diaphanous, coral-c-olored forms emerging from a neutral ground.  The architectonic lattice and patterning throughout acknowledge a comfort with Pattern and Decoration artists such as Robert Kushner.  Textural contrasts between black line, raw canvas, and glistening or matte paint drive the formal interplay throughout this exhibition. And when Moyer drops a lightly patterned, transparent veil against or behind a flat plane, hints of illusionistic shading appear.  Though this painting is but one frame, Moyer’s methodology creates a sense of flickering natural phenomena.

In the six-foot square Frilly Dollup, Moyer shuffles ten layers of imagery while achieving spatial lift and slippery movement.  I am tempted to say that Frilly Dollup is the best biomorphic painting of the new century.  A seemingly effortless play of contrasts between texture, color, and line masks complexity and maintains clarity of image.  The formal ease, large size, decorous color, and elegant composition push beauty to the edge of current taste.  Frilly Dollup divides horizontally into three strata.  The lower portion articulates an expanding terrestrial womb that envelops and nurtures itself, while the upper third of the canvas parades an assortment of floating, colorful shapes that both nestle and pass by one another.  One mottled, stony white figure seems part Casper the Friendly Ghost, part Ken Price sculpture, but may be culled from Moyer’s resonant Shebang or Stone Age figures of 2006.  Rifling through the last 100 years of painting with indexical panache, Moyer’s biomorphs also nod to Picasso’s 1930’s beach bathers, Miró, Arp, Richard Lindner and Elizabeth Murray but function together as if she snapped a shot at the right moment at a party.  There is an interesting tension between what is guided and what is a more randomized gesture.  Though process is present, it is not as assertive as the gestures of Pollock, Lynda Benglis or Dona Nelson.  This tact allows the imagistic nature of the painting to move forward.  But ultimately it is the choreographic arrangement of pouring, staining, coaxing, patterning and sinewy charcoal line that animates Moyer’s pictorial projection.

The Tiger’s Wife intertwines psychological landscape and bodily form.  Moyer’s intelligence is haptic; she and by extension we, sense and recognize by her touch.  A softer, more modulated approach to color, form and line playfully emphasizes transparency and off-register articulations.  The smooth transitional flow between painting passages heightens the chthonic breadth of The Tiger’s Wife, deepening pictorial space without abandoning abstract peripherality.  Here, Moyer resistance to a flattened iconic field in favor of a feminine space of the possible, reflects how women artists from Carolee Schneeman, Lee Bontecou, and Murray to Moyer herself have changed painting.  A sense of multivalent form engages the viewer in a creative act of free-associative thinking.  Forms resembling eggs, tubes, a phallus, a breast, and fingers float in an amniotic cosmos outlined by a vaguely pelvic shape.   The glint of S.W. Hayter’s line and dust of William Baziotes’s atmosphere are bits of useful code that affirm Surrealist methods.  That Moyer can sink into and then pull content out of a viscous, liquid-soaked canvas enables her to dismiss a list of hooks often called upon to justify contemporary abstraction.  Moyer power lies in her ability to imbed content into the plurality of form that she has found painting still offers.  Overwrought referencing, clock-punching announcements about “the work”, psychedelic allusions, and goofy self-deprecations are absent.  Instead we are met with color, beauty, spirit, ebb and flow, the comings and goings of nether regions, experiential knowledge, and our common humanity.  In a sense Moyer reframes a question posed by one of color field’s progenitors by asking… Who’s afraid of beauty, facility and feminism?

The post Cherry Bomb to Cherry Blossom: Carrie Moyer at Canada appeared first on artcritical.

July 9-September 8, 2010
237 Eldridge Street, between Stanton and East Houston streets
New York City, 212) 253-0700

As the title of this exhibition of Canadian mid-century painters Oscar Cahén and Gershon Iskowitz makes clear, Artists Caught in Hitler’s Web brings together two European-born artists who had been persecuted by the Third Reich. Gershon Iskowitzs’ work is deceptively benign. Cloud-like tufts of white, continent-shaped masses of solid mauve and red overlaid with uniform constellations of confetti-like dots of primary hue, dance across the surface of his paintings from the late 60’s onward. Oscar Cahén’s father, Fritz Mark was a diplomat who organized a formal opposition group and published a tract titled “Men Against Hitler”.  After an arrest in Czechoslovakia, Cahén traveled to England to escape persecution but was arrested as an illegal immigrant  and deported to Quebec as a prisoner of war.  During this internment, Cahén’s artistic dash was discovered by the art director of a Canadian news journal, The Standard which began using his illustrations alongside news stories. The public interest in his work led to his early release ,beginning a prolific career as both a painter and a commercial artist.

Gershon Iskowitzs’ path toward recognition as leader in the Canadian avant garde included the most harrowing of circumstances.  After his hometown of Kielce, Poland was destroyed by the Nazis, he was imprisoned in a labor camp only to be transferred to Auschwitz and then Buchenwald.  Reportedly, Iskowitz managed to maintain something of a drawing practice while imprisoned.  After the war, with family murdered and home destroyed, Iskowitz was sent to Munich where he eventually began a study of art.  After a brief stint at the Munich Art Academy Iskowitz took up a period of study with Expressionist Oskar Kokoschka.  In the brooding Late Summer Evening (1962), Iskowitz portrays a dense and moody field of low twinkling lights appearing from veils of sap green, umber and translucent ochre.  The modulation in the brushwork foreshadows Iskowitz’s later paintings.    Iskowitz took a ride in a helicopter in 1967 and became fascinated by the appearance of the Northern Canadian landscape as seen through the patchiness of clouds.  This partially obscured aerial view format crystallized and became the framework from which he continued to work. The largest painting here is Painting in Mauve (1972) which shows a behemoth mass of towering purple encroaching upon two miniscule slivers of silvery white flanking the central form.

Slabs and chunks of teal, scarlet, fuchsia and chartreuse epitomize a fifties palette and seem optimistic despite Oscar Cahén’s dark beginning as an artist.  Cahén’s Traumoeba (1956) epitomizes the Abstract Expressionist movement in Canada.  An amalgamation of action painting, free associative drawing and dense surface, This is a spectacular example of Cahén’s mature style.  There is a central form which dominates the painting, delineated in strong black lines.  Cahén’s painting titled Candy Tree (1952) is a symphonic totem in dusty pink and warm glowing tones.  The format echoes a figure, a totem and contains crystalline segments and prismatic forms reminiscent of a kind of prehistoric cactus.  According to the Cahén Archives Candy Tree was a breakout piece and was exhibited widely earning Cahén critical success.

Cahén moved between aggression and playfulness in his paintings.  In Austin Healey 100 Engine (1954) a tangle of scrawled black lines moves across the painting like tire tracks.  The marks are painted on top of a complex abstract mound in simplified hues of red, blue and green.  Several mushroom-shaped forms are stacked awkwardly at the right of the painting.  In the obsessive black marks there is a feeling of nonsensical mapmaking or graphing. Iskkowitz is the quiet mystic in this show where Cahén stands out as outspoken and assertive.  Having survived horrific circumstances, Iskowitz committed his artistic practice to making paintings that are both melancholy and playful.  Cahén’s early political defiance carried with him in his brash abstractions until his untimely death in a car crash in 1956 at the age of 40.  The show provides a telling glimpse in an obscure but fascinating moment in mid-century contemporary art and reiterates the profound impact World War II made upon the lives of artists.

The post Caught in Hitler’s Web: Canadian Expressionists Oscar Cahén and Gershon Iskowitz appeared first on artcritical.