By Marcia Tucker
This engrossing memoir brings to shiny existence the behind-the-scenes struggles of Marcia Tucker, the 1st lady to be employed as a curator on the Whitney Museum of yank artwork and the founding father of the hot Museum of latest paintings in long island urban. Tucker got here of age within the Nineteen Sixties, and this lively account of her existence attracts the reader without delay into the burgeoning feminist circulate and the buzz of the recent York artwork international in the course of that point. Her personal new methods of pondering led her to take principled stands that experience replaced the way in which artwork museums examine modern artwork. As curator of portray and sculpture on the Whitney, she geared up significant exhibitions of the paintings of Lee Krasner, Joan Mitchell, Robert Morris, Bruce Nauman, and Richard Tuttle, between others. As founding father of the hot Museum of latest artwork, she geared up and curated groundbreaking exhibitions that frequently thinking about the nexus of paintings and politics. The booklet highlights Tucker's dedication to forging a brand new process whilst the present one proved too slim for her expansive imaginative and prescient.
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Additional resources for A Short Life of Trouble: Forty Years in the New York Art World
An essential one, I gathered from the look on his face. “I thought I told you to sharpen these,” he screeched. “They are not sharpened! ” he bellowed. I smiled and said, “Because you’re not doing it the right way. ” He turned white, then pink, then purplish red. ” he screamed. ” And so I did. I crammed my meager personal effects into my bag and walked out the door. Fresh from my first firing, I leapt onto Michael’s lap and told him what I’d done. He didn’t look quite as happy as I had hoped he would, but after a celebratory drink or two he calmed down and we stared out into space, trying to envision our future.
Michael had been staying with Jeffrey, a high school friend of mine who had moved to a ramshackle walkup in the East Village. To buy some time, we asked Jeffrey if I could move in, too. His apartment was dark and bare of all but the basics—two beds, a couple of beat-up chairs salvaged from the street, bare lightbulbs dangling from the ceilings, a smelly sofa, and some cracked china. He was happy to share his place, especially since he was almost never home—we later found out that was because he was out selling drugs.
He didn’t even believe in God. He confessed this to me on the way to his office one Sunday morning when I was fourteen years old, and he swore me to secrecy. But my relatives’ ability to get their own way was not to be underestimated, and I caved in without so much as a whimper. I was too tired to fight with anyone about anything. I knew that they were making me miserable and that I was making them miserable, too, in some way that they were not willing to tell me. It was incomprehensible to me to be without parents.
A Short Life of Trouble: Forty Years in the New York Art World by Marcia Tucker