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Aerial view of the NGA roof terrace

Aerial view of the NGA roof terrace

Well worth the three-year wait, the newly redesigned and refurbished East Building of the National Gallery of Art has reopened. Perry Chin, a colleague of I.M. Pei, architect of the original, undertook the extensive, if subtle reworking. First opened in 1978 to house modern and contemporary art, the building is comprised of interlocking triangles reflecting the shape of the original parcel of land.

The works now on view incorporate more than 200 of the NGA’s plunder of the now defunct Corcoran Gallery’s collection (an astonishing 8,766 works). As reported recently in the Wall Street Journal, the NGA got to choose whatever it wanted from the Corcoran’s collection (dream job, or what?) after the dear old gallery’s financial demise. Now many choice pieces benefit—as do we—from the smart reworking of gallery space.

"Hahn/Coick," 2013, by Katharina Fritsch

“Hahn/Coick,” 2013, by Katharina Fritsch

For my first visit, I decided to start at the top—the new outdoor roof terrace—and work my way down. Never made it to the bottom. Another day, another blog!

With a sweeping view of Pennsylvania Avenue, the terrace houses modern sculpture, including George Rickey’s mesmerizing “Divided Square Oblique,” 1981. I sat on a bench and watched those stainless steel wand swing and dip to form seemingly endless combinations. Soon a museum employee scuttled around to polish the “Do Not Touch” signs embedded in the floor near each sculpture. A good thing, too, as Katharina Fritsch’s “Hahn/Cock,” 2013, polyester resin, begged to be touched. Seen here through the stainless pipes of Kenneth Snelson’s “V-X,” 1968, the monumental rooster is sure to become a favorite selfie spot.

"Three Motives Against a Wall No.1" 1958, by Henry Moore

“Three Motives Against a Wall No.1” 1958, by Henry Moore

Just inside the door leading from the sculpture terrace to Tower One, I was captivated by the amusingly named “Three Motives against a Wall, Number One,” 1958, a small Henry Moore bronze. This mix of small delights and monumental construction is one of the charms of the East Building. Unlike, for example, the Museum of Modern Art in New York, whose vast entry/atrium seems to exist more to elevate the architect than to house art. I could go on—think “starchictects” we know and don’t love—but why, when there’s so much to love here?

"Stations of the Cross," 1966, by Barnett Newman and Mark Rothko, Classic Paintings

“Stations of the Cross,” 1966, by Barnett Newman and Mark Rothko, Classic Paintings

Namely, the spare “Stations of the Cross,” 1966, in the new tower gallery. Comprised of fourteen paintings by Barnett Newman, this work was first exhibited at the Guggenheim in 1966. Since then, these paintings have received lots of critical acclaim and a good bit of distain as well. Newman has said that the line in his paintings—he called them “zips”—symbolized an individual man or woman, reduced to his or her most essential representation. Raised Jewish in New York City, are we to think from the title that Newman converted to Catholicism?  No, as the wall text explains. These works, meant to be seen sequentially, explore a single theme. Jesus’s cry on the cross—“Why have you forsaken me?”—is also our existential question as humans. What are we doing here and what comes next?

"Shell No. 1," 1928, by Georgia O'Keeffe

“Shell No. 1,” 1928, by Georgia O’Keeffe

The adjacent gallery, also lit by filtered tower light, gives us “Mark Rothko: The Classic Paintings.” Here in early works, the artist explores basic human emotions of “…tragedy, ecstasy, doom.” Stepping into this gallery, we Washingtonians think immediately of the Rothko room at the Phillips Collection. The comparison works in favor of both institutions. The small room at the Phillips allows viewers to be immersed in the pulsing color of the paintings, up close and personal. And although the tower room is considerably larger, the same reverential feeling abides. Taken as a whole, the Newman and Rothko tower galleries feel like a sacred space.

Walking down the staircase leading from Tower One to the Upper Level (Modern Art from the Collection), it seemed as if every inch had been buffed and polished. Or maybe the staircase is one of the new ones. I’m hoping to take a tour that will make clear how the building was renovated. As it stands, it all feels so fresh and new that it’s hard to recall how the original spaces were configured.

"Germinal," 1967, by Louise Bourgeois

“Germinal,” 1967, by Louise Bourgeois

In the “Dada and Beyond” gallery, the curators have filled a case of small oddities that coexist so beautifully it’s as if they were made to be together. Georgia O’Keeffe’s beguiling “Shell No. 1,” painted in 1928, hangs with several Joseph Cornell boxes. These are kindred spirits of Betye Saar’s “Twilight Awakening,” made fifty years after O’Keeffe’s luminous shell. “Germinal,” a 1967 marble sculpture by Louise Bourgeois possesses the sly humor of its casemates. Notions of theft flit through the mind. They’re all small enough to fit in…oh, never mind.

