Earlier, I facebooked this response: "
The irreverent, irascible, seemingly indefatig- able grand dame of Dada and abstract expression- ist sculpture has died at age 98. Louise Bourgeois scatter your cells into the arms of a waiting universe...I just can't imagine you resting anywhere in peace~" and I meant it. She always seemed like such a force to be reckoned with, and no one to either suffer fools or trivialities. I fell in love with this Robert Maplethorpe portrait of her, devilish grin with her grotesque phallic sculpture tucked firmly under her fur clad arm. It's absolutely iconoclastic, and I've always imagined most everything I think I know about her personality based upon it first, and her opus second.
For most who can think of a sculpture by her the enormous spider probably comes to mind. Like Robert Indiana's LOVE, and Cleas Oldenburg's Typewriter Erasure, the spider belonged to Bourgeois. You can find images of it seemingly everywhere from Washington, D.C. to Balboa, Spain. But if you were to allow this to be your only frame of reference, you would fail to understand her genius.
Her sculptures were by and large construc- tions. They began with an idea, and the idea took form and was realized in a way that dictated the particulars of its being and allowed her to demonstrate her facility with a variety of mediums. In some cases they even took flight.
While in others, they might find themselves hung upon a wall. Yet be that as they may, their home, their form, their medium, were nothing more that highly skilled decisions held in service to their message. It's a discipline as an artist that seemed to come naturally to Bourgeois, and an example of both craft and dedication that will be her legacy for all those who aspire to fully actualize their own artistic identities. We are poorer tonight as a species, but the universe must be spinning with exuberance as her cells expand into its fold.
Earlier, I facebooked this response: "The irreverent, irascible, seemingly indefatig- able grand dame of Dada and abstract expression- ist sculpture has died at age 98. Louise Bourgeois scatter your cells into the arms of a waiting universe...I just can't imagine you resting anywhere in peace~" and I meant it. She always seemed like such a force to be reckoned with, and no one to either suffer fools or trivialities. I fell in love with this Robert Maplethorpe portrait of her, devilish grin with her grotesque phallic sculpture tucked firmly under her fur clad arm. It's absolutely iconoclastic, and I've always imagined most everything I think I know about her personality based upon it first, and her opus second.
For most who can think of a sculpture by her the enormous spider probably comes to mind. Like Robert Indiana's LOVE, and Cleas Oldenburg's Typewriter Erasure, the spider belonged to Bourgeois. You can find images of it seemingly everywhere from Washington, D.C. to Balboa, Spain. But if you were to allow this to be your only frame of reference, you would fail to understand her genius. 
Her sculptures were by and large construc- tions. They began with an idea, and the idea took form and was realized in a way that dictated the particulars of its being and allowed her to demonstrate her facility with a variety of mediums. In some cases they even took flight.
While in others, they might find themselves hung upon a wall. Yet be that as they may, their home, their form, their medium, were nothing more that highly skilled decisions held in service to their message. It's a discipline as an artist that seemed to come naturally to Bourgeois, and an example of both craft and dedication that will be her legacy for all those who aspire to fully actualize their own artistic identities. We are poorer tonight as a species, but the universe must be spinning with exuberance as her cells expand into its fold.
No comments:
Post a Comment