Distraction / Abwechslung 10 February 2021cgboerner.com/site/2015/wp-content/uploads/2021/02/... ·...
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Distraction / Abwechslung 10 February 2021 The International Print Center’s annual IPCNY Benefit is the undisputed highlight of the year for print lovers in New York and beyond, a glamour moment for our cherished niche that is otherwise mostly relegated to the status of wallflower in the glitzy world of the art market. Like everything else in 2020, the benefit had to be held online, and while I have not attended many other virtual events of that type, I very much doubt that any could have been more brilliantly organized than what the Center’s director, Judy Hecker, and her team pulled off in November of last year. I mention this here since the event featured a cameo appearance of art impresario and printmaker extraordinaire William Kentridge, who, as the IPCNY’s 2021 honoree, sent greetings from his Johannesburg studio (starting at 41 minutes into the video). Kentridge spoke about artists for whom printmaking is not merely “an adjunct, an extra to their practice”—artists like himself for whom printmaking represents a “central way of thinking.” He eloquently described the process of trial and error, of proofing, and of “the remaking of a proof until your syllogism makes sense.” He referred to the “alchemy of the pressure of a press” and talked about the “logic and erotics of printmaking.” In a similar vein, yet far more prosaically, I like to refer to the act of pulling a plate through the press as something akin to a black box, this ominous device that is able to transform its input into some distinctly different-looking output while its inner workings remain opaque (that is: black). A piece of copper gets smudged with ink(s), and out comes an image that glows on a pristine sheet of paper. Even a fly-infested turd can glow when it’s created by printmaking students of the Myers School of Art! (as witnessed here during the Cleveland Museum’s 2019 print fair) Through training and continuous experimentation, artist-printmakers are the masters of this endless process of manipulation. Kentridge alluded, quite rightly, to the alchemical (and hence pre-modern) quality of this practice, and it is therefore probably appropriate to use the early English spelling when calling it the “magick of printmaking.” Yet what happens with the matrix itself after it has been engraved or etched, inked, and pulled through the press again and again until the grooves have worn out, or the edition is completed? In 1993 the London art dealership Artemis Fine Arts teamed up with one of the great old-timers in the field, the late Robert (Bob) Light, and acquired most of Rembrandt’s surviving printing plates. Over the previous three centuries, they had passed through the hands of (mostly French) publishers, from Claude-Henri Watelet via Pierre-François Basan and Auguste Bernard to Monsieur Alvin-Beaumont, who, for one last time, published an “edition” in 1906. (There was also the 1990s Millennium Edition of eight plates that had, sort of, gone rogue, but perhaps it is better to cast a veil over that here . . . ) Apart from a brief exhibition in 1956 at the North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh, the 78 surviving Rembrandt plates remained hidden in a bank vault as the property of the heirs of Robert Lee Humber, who had acquired them on a trip to Europe in 1938. Half a century later, Artemis thought they had entered into a fairly daring gamble. How could a printing plate be priced? Was it worth as much as a fine impression or merely as much as an unattractive late restrike? Would larger plates be more expensive than smaller ones? New York’s Drawing Center encountered the very same ambivalence toward the matrix as recently as 2011, when its then-director Brett Littman had the brilliant idea to organize the show Drawing and Its Double, presenting a selection of printing plates from Rome’s Istituto Nazionale per la Grafica that reached from Marcantonio Raimondi to Giorgio Morandi and all the way to contemporary Italian printmakers. When Littman approached our dealers’ organization IFPDA for support, those in charge at the time demurred and claimed that such plates had really not that much to do with prints. In the end, the Drawing Center’s show was a huge success. And equally did Artemis’s gamble pay off. It turned out that every self-respecting print room and Rembrandt collector in the world was interested in acquiring at least one example of a plate created by one of the greatest printmakers of Western art. The search for some auratic quality probably played a role here, something akin to the veneration brought toward reliquaries in the Middle Ages. After all, those plates were touched and formed by the hand of the genius, and one journalist reporting on the sale indeed compared them to “chips off the True Cross.” * All of this made me curious to find out how today’s print publishers deal with the plates worked upon by contemporary artists. I asked around among colleagues, especially those who had already placed their archives with public institutions. The answers were pretty much all the same, and they definitely meant a return from the lofty realm of religious devotion to the sober grounds of the material world. Beyond those created by the great masters of centuries past (Dürer and Goya might also come to mind here), printing matrices continue to maintain a somewhat “undecided” status. Museums hardly ever collect them, and when they do, then only a few carefully chosen examples. The primary reason for this reluctance is limited storage space—especially since many contemporary artists aim for large or even supersize formats. (Just imagine: plates for Richard Serra prints could make veritable rivals to his own Cor-Ten steel sculptures!) plates for Richard Serra prints at Gemini G.E.L., Los Angeles (unframed.lacma.org) The publishers seem to see this quite pragmatically. Copper has, after all, a material value—which is the very reason for the limited survival of historic plates. Only one plate by Dürer (for his 1526 portrait of Melanchthon) made it through the ages and is now treasured in the Kunstsammlungen in Gotha. To give another random example: during World War I, the plates for the unusually large prints by the eccentric Irishman James Barry (1741–1806), which had been preserved for over a century at London’s Royal Society of Arts, were donated to the British war effort to make ammunition—à bas les Boches! Thankfully, today’s causes for the perishing of printing plates are more benign, as my favorite response to the brief survey I conducted reveals: “The majority of plates of finished editions were sold as scrap metal. We often used the cash the metal-man paid us to purchase pizza and beer for the gang at the press.” We don’t know if, nor when, Raphael Morghen (1758–1833) parted with his plate for a portrait of Napoleon after a design by Stefano Tofanelli (1752–1812). Nor do we know if he traded it for a dish of boeuf bourguignon while still in Paris (where he received a most flattering treatment by the emperor), or merely a lampredotto back at home in Florence. It is, however, a nice example of a premodern printing plate, whose unevenness wonderfully reveals that it was made by hammering (all plates manufactured today are rolled instead, which creates a different material structure and effects the way the copper responds to the engraver’s burin). Also interesting, especially from a technical standpoint, is the set of four zinc plates that the Austro-Hungarian artist Hans Figura (1898–1978) used for a color aquatint depicting the Telephone Building in Lower Manhattan in 1929—one of various views of the city the artist created when visiting the United States that year. The plates even kept their original wrapper made from a Makulatur impression of the print. We found the whole parcel back in Europe, so it is probably fair to assume that Figura wasn’t quite willing to give them up to a scrap-metal collector for what is New York’s standard street-food fare: the hot dog. Returning one more time to those “chips off the True Cross”: while we currently don’t have a plate by Rembrandt for sale, what we can offer here is a rather significant example of one by his contemporary, Adriaen van Ostade (1610–1685). All but three of Ostade’s plates (50 in total) survive to this day and have shared a substantial part of their history with the above-mentioned 78 plates by Rembrandt ever since they were acquired by Pierre-François Basan in 1767. The two groups only parted company again in 1938 when Robert Lee Humber bought the Rembrandt plates. Two years after those had been dispersed in 1993, and undoubtedly lured by Artemis’s commercial success, the Ostade plates also came up for sale, this time at auction at Christie’s in Amsterdam. The plate we have is for The Family, one of Ostade’s most important prints, made in 1647. The artist had prepared its composition meticulously in a drawing that is now at the Morgan Library and Museum in New York. The plate was etched in reverse so that impressions pulled from it could be directly compared with the preliminary design. The interior is full of anecdotal details and crowded with every household tool imaginable, demonstrating, in an exemplary way, why Ostade is rightly considered one of the preeminent observers of everyday life in seventeenth-century Holland. Copyright © 2021 C.G. Boerner, All rights reserved. Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list . IPCNY Benefit 2020 Napoleon for sale four plates and a print Subscribe Past Issues RSS Translate
Transcript of Distraction / Abwechslung 10 February 2021cgboerner.com/site/2015/wp-content/uploads/2021/02/... ·...
