Preface
The history of art abounds with examples of artists
who have pursued their calling with excellence, indeed, with
inspiration quite above the ordinary. Yet, they have not joined
by will or circumstance the mainstream of art in their day.
While instant glamour may have escaped themwhich
often proves ephemeralmany stand
the test of time better than some of their more heralded peers,
as they followed, true only to themselves with an obstinate
integrity, their independent and wayward course. Such an artist
is Ary Stillman, a figure whose life is more closely linked
to the art of the last forty years than is even his oeuvre
The name Ary Stillman is still vividly implanted
on the minds of those artists and critics active especially
in the New York art scene of the post-war period. Yet how many
of these artists and critics can conjure up clearly an image
of these forcefully honest landscapes and cityscapes, or the
abstractions of the post-war period so clearly born of the era
of Jackson Pollock and Bradley Walker Tomlin, yet so far from
them in their spiritual content.
It is our aim through this exhibition and illustrated
catalogue to give form to this phantom name that is Ary Stillman,
and at the same time to honor an artist who chose Houston for
his home for the last five years of his life, and which city
still harbors almost the entirety of his painted oeuvre.
We are deeply indebted to Richard Teller Hirsch,
retired Curator of the James A. Michener Collection of Twentieth
Century American Art, for the introduction as well as the body
of this catalogue. And of course, to Mrs. Ary Stillman and the
artist's entire family, who are the real parents of the exhibition.
With a generosity kindled by an understandable enthusiasm for
the artist, they placed all of their recollections at the service
of Mr. Hirsch, and made available their paintings and drawings
for the enjoyment of the Museum's public.
Philippe de Montebello
Director
The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston
Introduction
“Admittedly,
there is nothing unusual about a painter whose work undergoes
an evolution of style between the early 1920s to the late
1960s.”
Aesthetically, Ary Stillman was two distinct American
painters within the span of a single lifetime. Admittedly, there
is nothing unusual about a painter whose work undergoes an evolution
of style between the early 1920s to the late 1960s. In fact,
this is possibly the norm in American contemporary or near-contemporary
painting. We lack an indelible Rouault, an unswerving Dufy.
In the case of Ary Stillman what is extraordinary is that, looking
over this array selected from the work of a lifetime, one finds
not a gradual evolution but a sudden rift that amounts to the
rejection of all of the earlier work, the work done before the
break that led to Stillman's adoption of a singular style of
which he had given no earlier intimation. That style was to
remain without any relapse, any pentimento, his sole
vocabulary for the last twenty years of his career. It is this
that makes the fascination of the two Ary Stillmans. Both of
them were excellent painters, within a given style, but neither
the earlier one predicted nor did the later one borrow from
the style of the other.
“...in
the case of Ary Stillman, all evolutionary steps are absent.”
Artists who find themselves using several differing
idioms in the course of their career most often follow a slow
evolution or transformation that leads, ultimately, to partial
recall or re-use of portions or even parodies of some previous
personal style. Such is the case with Picassoto take the
most obvious examplewho reminds us, in his late etchings,
of the early period when he was painting lonely figures with
an underlying use of line that paid distant homage to Monsieur
Ingres. Hans Hofmann evolved as he broke slowly with his earlier
dark Munich realism but we also find ourselves indulgent towards
any number of other instances where more rapid transformations
occurred, whether or not there were recalls of, or allusions
to, earlier work in an artist's later efforts. But, in the case
of the two Stillmans, all evolutionary steps are absent. In
his later work we find not even a cryptic recall of anything
done earlier, lust as nothing in the earlier work provides mystical
signs or esoteric symbols which, with hindsight, we can interpret
as having led to the final statements. More importantly, there
were no intermediate, piecemeal abjurations, a number of halfway
stopovers, such as Rothko's Surrealist entanglements, Kline's
bar paintings in Greenwich Village between his railroad trains'
primitivism and his phone directory calligrams that prefigured
those great black slashes on monumental rectangles of white
canvas. Thomas Hess, who knew Ary Stillman and respected his
art, has recalled for this writer "the conversion"
Elaine De Kooning has attributed to many post-World War II artists
as a phenomenon many of them underwent collectively. She forgot
that, for some, satori was a step in an ongoing development,
a landing on the staircase to fame or final style. Ary Stillman
knew no such intermediate progressions.
