Archives of American Art Blog

Facial Hair of Note: Frédéric A. Bartholdi

Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, ca. 1880 / Napoleon Sarony, photographer. Charles Scribner's Sons Art Reference Dept. records, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

French sculptor, Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi (1834–1904) is best known for designing the Statue of Liberty. However, one can see a fantastic piece by Bartholdi near the US Capitol in Washington, DC. The Bartholdi Fountain and Park are on the grounds of the United States Botanic Garden, which is within walking distance of a number of the Smithsonian Museums. It’s a lovely “hidden” gem within the city!

Jennifer Snyder works with oral history interviews at the Archives American Art. When not sending interviews out for digitization, she is writing about extraordinary examples of facial hair for this blog.

Facial Hair of Note: Ramón Carulla

Ramón Carulla in a hat, 1980 / Carlos Alberto Camilla, photographer. Ramón Carulla papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Ramón Carulla was born in Havana, Cuba, in 1938. Today, he lives and works in Miami making figurative art. This photo, taken in 1980, makes me want to put on my sandals and find a margarita so we can sit down and talk about how his latest dream has made its way into his work. Join us?

Explore more:

• Ramón Carulla papers, 1971–1996

Jennifer Snyder works with oral history interviews at the Archives American Art. When not sending interviews out for digitization, she is writing about extraordinary examples of facial hair for this blog.

From Kauai to Monhegan Island and Back Again

Reuben Tam on Haleakala Crater, before 1941 / unidentified photographer. Reuben Tam papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Reuben Tam on Monhegan Island, 1946 / unidentified photographer. Reuben Tam papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Notes on Monhegan Island, ca. 1946. Reuben Tam papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Maine landscape sketch, 195-?. Reuben Tam papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

In a 1970 artist statement, Reuben Tam explained that his paintings are “about weather and geology, islands, tides, and light, and the very movement of the earth.” His personal papers, which were donated to the Archives of American Art in 2009, reveal Tam’s love for two very different island landscapes.

Tam was born into a large family in Kapaa Town, Kauai, Hawaii, in 1916. Inspired by the striking Hawaiian landscapes from a young age, his first oil painting was of Haupu Ridge, which he could see from his classroom at Kauai High School.

He received a degree from the University of Hawaii, studied at the California School of Fine Arts and, in 1941, settled in New York City. There he was represented by Downtown Gallery and taught at the Brooklyn Museum of Art School from 1946 to 1974.

Though immersed in the New York art scene, Tam regularly took summer trips to the coastal islands of Maine.  His papers include an album containing photographs of a 1946 sketching trip with fellow artists William Kienbusch, Carl Nesjar, and Hyde Solomon. In 1948 he and his wife Geraldine bought a house on Monhegan Island, Maine, and spent summers there until 1979.

Tam felt drawn to Monhegan Island, and in his notes stated that it was “as if the sea had organized some sort of fraternity” that had also inspired artists such as Rockwell Kent, Andrew Winter, and Morris Kantor.

His papers include seventeen large sketchbooks of the rocky landscapes and shorelines, and several photographs of him perched on the cliffs with a sketchbook. 

In 1979, after nearly forty years, Tam and his wife moved back to Kauai. Once again, he could study the landscapes that originally inspired him. In 1984 he had an exhibition of old and new works at the Honolulu Academy of Arts entitled “Two Islands: Paintings by Reuben Tam.”

Both island homes inspired Tam not only to paint, but to write poetry as well. His papers include many draft poems, some of which were posthumously published as The Wind–Honed Islands Rise in 1996.

Erin Kinhart is a processing archivist at the Archives of American Art.

Out of the Inkwell

After more than a decade of working at the Archives of American Art, my hands and eyes have passed over of thousands of documents, many of them letters and correspondence. I’ve never taken a class in paleography, and don’t really subscribe to the idea that you can know a person’s full character by the way they form their Ps and Qs. However, I do think that feelings, emotions, and wit can come across with the stroke of a pen. And, as much as I appreciate the convenience and speed of email, I experience a lot of joy in working with collections where the odd squiggle and creative signature can breathe life into an otherwise mundane document.