Walking through the gallery entitled “Birth of Abstraction,” I passed a flock of Brancusi sculptures, each mounted on gorgeous wooden bases, to find Wassily Kandinsky’s “Improvisation 31 (Sea Battle),” 1913. The piece does roil and splash, colors hitting colors with exuberance, but not quite the violence suggested by the title. How fresh and modern this picture feels103 years later.

"Improvisation 31 (Sea Battle)", 1913, by Wassily Kandinsky

“Improvisation 31 (Sea Battle)”, 1913, by Wassily Kandinsky

Color also rules in Hans Hofmann’s “Autumn Gold,” 1957. I can get lost in this composition, enjoying the tactile application of paint, how colors slap up against other colors. Clearly the artist loved paint for paint’s sake.

Much more controlled is Gene Davis’s “Black Popcorn,” 1965. Hung in the space entitled, “Color Field and Edge,” it’s an old friend from the Corcoran collection. Here the color is sparked by black stripes. The so-called “Washington Color School” gets ample billing here, thanks to the NGA’s Corcoran windfall.

autumn-gold

“Autumn Gold,” 1957, by Hans Hofmann

Nearby hangs Sam Gilliam’s “Relative,” 1969. Gilliam, now 82, is breaking new ground with a monumental piece commissioned by the Museum of African American History and Culture. Can’t wait to see it. Gilliam’s work, always hard to categorize, evolved from figurative work to the breakthrough in which he abandoned the frame entirely. In the “draped” paintings, the canvas is painted with abstract images and then hung—from walls, ceilings, even the front of a building in Philadelphia. Rather than hanging limp or inert, “Relative” seems to march across the wall with great energy.

"Black Popcorn," 1965, by Gene Davis

“Black Popcorn,” 1965, by Gene Davis

After an hour and a half, I’d savored the art (oh, those shimmering Morandi still lifes!), and also reveled in the building itself, gleaming and full to bursting, topped off by that friendly alien, the Alexander Calder mobile. Later, I was stunned to learn that it was the final monumental piece commissioned from Calder, and that he died shortly after the untitled mobile was installed in the East Building. Knowing that, I’ll see it just a bit differently, but always with awe and affection.

"Relative," 1969, by Sam Gilliam

“Relative,” 1969, by Sam Gilliam

Good news: the terrace café has reopened, albeit offering packaged food and get-it-yourself coffee, sadly, but still…you can sip your coffee and nibble on your scone and watch the Calder mobile languidly traverse that extraordinary space.

"Untitled," 1978 by Alexander Calder

“Untitled,” 1978 by Alexander Calder

For a glimpse of how the precision work was done to create the building in the 1970s, click the link below and view a twelve-minute documentary which also shows Calder, Robert Motherwell, and Henry Moore in collaboration with architect I.M. Pei and then-museum director, the stylish impresario,  J. Carter Brown.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PeXiV3L-f3E

Gates, Peggy Guggenheim Collection, by Claire Falkenstein

Gates, Peggy Guggenheim Collection, by Claire Falkenstein

Ah Venice! San Marco, the Doge’s palace, the canals, the atmospheric fog, the bridge of sighs. Sigh…

All magical, to be sure, but the most compelling attraction on a recent visit to Venice was the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, housed in her unfinished palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal.

"Arc of Petals," 1941, by Alexander Calder

“Arc of Petals,” 1941, by Alexander Calder

Walking through the gates made by American artist, Claire Falkenstein in 1961, we felt we were entering Peggy’s realm, her sanctuary, the place where so much creative collaboration—and so many shenanigans—took place. The story of the collection is really that of Guggenheim herself. Born in 1898 in New York City, she, although heir to her family’s considerable fortune, was attracted to the world of art and ideas early on.  In 1922 she married Dada artist Lawrence Vail, who became the father of her two children, Sinbad and the naïve painter, Pegeen. The two had arrived in Paris where she was to meet and befriend Constantin Brancusi, Marcel Duchamp and other art luminaries. By 1937 she had opened a gallery in London devoted to showing contemporary art. Two years later, she tired of the gallery and determined to open a museum devoted to modern art. She went on a collecting spree, vowing to buy a picture a day, despite the encroaching war. The work she acquired in those years formed the basis of the collection we see today.

"Silhouette," 1916, by Man Ray

“Silhouette,” 1916, by Man Ray

Her personal life was tumultuous: when asked how many husbands she’d had, she famously said, “Mine or other people’s?” More about Peggy: http://www.guggenheim-venice.it/inglese/museum/peggy.html.

Once through the front doors, we were greeted by Alexander Calder’s 1941 “Arc of Petals” hovering in the entry way like an old friend. The villa (unfinished only in the sense that a second floor was never added) is filled with light and gorgeous terrazzo floors. As you walk from room to room, feasting on the art, peeking out the windows for a glimpse of the busy canal, you can’t help but yearn to conjure Peggy for an intimate conversation about each piece. Failing that, including more of her furniture would have been nice, the better to picture her life here.