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La Place de la Poste, Cassis
1928
Oil on Canvas
21 x 25
Green Room
University of Houston,
Moores School of Music, TX |
World's Fair
1940
Oil on Canvas
29 x 39
Private Collection, TX |
The background of the first Ary Stillman offers
few special surprises, although it required enormous personal
stamina and quietly heroic dedication for him to emerge as an
accepted artist. All his tenacious ambitions, his singleness
of purpose, explain the flavor of the paintings of those struggling,
intense years. Of course such things had not infrequently happened
to others, molding other temperaments. Thus, as we respect this
man so are we witness to the quiet fervor latent in what he
could do: the early work has this measured excellence, a commanding
integrity.
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Blue Beard
1925
Watercolor
Private Collection, TX |
My
Mother
1934
Oil on Canvas
27 x 31 3/4
Private Collection, TX |
The birth of the second Ary Stillman resulted
directly from the pangs of tragedy, intensifying, as World War
II became a permanent part of the American consciousness. Like
many another artist confronted by the brutalities of an unprecedented
Weltgeist, Stillman took stock of what he had been doing
up to then. He looked at his oeuvre, asking the stark
questions suddenly propounded by the world drama, which had
and still surrounded him. Many sensitive souls in the arts were
similarly affectedas had also been the case when World
War I destroyed the serene axioms of a previous American scene.
The new Stillman, thus, found himself rejecting all that he
had accomplished, rejecting, as well, the position which his
work had slowly given him; and more importantly, adopting, compulsively,
the bases of his unquestioning need to find a sense of new purpose.
His Paris of the Salons lay in ashes; the aesthetics of his
boy, and manhood quenched his inner fire no longer, hut lay
bitter on the tongue. Encircled with skeletons, tomorrow beckoned,
intransigent, unbeholden and demanding.
As any creative artist, deafened by the paeans
of destruction, what Ary Stillman's purposes had been could
and would no longer suffice to sustain further effort. Rejection,
over agonizing days and hours of meditationeven a verdant
Central Park no therapeutic distractionwas an inescapable
dilemma; the shadow-light within his soul's insufficient bomb
shelter had made the sweet light, to which he had earlier responded,
into a piercing memory of lost illusion. His resulting private
vacuum, familiar to all mystics and to a respectable army of
saints, devoured him. The time found his spirit as that of so
many others, both numbingly sterile and painfully pregnant.
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Variation of Forms
c. 1950s
oil on canvas
39 1/2 x 49 1/4
Private Collection, TX |
Even when possessed by despair no truly creative
temperament, however, can dissociate life from creativity. Hence,
do we witness the Ary Stillman II of the late 40s, finally looking
forward, all accumulated baggage left behind, and entering into
an entirely new plastic and graphic field.
It is, therefore, not a semantic trick to date
from 1945 Stillman-as-amnesiac, an artist who had unlearned
all previous memories, all previous skills and aims. What he
gave us was a new artist to consider, producing works which,
though tragically motivated, were oriented entirely towards
some strange and, as yet, unconceived future. The paradox that
despair, though absolute, should lead to novel creation (and
not to re-creation) is but one of the ironies of the artistic
daemon that besets its elect.
We are familiar with the growing interest in
abstraction aroused by world tragedy among many of our artists
once the transplanted American Surrealist "revival"
in which Rothko, Donati and so many others had participated,
abated and died. These mutating artists, however, almost always
carried with them, as was mentioned, the memories or the nostalgia
of earlier times and earlier work. Not so, Ary Stillman II.
For him, the world was not the familiar one with new elements
added, others distorted or ablated. Rather, it was a new world
entirely that sprang from no ancient, perennial, recollected
roots, nothing but what made old memories intolerable and earlier
goals ridiculous, vacantas a battlefield is vacant when
the guns are stilled.
