Now everyone is an insider!
In order to provide an open forum for ALL of the museum’s collection and activities, the Paper + People blog is being renamed SCMA Insider. With its expanded focus, SCMA Insider will act as a go-to place for sharing information on the diverse collections and many voices and visions that shape SCMA.
If you want to contribute to the blog, please contact the Brown Post-Baccalaureate Curatorial Fellow, Shanice Bailey, at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Wednesday, January 24, 2018
Arpita Singh. Indian, 1947-. This Could be Us, You, or Anybody Else. 2007. Etching and aquatint printed in color on heavyweight, slightly textured, white paper. Gift of Bridget Moore, Class of 1979. SC 2014:27-1. Click here for larger image.
Movement is a point of change. When we move - in abstract or tangible ways, voluntary or forced - we engage with the changing of place, time, people, and culture. The artworks presented in this show reflect on this movement and the change it produces. As the viewer moves through this diverse display they also navigate several dichotomies: the singular/many, the imagined/ real, permanence/absence, and creation/destruction. While curating this collection I found myself resisting these dichotomies. What movement does best is connect these different points. We oscillate between oneness and multitude, between imaginaries and realities, hover indeterminately between permanence and absence, creation and destruction. Trying to take one piece in this collection to exemplify one or the other creates dissonance: they all contain echoes of their “opposite”. Knowing this, what does it mean to move? And how can the art presented here allow us to go beyond questions of dichotomy, and instead move toward realizations of the self?
Thursday, January 11, 2018
For my first on the job project, I was to learn about Latin American artists whose work would be exhibited in “Color and Heat”, a print show to be displayed in the Cunningham Center corridor. I was asked to write the wall text for several pieces, including the colorful screen-print “Bolívar y Juana Azurduy”. I had done broad research on all the artists in the exhibit, but I chose to write about an artist for whom I found very little information. But her work grabbed my attention with its bright colors and the heroic Simón Bolívar on his white horse. A uniformity in the smiles of every figure illustrated made me wonder if there was another story behind those fixed expressions. I suspected “Bolívar y Juana Azurduy” was not as straightforward as it seemed.
Carmen Baptista. Bolivian, 1936–. Bolívar y Juana Azurduy. 1985. Screenprint in color on medium thick, moderately textured, white Arches paper. Gift of Marius and Suzanne Sznajderman in memory of Bernard Barken Kaufman.
The artist Carmen Baptista was completely unknown to me, and there was little information available on her life and work. We obtained a two-page article directly from an archive in Switzerland, and a leaflet from one of her exhibitions in Bolivia that was given by the donor. So I began to focus solely on the print. The heroic rendering of Bolívar–whose name I associate with courage, and liberation since my grade-school days in Mexico– was not the most prominent element of the print. I felt it was the intimate gesture, the greeting between him and Juana Azurduy. I had never heard of Azurduy —so I began my study there. Azurduy was a guerrilla leader in the region soon to be named Bolivia. She fought alongside her husband Padilla who was also a prominent figure in the fight against the Spanish crown. Azurduy led armies of men and women into battle and defeated multiple strong Spanish brigades. In Juana Azurduy’s campaign for independence, she lost her personal wealth, her husband, and all but one of her children.
The Bolivian nation was established in 1925, but Azurduy did not receive a grain of recognition for her leadership or sacrifice. Her status as a pivotal military leader went ignored, and she never returned to her previous status as a well-to-do woman, she was left a poor widow with her only surviving child. Although she attempted several times to receive some sort of compensation for her bravery in the fight for the now independent nation, she was denied remuneration until the Liberator Simón Bolívar intervened on her behalf. When Simón Bolívar by invitation of the Bolivian president visited the picturesque town of Sucre in Chuquisaca, Bolívar insisted on meeting the forgotten hero Juana Azurduy. Historical accounts tell that shortly after his arrival in Bolivia, he was accompanied by a few of his closest soldiers and the Bolivian leader on a visit to the home of Azurduy. Upon their meeting, Bolívar expressed gratitude to Juana Azurduy for her great courage, but he was astonished at the miserable condition in which she was living. He told his men and the Bolivian leader “this country should not be named Bolivia in my honor, but Padilla or Azurduy, because it was them who made it free”. He then insisted she be promoted to Colonel and be granted a small pension for the rest of her life. Juana Azurduy lived a hard life even with the well-deserved pension she finally received later in life. Her historical importance was undermined after the independence because she was a woman, and even to this day, she is relatively unknown outside of Bolivia and its neighboring countries.
Learning about revolutionary leaders of the Americas was an essential part of my school days in Mexico; I was taught to commemorate the heroes that fought or influenced our independence. Although women played fundamental roles in the revolutions throughout Latin America —Bolivia, Perú, Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador, Panamá, and México, etc— they are seldom mentioned. It is a ‘liberating’ experience to have a story unfold through research, and greater still to feel that the artist herself has revealed something to you through her work. Baptista’s print attempts to right a wrong and honor the woman who led armies and fought for liberation.