Distraction / Abwechslung10 February 2021
The International Print Center’s annual IPCNY Benefit is the undisputed highlight ofthe year for print lovers in New York and beyond, a glamour moment for ourcherished niche that is otherwise mostly relegated to the status of wallflower in theglitzy world of the art market. Like everything else in 2020, the benefit had to be heldonline, and while I have not attended many other virtual events of that type, I verymuch doubt that any could have been more brilliantly organized than what theCenter’s director, Judy Hecker, and her team pulled off in November of last year. Imention this here since the event featured a cameo appearance of art impresario andprintmaker extraordinaire William Kentridge, who, as the IPCNY’s 2021 honoree,sent greetings from his Johannesburg studio (starting at 41 minutes into the video).
Kentridge spoke about artists for whom printmaking is not merely “an adjunct, anextra to their practice”—artists like himself for whom printmaking represents a“central way of thinking.” He eloquently described the process of trial and error, ofproofing, and of “the remaking of a proof until your syllogism makes sense.” Hereferred to the “alchemy of the pressure of a press” and talked about the “logic anderotics of printmaking.”
In a similar vein, yet far more prosaically, I like to refer to the act of pulling a platethrough the press as something akin to a black box, this ominous device that is ableto transform its input into some distinctly different-looking output while its innerworkings remain opaque (that is: black). A piece of copper gets smudged with ink(s),and out comes an image that glows on a pristine sheet of paper.
Even a fly-infested turd can glow when it’s created by printmaking students of the Myers School of Art!
(as witnessed here during the Cleveland Museum’s 2019 print fair)
Through training and continuous experimentation, artist-printmakers are themasters of this endless process of manipulation. Kentridge alluded, quite rightly, tothe alchemical (and hence pre-modern) quality of this practice, and it is thereforeprobably appropriate to use the early English spelling when calling it the “magick ofprintmaking.”
Yet what happens with the matrix itself after it has been engraved or etched, inked,and pulled through the press again and again until the grooves have worn out, or theedition is completed? In 1993 the London art dealership Artemis Fine Arts teamedup with one of the great old-timers in the field, the late Robert (Bob) Light, andacquired most of Rembrandt’s surviving printing plates. Over the previous threecenturies, they had passed through the hands of (mostly French) publishers, fromClaude-Henri Watelet via Pierre-François Basan and Auguste Bernard to MonsieurAlvin-Beaumont, who, for one last time, published an “edition” in 1906. (There wasalso the 1990s Millennium Edition of eight plates that had, sort of, gone rogue, butperhaps it is better to cast a veil over that here . . . ) Apart from a brief exhibition in1956 at the North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh, the 78 surviving Rembrandtplates remained hidden in a bank vault as the property of the heirs of Robert LeeHumber, who had acquired them on a trip to Europe in 1938. Half a century later,Artemis thought they had entered into a fairly daring gamble. How could a printingplate be priced? Was it worth as much as a fine impression or merely as much as anunattractive late restrike? Would larger plates be more expensive than smaller ones?
New York’s Drawing Center encountered the very same ambivalence toward thematrix as recently as 2011, when its then-director Brett Littman had the brilliant ideato organize the show Drawing and Its Double, presenting a selection of printingplates from Rome’s Istituto Nazionale per la Grafica that reached from MarcantonioRaimondi to Giorgio Morandi and all the way to contemporary Italian printmakers.When Littman approached our dealers’ organization IFPDA for support, those incharge at the time demurred and claimed that such plates had really not that much todo with prints.
In the end, the Drawing Center’s show was a huge success. And equally did Artemis’sgamble pay off. It turned out that every self-respecting print room and Rembrandtcollector in the world was interested in acquiring at least one example of a platecreated by one of the greatest printmakers of Western art. The search for someauratic quality probably played a role here, something akin to the veneration broughttoward reliquaries in the Middle Ages. After all, those plates were touched andformed by the hand of the genius, and one journalist reporting on the sale indeedcompared them to “chips off the True Cross.”