In actual fact, as this exhibition demonstrates,
there was, of course, but one unalterable Ary Stillman, fated
in his painterly persistence: the man who had been the poor
Jewish boy of Hretzk, possessed with the desire to draw, who
had taught slower but less indigent students for kopeks in nearby
Byelorussian Slutzk, to the sole end that the Imperial School
of Art at Vilnaaccepting him in spite of the overwhelming
odds against itmight teach him painting, the year being
the revolutionary one of 1905. Then we witness this hungry student
without means aspiring to the greatest of all impossible goals,
the Imperial Academy of St. Petersburg. Plans
changed, and from 1908, a mere three years later, we have a
portrait painted by Ary Stillman that appears strangely out
of place in the exhibition (Cat. No.1). It is a harsh realistic
portrait, smoothly brushed, with hard linear outlines, without
mystery in its darkness, unaware of the magic of light. It is
unencumbered, by flattery or sentimentality, although the subject,
Mrs.
Brodkey, was the artist's great aunt, the wife of the owner
of a jewelry store in Sioux City, Iowa who had brought him to
this country in 1907. This stiff painting is included in this
retrospective because, in its stark way, the very fact of its
existence, the fact that Ary Stillman, aged 17, could conceivably,
given his origins, have painted it, good, bad or indifferent,
represents a triumph over apparently insurmountable odds. It
demonstrates that this lad of seventeen, though born into the
grinding darkness of Russia's most primitive rural deprivation
and ignorance, had extracted, by the standards of the times,
a remarkable painterly competence from the narrow technical
teachings of the Imperial Art School in Vilna. His origins should
have barred him without recourse from such training seemingly
unattainable. We may find that this portrait displays an inculcated
meagerness of means, we may be justifiably critical of what
this picture tells of the XIXth century studio recipes handed
out by the Imperial Art School. But that Stillman, only fifteen
years after his birth into the utter hopelessness of his native
countryside, should have fought for and won any exposure at
all to such practices should color all our later assessments
of both man and artist.
Devoid of self-pity, doggedly oblivious to what
should have been his pre-ordained station in life, equipped
with fantastic persistence, humble but gifted with unassailable
pride, Ary Stillman had been born to be an artist and, precociously,
he knew it.
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Blue Accent
Oil on Canvas |
Dos Caciques
1960
Acrylic on Canvas
24 x 18
Denver Art Museum, CO |
Then, years later, after fulfilling his early
promise to bring his mother and the rest of the family to
the U.S.; after those years of working for his uncle in the
jewelry store in Sioux City, Iowa; painting in the loneliness
of the shop's back room took him to only the shortest of stints
at Chicago's Art Institute. After that came the poverty of
those Lower East Side years in New York, with eager night
classes at the Jewish Educational Alliance, study at the National
Academy of Design and yet other evenings at the Art Students'
League, all these revelations leading to the seven-year adventure
of Paris, of Europe, of the Mediterranean world, North Africa,
Palestine. After returning for a single year in America, other
years back in Paris again further developed, refined and matured
a sensibility that had opened the Salons to him in France
and major galleries in New York and which would, one day,
sustain the second Ary Stillman in the untrodden jungle paths
of his later expression. The Sienese had fascinated him, the
Assisi Giottos enthralled; his cult of Cézanne had
enticed him for a short time, but not to goals foreign to
his innate ones; as with Van Gogh's Provence, he saw only
with his own eyes, not through those of the Seer of Aries
or those of the Man of Aix. André Lhote
("Heureusement que dans géometrie il y a géo!")
had been a fleeting mentor. Othon Friesz invited Stillman
to exhibit with him at the Salon d'Automne. Neither the teacher
nor the elder marked Ary's personal manner. Other friendships
among the eminent in the arts seemed to develop naturally
around Stillman. His monthly open house in Paris was well
attended, not only by aspiring French artists and the American
painters of passage but by the leaders of the Salons, the
Gallery-entrenched and a number of critics. Leo Stein was
among the latter, Ary finding him a better talker than writer;
both agreeing that Gertrude was a ''fraud.'' His first one-man
show was at Bernheim Jeune's, successful, well reviewed. It
was 1928. Stillman was 37. It appeared to his American friends
in Paris, as it would to those in New York when he returned
to America the following year, that he was a peintre arrive,
in the French manner.