Style and Sass

Maxfield Parrish, Windsor, Vt. letter to Mr. Coates, 1909 Sept. 8. Maxfield Parrish letters, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

The first time I came across a letter written by the illustrator Maxfield Parrish, I was immediately struck. His handwriting is neat and beautiful, compact and stylized, and echoes the clean, neo–classical qualities of his illustrations. As a writer he is also quite witty; fans of P.G. Wodehouse, especially, will find a lot to smile about in the Maxfield Parrish selected papers and letters, (ca. 1888)-1986.

In his letter to Mr. Cotes, presumably a collector of Parrish’s work, Parrish discusses the availability of a work he refers to as Circe—likely Circe’s Palace of 1908—as well as his views on modern life.

I believe in getting the best out of the grains of the times: I think the Medici’s would have made good use of plate glass and upright pianos and electric light, and maybe even a Morris chair, and you can get a lot of joy from a car if you make it a means to an end.

It’s a letter worth reading, not only for the content, but also for his charming hand.

Cole Porter, Paris, France letter to Charles Green Shaw, 1926 March. Charles Green Shaw paper, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

In March of 1926, the composer Cole Porter wrote to artist and illustrator Charles Green Shaw, addressing him as “Big Boy” (Porter’s nickname for Shaw while they were students at Yale), and imploring him to write: “But write to me Big Boy. I miss you so much. And its [sic] been so long. Won’t you write to me?” Where Parrish shows restraint, Porter is free with his pen. His exuberant, loopy Ms and Ws and sharp Es are almost abstract. He signs off, sweetly, as “inConsOLablE.”

A Young Hand

Andy Warhol to Russell Lynes, 1949 . Managing editor Russell Lynes' artists' files, 1946-1962, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Gloria Vanderbilt report card, 1933. Whitney Museum of American Art, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney papers, Gift of Flora Miller Irving. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

I recently came across a box of my old school papers that spanned elementary school through college, and while the scribbles I turn out today are virtually unrecognizable—or unreadable—compared to what I found in the box, I could see the aspects of my handwriting evolving through old essays and notes. Andy Warhol wrote to photographer Russell Lynes, then the managing editor of Harper’s Magazine, as a 21 year old with a short biography: a Pittsburgh native born in 1928, “like everybody else in a steel mill.” His loopy capitol H and W remind me of a young hand, which seems to get increasingly looser within a few years as evidenced by his letterhead from the 50s (on which a typed letter is found in his Time Capsule 21 at the Archives of the Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh). His illustrations of the same period often have bits of similar handwritten text infused with a fanciful touch.

Another interesting discovery is from the Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney papers. Vanderbilt Whitney’s niece, the artist and fashion designer Gloria Vanderbilt, was her ward after a contentious custody battle, and Gertrude kept her report card from 1933 when she would have been 8 or 9 years old. I do not know whether young Gloria or her teacher filled out her name on the front of her report card, but when I came across it I saw seeds of a mature signature, with that tell–tale extended V, that reminded me of the backside of a certain pair of jeans I had many years ago.

A Little Whimsy Never Hurt Anybody

George Grosz, Huntington, N.Y. letter to Lawrence Arthur Fleischman, Detroit, Mich., 1956 Dec. 14 . Lawrence and Barbara Fleischman papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

One of the best ways to liven up a boring letter is with a non–boring signature. Not that George Grosz could be accused of writing a boring letter; his illustrated letters to Erich Herrmann, in particular, are a delight. But, this letter to Lawrence Fleischman, one of the founders of the Archives of American Art, is all business. Grosz’s fanciful Gs alone double the whimsy factor of the little swinging gnome at top of his letterhead.

Frida Kahlo letter to Diego Rivera, 1940 . Emmy Lou Packard papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Also no stranger to the whimsical and fanciful is Frida Kahlo. Writing a brief love letter to Diego Rivera on the envelope that held her personal effects while she was admitted to St. Lukes Hospital, she tells him, “Te adoro mas que nunca” (I adore you more than ever). Her choice of stationary is more remarkable than her penmanship, but Kahlo’s valediction may be the ultimate artist’s signature when she seals her note, literally, with a kiss.

Elizabeth Botten works in the Reference Services Department at the Archives of American Art.

Titanic, an Unsinkable Legacy: Part II, To Those Brave Men (and Women)!

Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney’s "Titanic Memorial" in Southwest, Washington, D.C. Photo: Martin Hoffmeier.

