By Marcia Tucker
This engrossing memoir brings to shiny lifestyles the behind-the-scenes struggles of Marcia Tucker, the 1st lady to be employed as a curator on the Whitney Museum of yankee artwork and the founding father of the recent Museum of up to date paintings in ny urban. Tucker got here of age within the Sixties, and this lively account of her existence attracts the reader at once into the burgeoning feminist circulation and the thrill of the recent York artwork global in the course of that point. Her personal new methods of pondering led her to take principled stands that experience replaced the best way paintings museums think of modern paintings. 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 up to date paintings, she geared up and curated groundbreaking exhibitions that regularly taken with the nexus of paintings and politics. The e-book highlights Tucker's dedication to forging a brand new process whilst the present one proved too slender 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
We were stunned, but before we could ask him who he was and what he was up to, he had slipped past us out the door. , I saw him sleeping in the doorway. ” I wondered. Or had he just gotten locked out of the pad he was staying at? Several months passed. My friend Max Ochs, a cousin of the folksinger Phil Ochs, dragged a bunch of us to Gerde’s Folk City to hear a controversial new performer named Bob Dylan. We recognized Joan Baez, ethereally beautiful, sitting at the table next to us, entranced by that same patheticlooking kid—only this time he had a big guitar slung over his shoulder, a harmonica on a metal harness, and a dark, gravelly voice that galvanized the audience and sent us all into a frenzy of debate.
We hardly gave him a glance as he sidled off into the depths of the long, narrow store, and by the time John took out his banjo to give us a tune, we had forgotten about him. Then, to our astonishment, as John began to sing “When First unto This Country a Stranger I Came,” the intruder chimed in, singing harmony in a high, thin, drawling voice. We were stunned, but before we could ask him who he was and what he was up to, he had slipped past us out the door. , I saw him sleeping in the doorway.
We sat on the curb in front of their door, stunned. We had come three thousand miles only to find ourselves, more or less, back where we had started. Michael was the realist. “Don’t cry,” he said. “It’s bound to be different. We’ll stay awhile, get some money together, and then head for the ocean. We’ll find a place to live on our own. ” By midsummer, I was working as a Western Girl, doing secretarial temp jobs. Michael was looking for carpentry work, and Peg and Peter were tired of us. We were living on their back porch, sleeping in our sleeping bags and trying to stay out of their way.