He had his first American one-man show at the
Fifth Avenue Ainslie Galleries, followed immediately by others
in such places as the City Art Museum of St Louis, the Art Institute
of Omaha, as well as in Tulsa and his old stomping ground of
Sioux City. This was in its way overnight success. Nothing less
than the stockmarket crash could have arrested such a beginning.
The critics of 1929 were hardly even tuning up for their proclamations
of ''Regionalism'' as the approved style of the day to come.
''Socially conscious'' painting was still several years in the
offing. Remarks about the ''Frenchness'' of Stillman's works
were hardly negative whispers that year. Only the tenets born
of the Depression would change their tenor.
For one thing, his painting was not servily imbued
with the Gallicism of any particular leading Frenchman or school
of Parisians. Stillman was very much his own man when he looked
at the night crowds catching the lights of a New York canyon;
very much his own mannot a pale Bonnard, nor a hard-edge
Vuillard, nor a passionless Mediterraneanwhen painting
a still-life before an open window looking towards the damp
greens of a wood land, Barbizon forgotten, Lhote rejected. His
Frenchness was not in any way equivalent to that of such a fascinated
Parisian-for-a-time as Robert Henri, just as his New York accent
was not that of his friend John Sloan. Years earlier he would
not have been a ''ninth'' to join the Eight exhibiting at the
Macbeth Gallery.
Had his friend Othon Friesz, a sponsor of his
work, been able to convert him into seeing the Mediterranean
as a heavy geometry of raw or harsh outlines? He knew all the
painters in Paris--by their works at least--but his painting
had remained steadfastly his own. Stylistically he might waver,
under the impact (he favored that energetic word) of a given
scene, a given subject. His painting was prompted by mood or
emotion; it did not waver, however, from the encounter with
some other artist, someone else's work. He could be, and was,
selectively gregarious; he was not a joiner, much less a disciple,
even less a conforming calculating plagiarist. Independence
was a life trait, quiet, unassuming, unswerving.
When choosing to paint a girl's head during van
Dongen's most fashionable years, Stillman found in his brush
and treatment a delicacy that the more famous of the two missed
while, patently, seeking it time after time. His painting of
a somewhat dismal village
setting under the snow (Cat. No.7) would mislead
one to think that Stillman had never laid eyes on a Vlaminck
although, in those years, any short stroll in Paris would have
exposed him to the Flemish painter's rutted winter streets,
vacant under racing skies. On the contrary, Stillman's village
street, dusted with snow, the small church warmed by the minute
color variations of the granite of the Massif Central, is a
study of atmosphere, of hushed quietude, of architecture and,
hence, though unseen behind those walls, of people, rooted,
unperturbed and as stolid as the immemorial hillside lovingly
quarried.
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Ceremonial
1962
Acrylic on Canvas
19 1/8 x 25 1/8
Appleton Museum of Art, FL |
Untitled
1966
oil and acrylic on canvas
36 x 44
Foundation Collection
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Elsewhere in the same area, an unrelieved gray
overcast manages to convey a sense of filtered sunlight, bathing
peasant dwellings and barns, their quiescent presence seeming
serenely apposite rather than obtrusively possessive or quaintly
rustic. Cézanne, whom Stillman revered and understood-but
never plagiarized-would have found the motif claustrophobic;
other French painters probably would not even have noticed the
scene, too sheltered for traditional atmospheric perspective;
Lhote would have ''Geometricized'' it; Soutine, through the
cosmic chaos of his transmogrifying ego, would have discerned
only the volcanic upheaval that had compressed it fiercely into
what Stillman simply saw as its gentle nestling. More than merely
seeing, he felt. The still grays of the overcast were to him
but a sieve for the rays of a boundless, silent sunlight falling
equally on everything's serenity, its rightness of mood, place
and time. The result, a pious paean to the land, tempests of
molten mountains long stilled by the easy flow of ages, a place
for man to root himself deeply; all vast horizons foreign, beyond
those hills whose closeness he savored.