It started simply, as a group of journalists who donned tuxedos and sipped champagne in honor of the men who went down with the Titanic so that women and children would live. For the past thirty–four years, the Men’s Titanic Society has met at the base of Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney’s Titanic Memorial on the anniversary of the ship’s infamous sinking. Each member gives a toast to those 1339 men who perished in the tragedy. The whole group cheers, “to those brave men!” The toasts can include diary entries of survivors, a recitation of names, or a reflection on male chivalry in today’s society. Typically, some residents of Southwest D.C. observe the ceremony, many choosing to participate with their own sparkling cider.

Francis D. Millet, ca. 1910 / unidentified photographer. Francis Davis Millet and Millet family paper, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

On the 100^th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic, I convinced some friends to venture down to the corner of P and Water Streets SW to experience the ceremony. Thankfully, the weather was lovely, with the exception of a couple of raindrops. We arrived at midnight and joined about a hundred others waiting for the Men’s Titanic Society to arrive. They began by standing in a circle for a private moment between themselves. Then, a ringing bell silenced the crowd and the men stood around the base beside one another. A server passed around a tray of champagne coupes and they began their speeches.

Some of the men stated that “nobody knows how they will react in a terrible situation,” but that they hoped they would be inspired by the men aboard the Titanic. Particularly, I was moved by one Society member who reminded the crowd that those men chose an icy death rather than being disgraced.

After learning more about the artist Francis Davis Millet, I wanted to give my own silent toast. According to Titanic lore, Millet helped women and children into lifeboats and calmly accepted his fate aboard the ship. Algernon S. Frissell wrote to Millet’s widow Lilly on April 19, 1912:

While we all hoped to the last that Frank might have been rescued, we knew that his mind would be occupied with rescuing others rather than with saving himself.

Algernon S. Frissell letter to Lily Millet, 1912 Apr. 19. Francis Davis Millet and Millet family papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

I have no doubt Millet is worthy of such an annual showing of respect as he acted with that bravery and honor. For these acts, I raise my glass:

To Francis Davis Millet, a father and husband. A man who brought beauty to the world and served his country in war and public service. A man who gave his life so that others could live. To those brave men!

To Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney and Natalie Hammond and the Women’s “Titanic” Memorial Committee. Women who were so moved by the sacrifice of the men of the Titanic. For organizing and building a permanent memorial. To those brave women!

To the Men’s Titanic Society. For remembering a great sacrifice and a previously forgotten monument, and inviting the rest of us to remember as well. To those brave men!

Jayna Hanson is a processing archivist at the Archives of the American Art.

Titanic, an Unsinkable Legacy: Part I, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney’s Titanic Memorial and Francis Davis Millet in the Archives of American Art

Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney sketchbook/diary, 1912. Whitney Museum of American Art, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney papers. Gift of Flora Miller Irving. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Letter from Natalie H. Hammond to Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, ca. 1913. Whitney Museum of American Art, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney papers. Gift of Flora Miller Irving. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Letter from Mary C. Chew to Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, 1918 Aug. 5. Whitney Museum of American Art, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney papers. Gift of Flora Miller Irving. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Titanic Memorial, shielded by Old Glory, 1931 May 26 / International News Photos, photographer. Whitney Museum of American Art, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney papers. Gift of Flora Miller Irving. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

We are approaching the 100^th anniversary of the sinking of the RMS Titanic faster than you can say “Iceberg!” Before you pop in your Titanic DVD, take a look through some of the Archives of American Art’s collections that give insight into the tragic night of April 15, 1912.

Among these collections are the papers of sculptor, painter and first–class passenger on the Titanic, Francis Davis Millet. These papers provide a poignant view of how the sinking directly affected Millet’s family and a larger community of friends and artists. As news travelled throughout the world of the ship’s sinking, mourners sent their condolences to Lily Millet, Francis’s wife. These letters convey hope, despair, and confusion—emotions likely felt by all those who knew the many missing and presumed dead. Artists groups and friends held memorials for Millet in New York, Washington, D.C., and Boston and published memorial editions of newsletters in honor of their colleague.