"Empor (Upward," 1929, by Wassily Kandinsky

“Empor (Upward,” 1929, by Wassily Kandinsky

Arranged chronologically, the collection (which, unlike other notable collections, is intact and will never be moved from this location) reveals a collector of prescient vision and unerring taste.

Man Ray’s “Silhouette,” 1916, shows a flattened image of a vaudeville dancer in various poses with her feet on the strings of a violin, as if accompanying herself. Having begun to experiment with photography, Man Ray sought to illustrate several movements of the dancer at once, while eschewing his earlier “Romantic-Expressionist-Cubist” style in favor of one in which reality is distilled into surface pattern.

Wassily Kandinsky’s “Empor (Upward),” 1929, gives us another flattened image, with its own whimsical personality. Suggestive of tribal art, the creature looks back at us with its one eye, while appearing to smoke a red cigarette.

"Le Facteur Cheval," 1932, by Max Ernst

“Le Facteur Cheval,” 1932, by Max Ernst

Throughout Guggenheim’s collecting career, she favored both the abstractionists and surrealists and tried to balance her attention to both. A beguiling example of the surreal is Max Ernst’s “Le Facteur Cheval,”1932, paper and fabric with pencil, ink, and gouache on paper. The postman Ferdinand Chaval was a real-life hero to the surrealists, having built a “Palais Ideal” from materials scavenged along his postal route. Here Ernst, in the guise of his alter-ego, “Loplop, Superior of Birds,” celebrates the postman and his refusal to succumb to a numbingly routine job.

"Eyes in the Heat," 1946, by Jackson Pollock

“Eyes in the Heat,” 1946, by Jackson Pollock

During a gallery talk by a charming Spanish art history student, we learned that Piet Mondrian discovered Jackson Pollock working as a carpenter in New York and convinced Peggy to buy and show his work. “Eyes in the Heat,” 1946, has all the frenetic energy and movement of his later, “drip” style canvasses.

At around this time, Peggy commissioned Alexander Calder to make her a silver bedhead replete with fishes, dragon flies, and water lilies—the “pond” even radiates concentric rings made by water bugs. Imagine waking up to this every day!

"Silver Bedhead," 1945-6, by Alexander Calder

“Silver Bedhead,” 1945-6, by Alexander Calder

Once up, Peggy may well have donned earrings made by surrealist Yves Tanguy in 1938. Or perhaps ones made for her by Calder himself. It’s said that she wore one of the Tanguy earrings and one of the Calder earrings to the opening of her gallery to show her impartiality in the debate between the surrealists and the abstractionists.

Earrings by Yves Tanguy, 1938

Earrings by Yves Tanguy, 1938

I tend to come down on the side of the abstractionists and spent less time in the room devoted to the surrealists (although the floor, designed by Peggy, was a knockout). I fell in love with abstract expressionist William Baziotes’ “The Parachutists,” Duco enamel on canvas, 1944. In this sprightly well-worked-out composition, we see hints of Richard Diebenkorn’s future work in the rich colors, surface muddling, and the importance of the edges.

During the war years, Mark Rothko came to believe that painting that derived from myth or legend was a “proper response” to the horrors of the war, the holocaust, and the atom bomb. He said, “Only that subject matter is valid that is timeless and tragic.” In 1946, he created “Sacrifice,” watercolor, gouache, and India ink or paper. The central blood-like smear of reddish brown implies both mass and individual sacrifice; flames, targets and vaguely bomb-like shapes appear against gun-metal gray horizontal panels that foreshadow Rothko’s later work.

"The Parachutists," 1944, by William Baziotes

“The Parachutists,” 1944, by William Baziotes

"Sacrifice," 1946, by Mark Rothko

“Sacrifice,” 1946, by Mark Rothko

A favorite surrealist painting from this collection, is “L’Empire des Lumieres,” 1953-54, by Rene Magritte. The painter’s goal was to depict “surprise” and “enchantment” and he succeeded admirably. The picture also conveys a sinister quality not unlike some of the work of Edward Hopper. The contrast between the darkened street and the blue sky gives the viewer a sense of discombobulation—is it day? Night? How can it be both? A lovely shiver-inducing piece.

"L'Empire des Lumieres," 1953-4, by Rene Magritte

“L’Empire des Lumieres,” 1953-4, by Rene Magritte

There was more, of course, much more, including the lipstick red Calder stabile on the patio fronting the canal, tea in the café, and wandering the sculpture garden. How struck we were by the influence this one woman, the “mistress of modernism,” had on the course of art history.

Later, again sitting by the canal, we toasted Peggy Guggenheim with Campari Spritzers, and pictured her in her garden, surrounded by art, lifting her glass to us.

Peggy Guggenheim wearing earrings by Alexander Calder

Peggy Guggenheim wearing earrings by Alexander Calder