The
Post Office Square of a Mediterranean Cassis (seen in the
Bernheim Jeune exhibition and, later, in this country) offered
other and more enticing pitfalls. Stillman gives us here, not
a dazzling burst of sunshine, nor, it must be emphasized, reminiscences
of Van Gogh's modeling by brush stroke and impasto, nor some
Cézannesque spectrum flickering in short oblique parallel
strokes, nor yet allusions to Cézanne's fervor of contrapuntal
planes bathed in a dancing refracted light. What Stillman gives
us is Stillman's own Provence: a deserted square, the setting
for a commanding, if leafless tree, a subdued sky whose light
is spread evenly, refusing facile contrasts, a place, La
Place de la Poste (Cat. No.6), not a stage set. Le Sidaner,
perhaps, would have liked this painting; Friesz would have added
his contours, neglecting the imponderables in favor of the earthy
ponderous; Derain, needing more room, would have strode farther
up the hillside for a broader view. The Place is deserted
but not abandoned, as if this were the withdrawn hour for the
rhythmic breathing of the siesta's interim. It is Stillman's
hour, here.
Crowds in Stillman's painting of those years
were those he had watched and analyzed endlesslythen to
paint them, distilled, into tight constellations of color and
rippling shadow in New York; among the Indians above Taos;
in Mexico; on Coney
Island (Cat. No.10); or at the World's
Fair (Cat. No.12). He pondered crowds, their movement, their
eddies and purposeless tides; he watched them in the light filtering
down from the upper reaches of skyscraper canyons, jostling,
an undifferentiated multitude in the lights of Time Square's
nocturnal dazzle and flicker (Cat. No.9) or the morning gray
between gray stone masses whose pinnacles alone, roseate, respond
to a lust-risen misty sun. The dancers in the Salon
Mexico (Cat. No.11), under the harsh lights, the reflections
from the brass band, endowed with the swirling subdued color
of ample garments, form a picture to which Copeland also responded
with his piece of the same name. These are far removed from
even hinting at the purposes implicit in Manet's painting of
a guinguette or Robert Henri's Bal Tabarin. That
all this collective movement of individuals (seen as a single
entity) was Stillman's gift as an observer, a painterly man
receptive of moods but not of methods, is demonstrated by earlier
scenes which included single figures and, also, by his portraits.
Some of these, omitted from this exhibition,
could be motifs for an arrangement of color or a pretext for
dynamic distortion: the first Ary Stillman sought no such effects,
needed none, imposed none on the reality of the moment. His
nerve endings made him, though in no way passive, a receiver.
Where there was peace, his intuition heightened the image of
such quietude. Where there had been explosions of rhythmic color,
Taos Indian dances vibrated on the walls of the Galerie Zak
in his second Paris one-man show. The harsh, repetitive beat
was a frenzy of man's garishness encompassed by the cosmic silence
of whispering deserts of time. Alas, all of these latter works,
left in France, seem not to have survived the great war.
The second Ary Stillman was a strange phenomenon
maturing towards a new flowering through tortured periods of
contemplation and then of hollow inactivity; through detached
participation in the discussions at ''The Club'' (so well chronicled
by Irving Sandler); of shared reveries and speculations in Central
Park, and that special emotional blankness known to so many
creative temperaments of those years. The painterly realities
of a mere few years earlier, though genuine, had been vastly
devastated by the overpowering aftermath of a World War and
seemed now to be comparatively negligible casualties. There
was no longer a utopian city of the mind that could be resurrected
and rebuilt with materials salvaged from the dust of this traumatic
rubble. Lifeit seemed to many an artistic mind, some as
sensitive as Ary's, others as tough as George Grosz's in his
The Upheaval of Nothingnessmight be more vacuum
than enrichment; more riddle than answer. Warsaw Old Town might
have Bellotto's facades rebuilt, but Warsaw's Old Town would
be, forever, only a New ShamBellotto's reality, in spite
of all externals, gone, lost, a figment. But one lived still,
paint could still smell good when it did not mock with the reek
of a mental emetic. One lives, the lust for life a mocking despair,
while yet a flame lingers fitfully, remnant of a cosmic death
pyre or the paradox of a creative urge, who knows? And should
one care? ''The Irascribles'' looking forward, which Dada had
not, after that earlier holocaust of World War I, became what,
eventually; we would call the School of New York. Ary Stillman
found himselfthough accepted and shown at Wildenstein's
and elsewherenot quite one of them, though he had helped
to form the Federation of Modern Painters and Sculptors. The
Macbeth Gallery (shades of the ''Eight's'' iconoclasm displayed
there 38 years earlier) gave his new work a one-man show. And
others were to follow.