Permanent reminders of the infamous tragedy appear in our collections, particularly within the Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney papers. Located a few blocks south of the Waterfront Metro Station—and accessible by boat—in Washington, D.C., Whitney’s Titanic Memorial stands as a reminder of the brave sacrifice of the men that gave their lives in favor of women and children. The statue was sponsored by the Women’s “Titanic” Memorial Committee, a group of women aimed to commission and erect a memorial shortly after the ship’s sinking. Serving as the Committee’s Secretary Natalie F. Hammond wrote in the Washington Post on April 25^th, 1912:

The feeling of glory and pride in the bravery of those who were lost is universal. To women especially must come the sense of thankfulness that to them has been given the bearing of such men as those who showed they were not afraid to die.

Her impassioned piece sought to receive donations one dollar at a time, citing First Lady Helen Taft as the donor of the first dollar. The Committee hosted garden fetes and benefit shows filled with entertainment, and publicized their cause in newspapers and with women’s organizations throughout the country.

Their hard work paid off and in 1912, Whitney sketched renderings of the memorial in its famous pose. Upon seeing the sketches in 1913, Hammond praised Whitney’s vision and recommended some changes. It is clear both Gertrude and Natalie held their work in high regard. The location of the memorial proved difficult and by 1918, a permanent location had yet to be found and agreed upon by Congress, the Women’s “Titanic” Memorial Committee, Gertrude, and sculptor Henry Bacon who designed the base.

Finally, Helen Taft unveiled the memorial at a dedication in Potomac Park in 1931. It was removed in 1966 in order to make room for the construction of the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and found its new home in Southwest, D.C. two years later.

While the Women’s Titanic Memorial received no ceremony when it was reinstalled in 1968, it now receives annual commemoration from a new and impassioned group that is faithful to the statue’s original dedication. Stay tuned until next week when we explore the Titanic Memorial’s significance in today’s D.C.!

Jayna Hanson is a processing archivist at the Archives of the American Art.

The search for a(n archival) media icon

Harold McClellan, ca. 1975 / unidentified photographer. Eleanor Dickinson papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Eleanor Dickinson at the Hugh Triton Gallery, ca. 1967 / unidentified photographer. Eleanor Dickinson papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

The Archives of American Art was recently awarded funding by the Council on Library and Information Resources’ “Cataloging Hidden Special Collections and Archives” program for a three–year processing project entitled, “Uncovering Audiovisual Media Documenting Postmodern Art.” As we kicked off the project this January, my first task as project archivist was to find a thumbnail–sized image in the collections that would represent the project as a whole—an image that conveys postmodern art and media in the archives.

It had been awhile since I had looked closely at these collections, so I had to jog my memory as to what they contain. The existing collection records weren’t much help, but of course, that wasn’t a coincidence. Rather, it’s why we got the grant, to process and describe these collections, to un–hide the media in them, and to develop approaches to making audiovisual media in manuscript collections more findable.

So, I headed to the stacks with my list in hand: 12 collections, all rich with documentation of contemporary art movements like environmental art, time–based media art, conceptual art, kinetic art, and all full of obsolete audiovisual media.

I first consulted the Eleanor Dickinson papers. Dickinson is a San Francisco–based artist with a long career in painting, writing, educating, and advocacy. She made ample use of video and sound recordings to create shows and documentaries around issues for working artists, particularly women artists, and artists’ models. I was familiar with some of the video from her project, “Artist Models of San Francisco” (1977–1981) because we had it preserved recently. I revisited some of that footage and was delighted all over again by its unique point of view, its remarkable personalities, and the way it captures the spirit of its time and place. I found some wonderful video stills and other photos of the artist, but nothing that captures our project as a whole.

On to Jan Butterfield, a California author whose work covered some of the hottest topics of her time, from performance and conceptual art to environmental art and beyond. Her major published writing centers on artists working in ephemeral sculptural media such as Robert Irwin, James Turrell, and Larry Bell, among others.

In my role as audiovisual archivist, Butterfield’s papers are mostly known to me for the hundreds of taped interviews and lectures of contemporary artists (recordings which are rather glossed over in the existing collection description in our catalog, something I look forward to rectifying), but I had never looked at her photographs. To my surprise, the first box I opened contained a beautiful collection of black and white prints of the San Francisco Beat writers taken by photographers close to the Beat scene. I made a mental note to linger over these images of my literary heroes later. For now, I had to stay focused on my task. I pored over reams of slides in Butterfield’s papers and found some extraordinary images. I took note of a few, but they were so specific to a single artist’s vision that they didn’t seem quite right.