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
Guest blogger Jenny Duckett is a Smith College student, class of 2014, with a major in Art History. She is a Student Assistant in the Cunningham Center for the Study of Prints, Drawings, and Photographs.
A picture of Marie-Thérèse from Gérard Blot/Réunion de Musées Nationaux/Art Resource, NY, Acquavella Gallerie, via Picasso in Lust and Ambition
As a student assistant in the Cunningham Center, one of my main duties is to pull prints, drawings, and photographs from the Smith’s collection for class visits and individual study. A few weeks ago I stumbled upon some prints by Picasso which piqued my interest. At the time I was just beginning my research for a paper I am writing about Picasso. The topic of my paper is Marie-Thérèse Walter, one of Picasso’s many mistresses, who is an incredibly strong presence in his work during their eight year relationship. I was lucky enough to find two prints in the collection which contain her unmistakable profile, and I immediately began research in order to include them in my paper.
Marie-Thérèse met Picasso in the winter of 1927 outside of a department store when she was just 17. Picasso, who was married and 45 at the time, approached Marie-Thérèse and boldly stated, “Hello, I’m Picasso. We are going to great things together.” Although Marie-Thérèse had no idea who this strange man was, she agreed to meet him the following Monday at the St. Lazare metro station. The rest is history. Their affair lasted roughly eight years and during that time Marie-Thérèse served as Picasso’s muse, appearing in painting after painting in endless incarnations; as a still life of fruit, a voluptuous woman asleep in an armchair, a Greek goddess, or an innocent child. Although Picasso had many women in his life, Marie-Thérèse is undoubtedly the most frequently represented woman in his artwork.
Pablo Picasso, Spanish (1881 - 1973). Printed by Roger Lacourière. Sculpteur, modèle accroupi et tête sculptee (Sculptor, Model Crouching and Sculpted Head); from the Vollard Suite, 1933. Etching on cream Montval laid paper with Vollard watermark. Bequest of Josephine A. Stein, class of 1927. Photography by Petegorsky/Gipe. SC 1997:16-2
The first work that I looked at from Smith’s collection was an etching from the Vollard Suite, featuring a Greek sculptor and his model gazing up at his sculpture; a large sculpted head with Marie-Thérèse’s profile. At the time this print was created, Picasso had just purchased the Chateau de Boisgeloup, an hour outside of Paris, as a summer hideaway for himself and his mistress, using its stables as a sculpture studio. It was there that he sculpted monumental busts of Marie-Thérèse.
Detail of Sculpteur, modèle accroupi et tête sculptee (Sculptor, Model Crouching and Sculpted Head). SC 1997:16-2
Picasso liked to envision himself as a Greek sculptor like Polyclitus or Praxiteles, imagining Marie-Thérèse as a goddess that he was sculpting. In this etching Picasso pictures himself as the bearded sculptor, admiring his masterpiece. One can observe the jutting out from behind the bust, almost as if they are rays of light springing forth from the sun.
The second piece that I chose to study is a print wherein Picasso depicts himself as a blinded minotaur while a small girl holding a dove leads him by the hand. While there are multiple theories by art historians regarding the meaning of this print, I prefer to think that Marie-Thérèse is bringing Picasso solace or peace, represented by the dove, while she guides him out of the darkness.
Pablo Picasso, Spanish (1881 - 1973). Minotaure Aveugle Guide par une Fillette dans la Nuit, 1934. Acquatint, scraper, drypoint and burin printed in black on Montual paper. Gift of Susan S. Small (Susan Spencer, class of 1948). Photography by Petegorsky/Gipe. SC 2009:14.
At this time in Picasso’s life he was coping with a painful divorce form his current wife, Olga, and Marie-Thérèse served largely as a respite from this daily stress. What is interesting to note is that soon after the creation of this print, in 1935 Picasso abandoned her for the photographer Dora Maar, leaving Marie-Thérèse heartbroken with a young daughter to care for. Picasso ultimately ended their relationship because Marie-Thérèse could not compete with him intellectually. In his mind she was still the young girl outside the department store, eternally innocent and naïve. Perhaps this is why he chose to represent her as a young girl in this print, instead of a woman. Although Picasso had progressed over the course of their relationship, Marie-Thérèse had not, and the qualities for which he had originally loved her became the reason for their relationship's demise.
Detail of Minotaure Aveugle Guide par une Fillette dans la Nuit. SC 2009:14.
Marie-Thérèse never married, spending the rest of her days raising their daughter Maya and quietly loving Picasso from afar. Like many of his lovers, Marie-Thérèse never fully recovered from their relationship, ultimately committing suicide in 1977, four years after Picasso’s death. Picasso’s love life is a fascinating subject, filled with more scandal and drama than any soap opera on television today. Marie-Thérèse Walter played an integral role in this story, as well as in Picasso’s artwork, and I have greatly enjoyed having the opportunity to study images of her in person.