By Marcia Tucker
This engrossing memoir brings to shiny existence the behind-the-scenes struggles of Marcia Tucker, the 1st girl to be employed as a curator on the Whitney Museum of yankee artwork and the founding father of the recent Museum of latest paintings in big apple urban. Tucker got here of age within the Sixties, and this lively account of her lifestyles attracts the reader without delay into the burgeoning feminist circulate and the thrill of the recent York artwork global in the course of that point. Her personal new methods of considering led her to take principled stands that experience replaced the best way paintings museums examine modern artwork. As curator of portray and sculpture on the Whitney, she prepared significant exhibitions of the paintings of Lee Krasner, Joan Mitchell, Robert Morris, Bruce Nauman, and Richard Tuttle, between others. As founding father of the recent Museum of up to date paintings, she equipped and curated groundbreaking exhibitions that frequently fascinated by the nexus of paintings and politics. The ebook highlights Tucker's dedication to forging a brand new method whilst the existing one proved too slender for her expansive imaginative and prescient.
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More likely, one of our friends had used the spare key above the doorjamb to get in and had forgotten to close the door. ” I called out. ” There was a noise, and I turned to see two of my upstairs neighbors, standing in my kitchen. ” I asked cheerfully. An awkward silence. I looked more closely. There was something in Jeff’s face that I couldn’t read, but I knew it wasn’t good. Joel avoided my eyes. ” I asked. ” Jeff opened his mouth, and abruptly closed it again. Then it opened and the words came out and hung in the air like banners.
When he woke up in the local emergency room, my father pulled strings and got him into Hillside, a psychiatric hospital in Queens that had a decent reputation, especially for treating adolescents. After a few months, when he was allowed to have visitors, my dad and I drove out together, sitting mutely side by side in the front seat, each of us locked into our own anxiety about what we would find when we got there. It was reassuring. The well-kept red brick buildings and the rolling lawn, trees, and benches looked apple-pie normal to me, more like a school than an insane asylum.
The next morning when I woke up, I was weak. I thought I was sick until I realized that what I was feeling was relief. I grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled a note to Henri. “Come immediately,” I wrote. “My father will pay your passage! Just tell me what boat you’ll be on. ” I raced to the post office to send it off and waited nervously for his answer. When it finally came, I wanted to kiss him and kill him at the same time. “My darling,” he wrote, “I am so glad you told your father. It is terrible to have to keep such a secret.