Images from James Turrell’s installation Heavy Water, 1991. Jan Butterfield papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Les Levine takes a picture of his television sculpture Iris as Iris takes a picture of him, 1968?. Exhibition records of the Contemporary Wing of the Finch College Museum of Art, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

I should have known I’d hit pay dirt with the Exhibition Records of the Contemporary Wing of the Finch College Museum of Art. During the gallery’s brief but auspicious time span, 1965 to 1970, curator Elayne Varian staged seminal shows involving early video, performance, and conceptual artists.

Not long after beginning to work my way through the messy exhibition files, I came across a set of artists’ files, in which I found a photo I thought could speak for all the artists who found themselves in an age of consciousness–altering technologies, and all the possibilities for expression that came along with them.

The image shows Les Levine’s live, multi–channel television sculpture Iris. The photograph depicts the artist’s reflection in a man–sized tower of monitors, standing behind a video camera, videotaping his sculpture as it “watches” him back. The image was taken with a fish–eye lens, creating a visual pun on the fishbowl effect of late 20^th century media culture, which the sculpture itself is eloquent in expressing.

In some ways, it isn’t the most exciting or high–quality photograph. It’s only a still frame from the low–resolution video whose production it depicts.  But that fits as well, I think.  Artists of Levine’s generation, like generations before them, challenged notions of what art was, but they did so using the new technologies of their era, and they produced work that could sometimes be more mind–grabbing in concept than eye–grabbing in appearance.

Conceptually, I think the image of Levine’s Iris stands in well for the intersecting concepts that our project is designed to reveal in the Archives’ collections: media, art, technology, experimentation, and ephemerality.

My task was successful, after a few false starts, but for me the real take–away of my search is how excited I am to work with these collections, to get to know them, and to make them more accessible to researchers. I can’t wait to get started.

Explore more:

• About the Project “Uncovering Audiovisual Media Documenting Postmodern Art”
• Technical Documentation for Archivists

Megan McShea is the audiovisual archivist and CLIR project archivist at the Archives of American Art.

Who’s that Lady?

Even during the Abstract Expressionist dominance of the American art scene, Honoré Sharrer remained committed to projects of social realism. Many of her paintings were based on actual photographs or images in newspaper clippings. The focal point of this tempera sketch is a mysterious woman clad in pink. Men in suits standing with a woman in a pink dress, 196-?. Honoré Sharrer papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

The month of March is dedicated to the venerable subject of Women’s History. Considering the incommensurable contributions made by women to social causes, politics, science, and art, one out of twelve months may not be adequate, but women have historically worked against the odds.

In the following images, women stand out among a sea of dark suits, begging us all to ask—along the lines of the Isley Brothers classic—“Who’s that Lady?” To be sure, these women were not objects of male affection; they were movers and shakers with successful careers in the diverse and dynamic art world. Let’s explore who they really are.

Juliana Force

Regional Directors and Washington Administrative Staff. Public Works Art Project, 1934 / Lewis P. Woltz, photographer. Forbes Watson papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

In 1934, a few years into the Great Depression, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt initiated the Public Works of Art Project (PWAP), the first federal program to support the arts in the United States. Regional directors commissioned artists across the country to create art for post offices, libraries, and schools.

Juliana Force was the only woman to serve as a regional director. By then, Force had already achieved prominence in the workforce, becoming the first director (male or female) of the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York City.

She began her career as a private secretary to sculptor and collector of American art, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney. When The Metropolitan Museum of Art rejected Whitney’s collection in 1929, she forged ahead and founded her own museum, naming her longtime associate, Force, the director.

Alma Reed

Artists in Alma Reed's Apartment, 1932? / unidentified photographer. Enrique Riverón papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Alma Reed was of a few woman journalists in San Francisco during the early 1920s, and her social engagement with Mexican American families there eventually brought her to Mexico where she launched her successful career as reporter for the New York Times.

In the late 1920s, she moved to New York City and befriended numerous Mexican artists including Jose Clemente Orozco and Jose L. Gutierrez.

In her studio apartment in Greenwich Village, she staged Orozco’s first solo exhibition in the United States. Soon thereafter, she established Delphic Studios in her apartment, which was committed to the work of Mexican artists.