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Saga
1964
oil and acrylic on canvas
30 1/4 x 24 1/4
Green Room
University of Houston,
Moores School of Music, TX |
Improvisation
1963
oil and acrylic on canvas
Tweed Museum of Art, MN |
To the man who was later to sign his painting
merely ''Ary'', this was not new. He had been accepted in New
York before, shown and carped at a bit for the ''Frenchness''
of his work, while, as was said, he had been immune to the styles
or mannerisms of the French. Now, in his new incarnation, he
was to be confronted by the same dilemma caused by confusing
his work with that of others, praised with them, or cursed for
this assumed identity of aims, all at the critics' whim.
An action painter, an abstract expressionist
he was not. His works at this time were not gestural, random
in the fashionable way. Nor did they belong to the splash schoolwhat
the French, the new French, called tachisme. Somewhere
between the structural and a fluid world of gem-like opalescence
Ary Stillman painted his particular vision. Bowing only once
to the new notions, at least in terms of size, he attempted,
beyond his physical strength, stunningly, the large format.
But Ary II had had small beginnings after the war, dabbling
only dabbling he thought with smallish drawings,
the paper smudged. The suggested planes were honed, however,
with penciled areas (Cat.
No. 16); contours lit by insubstantial lines of scratched-out
hatchings, edges of form, rhythmic sonnets of form (Cat. No.
17), all references to the past or the remembered semblance
of terrestrial things absent, as if Ary's eye had lost its memoryleaving
acuteness only, and only for what grew beneath his hand. Three
woodcuts mark this time (Cat. No. 23) in an ''edition''
of four quite differing impressionsand two lithographs,
printed for self and friends. Biomorphic or crystalline, the
drawings, all of them smallish (Cat.
No.25), create a world of ordered depth receding
into enigmatic shadow, as the quiet recedes into an opacity
that is not barrier but a beckoning to other patterns, just
beyond yet further depths of sight. Many of these patternings
''happened'' at Cape Cod. And there were other travels, old
sights seen with a new vision: Majorca, Paris (In
The Studio, Cat. No.24), for an unfruitful time,
and Siena, where Ary became convinced, once again, that truth
had once been captured long ago, and Catalonia, where glimpses
of the sacramental stimulated both the inner and the outer eye,
where starkness was not a naiveté but a symbolic sufficiency.
Then to Mexico again, temples resplendent in their decay, asking
the questions they were once built to answer (Cat.
No.26), hieroglyphs upon the jungle, as hieratic as the
rituals, familiar to Stillman, of the Greek Orthodoxy but more
hermetic. Ary II was now equipped for the important works of
those later years, their opulent creativity, their vigor, their
mystery. He chose some titles for these works that are clearly
directed at those too unperceptive to divine what had brought
them into being, the secret intent that made them throb from
within. Other titles, such as Coptic (Cat. No.31) or
In the Beginning (Cat. Nos. 36 and 37) convey Ary's awareness
of the poignancy of renewal or of youth imbedded in ruin or,
more disturbingly, the riddles of vibrant life mystically immobilized
in death. Such allusions explicate, as well, much of the fervor
evident in layered veilings of neutral pigment beneath which
lie the clear colors of the underpainting, subdued, in turn,
or strengthened by apertures revealing pure blacks, pure color
or emphasized by black lines superimposed on ghostly intimations.