*
All of this made me curious to find out how today’s print publishers deal with theplates worked upon by contemporary artists. I asked around among colleagues,especially those who had already placed their archives with public institutions. Theanswers were pretty much all the same, and they definitely meant a return from thelofty realm of religious devotion to the sober grounds of the material world. Beyondthose created by the great masters of centuries past (Dürer and Goya might alsocome to mind here), printing matrices continue to maintain a somewhat “undecided”status. Museums hardly ever collect them, and when they do, then only a fewcarefully chosen examples. The primary reason for this reluctance is limited storagespace—especially since many contemporary artists aim for large or even supersizeformats. (Just imagine: plates for Richard Serra prints could make veritable rivals tohis own Cor-Ten steel sculptures!)
plates for Richard Serra prints at Gemini G.E.L., Los Angeles (unframed.lacma.org)
The publishers seem to see this quite pragmatically. Copper has, after all, a materialvalue—which is the very reason for the limited survival of historic plates. Only oneplate by Dürer (for his 1526 portrait of Melanchthon) made it through the ages and isnow treasured in the Kunstsammlungen in Gotha. To give another random example:during World War I, the plates for the unusually large prints by the eccentricIrishman James Barry (1741–1806), which had been preserved for over a century atLondon’s Royal Society of Arts, were donated to the British war effort to makeammunition—à bas les Boches! Thankfully, today’s causes for the perishing ofprinting plates are more benign, as my favorite response to the brief survey Iconducted reveals: “The majority of plates of finished editions were sold as scrapmetal. We often used the cash the metal-man paid us to purchase pizza and beer forthe gang at the press.”
We don’t know if, nor when, Raphael Morghen (1758–1833) parted with his plate fora portrait of Napoleon after a design by Stefano Tofanelli (1752–1812). Nor do weknow if he traded it for a dish of boeuf bourguignon while still in Paris (where hereceived a most flattering treatment by the emperor), or merely a lampredotto backat home in Florence. It is, however, a nice example of a premodern printing plate,whose unevenness wonderfully reveals that it was made by hammering (all platesmanufactured today are rolled instead, which creates a different material structureand effects the way the copper responds to the engraver’s burin).
Also interesting, especially from a technical standpoint, is the set of four zinc platesthat the Austro-Hungarian artist Hans Figura (1898–1978) used for a color aquatintdepicting the Telephone Building in Lower Manhattan in 1929—one of various viewsof the city the artist created when visiting the United States that year. The plates evenkept their original wrapper made from a Makulatur impression of the print.
We found the whole parcel back in Europe, so it is probably fair to assume thatFigura wasn’t quite willing to give them up to a scrap-metal collector for what is NewYork’s standard street-food fare: the hot dog.
Returning one more time to those “chips off the True Cross”: while we currentlydon’t have a plate by Rembrandt for sale, what we can offer here is a rathersignificant example of one by his contemporary, Adriaen van Ostade (1610–1685). Allbut three of Ostade’s plates (50 in total) survive to this day and have shared asubstantial part of their history with the above-mentioned 78 plates by Rembrandtever since they were acquired by Pierre-François Basan in 1767. The two groups onlyparted company again in 1938 when Robert Lee Humber bought the Rembrandtplates. Two years after those had been dispersed in 1993, and undoubtedly lured byArtemis’s commercial success, the Ostade plates also came up for sale, this time atauction at Christie’s in Amsterdam.
The plate we have is for The Family, one of Ostade’s most important prints, made in1647. The artist had prepared its composition meticulously in a drawing that is nowat the Morgan Library and Museum in New York. The plate was etched in reverse sothat impressions pulled from it could be directly compared with the preliminarydesign. The interior is full of anecdotal details and crowded with every householdtool imaginable, demonstrating, in an exemplary way, why Ostade is rightlyconsidered one of the preeminent observers of everyday life in seventeenth-centuryHolland.
Copyright © 2021 C.G. Boerner, All rights reserved.
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IPCNY Benefit 2020
Napoleon for sale
four plates and a print
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