The veilings are not the muting of some instrument, but the
pauses that orchestrate a complexity of themes into controlled
moments of revelation (Archaic Images, Cat. No.30). This
is true particularly of the gouaches of those years. Oils and
acrylics Stillman used differently, smoothness in one canvas
being followed by almost granular impasti in another, free compositions
of one year float upon backgrounds of seemingly burnished golden
browns, as jewel facets magnifying icons by cryptic allusions
long forgotten.
As in Blue
Accent (Cat. No.19), black lines often encompass
areas of color set upon a neutral background. Elsewhere color,
muted or opalescent, cooled greens, seemingly translucent, seemingly
back-lighted, are the indeterminate ground for vigorous flights
of black lines rising, curving into partial, upward-thrusting,
structural, tensioned ogees. Stillman came back to these concepts
as if stimulated by their poetic energy, their purposeful kinetic
power. These were explorations that could have satisfied many
an artist to remain within the enchantment of their spontaneous
perpetual motion. Such works, to a more static man, mightlegitimatelyhave
become his successful personal style, the griffe which
the first Ary Stillman never quite achieved. But no.
Our second Ary, the explorer, continued on his
chosen course and by each discovery was led still onwards and
beyond. Often he parallels this or that notion which may evoke
another painter's name: Gromaire, a name one historian has mentioned,
for some of the black-stroke-over-color works, as in Rhythms
in Space (Cat. No.29); but on examination such an appraisal
fails to bridge a fundamental divergence; Gromaire's aims and
Ary's in no way coincided. There are box-like figurations in
Stillman's canvases at one point, as in Improvisation
(Cat. No.43); but not those of the early Gottlieb. There are
wide-stroke grisailles made with a flat brush, true, but Tomlin's
preciosity with which Stillman was familiar, is absent here
in Black and White, No.3 (Cat. No. 27), just as is Tomlin's
self-conscious embroidering of the painted surface. Such vocabularies
Ary used solely to his very personally unique ends and the results
have a mystery of realities veiled over by yet others that leave
Tomlin superficial, charming, a stranger in a quite different
world. Every critical study of Tomlin has stressed the effete
preciosity so remote from Stillman's fervor. And charmin
all but the esoteric meaning of the termis never found
in our explorer's work.
When a man does not borrow from his former self
for either allusion, form, idiom or theme, it should be obvious,
one would hope, though this opinion, as any other, may be disputed,
that it is in vain that the critic look for borrowings from
other artists in the artist's most original work. Ary had responded
to the Sienese, the early Catalonians and, living in Mexico
or within his studio in Houston, he pondered Mayan riddles.
He worked to say powerful things evoked from strange dimensions
of time, unmindful of modish galleries. The Mayas (and the Incas)
haunted him; his brush moved boldly in answer to echoes within
his mind as his intuition evoked them. But no false, if fragrant
exoticism is here, such as Bali had imposed upon a clever Covarrubias.
The Birth of the Snake God (Cat. No.32) is no pastiche
of glyph, no ersatz for a labored stone rubbing, no copy of
a carving, even less the work of some hypnotic Morris Graves,
recreating nature or giving the spirit a personal incarnation.
What it is is a free communion in strong, effervescing terms
with something felt, the feeling transmuting the sensed ambiance
of another, timeless cosmos; a coincidence of emotions on a
high plane of visions somehow encountered in a universal mystery,
shared, with Them, by him, for us. More specific evocations
arise, unlabored but yet distilled, in such powerful works as
Two Caciques (Cat. No.26). The procession, the processional,
hieratic undoubtedly, but not archaeological, also abounds in
these recollections of the unknown, the unseen: Ceremonial
and Saga
(Cat. Nos. 38 and 40).
Such, from the depths of despair, from the cavernous
vacuum left by war-shattered realities, were the flowerings,
which the second Ary Stillman brought forth. He had once been
a painter who saw with feeling. In the last years, the years
of rebirth, feeling had made him surpass response to mere outer
visual perception. Growing in strength, as in Untitled
(Cat. No.47), though his body grew weaker, commanding obedience
from his tools to state fervently, decisively, the inner dictates
of his intuitive echoings, Ary Stillman, the visionary, triumphed,
his work achieved, destiny fulfilledEmpyrean glimpsed
beyond the veil.
Richard Teller Hirsch