In this photo, a radiant Reed smiles amidst a phalanx of supporters.

Elaine de Kooning

Gathering on the roof of the Tanager Gallery, 1956 / unidentified photographer. Joellen Bard’s, Ruth Fortel’s, and Helen Thomas’ exhibition records of “Tenth Street Days: the Co-ops of the 50s”, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Tanager Gallery, the setting of this photo, was part of the cooperative of artist–run spaces known as the Tenth Street Galleries in New York City. Elaine de Kooning and her husband Willem de Kooning were among the established Abstract Expressionists whose studio presence in the neighborhood attracted a bevy of younger artists.

In the late 1950s a series of forums were held at Tanager Gallery to ponder the practical and philosophical concerns of the New York avant–garde. A book documenting the forums was to be published, but when the artists of Tanager Gallery rejected the inclusion of Elaine in the forums, Willem quit in protest. Without the support of the de Koonings, plans for the publication dissolved.

In this photo, Elaine holds her own in a group of men on the rooftop of the Gallery.

Hedda Sterne

The Irascibles, 1950 Nov. 24 / Nina Leen, photographer. © Time Life Pictures.

Hedda Sterne often claimed that she was not an Abstract Expressionist, nor an Irascible. Nevertheless, she remains the most prominent figure—“the feather on top”—of this 1951 portrait published in Life of the notorious Irascibles, a group of painters who protested The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s dismissal of avant–garde American painting.

Sterne later lamented in her 1981 oral history interview with the Archives of American Art that this iconic photo detracted from her own work. She also explained that the men in the photo were displeased by her prominence:

“They all were very furious that I was in it because they all were sufficiently macho to think that the presence of a woman took away from the seriousness of it all.” Listen to Hedda Sterne interview clip

Paula Cooper

Artists of Park Place Gallery, ca. 1967-1968 / unidentified photographer. Park Place, The Gallery of Art Research, Inc., and Paula Cooper Gallery records, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

In 1963 a group of artists, mostly from the West Coast, established Park Place, an artist space in downtown Manhattan. The original members, Anthony Magar, Mark di Suvero, Forrest Myers, Tamara Melcher, Robert Grosvenor, Leo Valledor, Dean Fleming, Peter Forakis, and Edwin Ruda emphasized an informal, if not offbeat, approach to operating a gallery.

When the artists incorporated the gallery in a new space at 542 West Broadway in 1965, they named it Park Place, the Gallery of Art Research, Inc. Paula Cooper first served as president and then performed the duties of both the president and the director.

When the Gallery closed in 1967, Cooper brought many of the artists to another gallery at 96 Prince Street in SoHo. She retained the exploratory spirit of Park Place that to this day encourages innovative artistic practices at her gallery.

…and many more

Women's life class at the Chase School of Art, ca. 1896 / unidentified photographer. F. Luis Mora papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

While the drama of these images relies on their singularity, the fact is that women have long found strength in numbers. Women have always played a critical role in advancing the theories, histories, and aesthetics of art. The Archives of American Art, for example, has in its holdings more collections created by women artists than any other repository of its kind. Beyond the month of March, the work of women artists, curators, dealers, and administrators will continue to inform and influence the history of American art.

Mary Savig is an Archives Specialist in the curatorial department. Her book, Season’s Greetings: Handmade Holiday Cards by 20^th Century Artists will be published by Smithsonian Books in 2012.

Piecing Together a Biography: Who Was Mary Fanton Roberts?

Mary Fanton Roberts, 1906 Sept. 30 . Mary Fanton Roberts papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

F. Luis (Francis Luis) Mora, New York, N.Y. letter to Mary Fanton Roberts, 1908 Apr. 15 Mary Fanton Roberts papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Carnegie Hall, New York, N.Y. postcard to Mary Fanton Roberts, New York, N.Y., 1918 Jan. 28 . Mary Fanton Roberts papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

One of the most memorable collections that I’ve processed at the Archives of American Art is the Mary Fanton Roberts papers. The papers were donated and microfilmed in 1957, not long after Roberts’ death at the age of 92. My job, 50 years later, was to make sure the collection was properly preserved by today’s archival standards and write a detailed finding aid in preparation for the digitization of the microfilm.

As I began to work through the material, I asked myself, who was Mary Fanton Roberts? To my surprise, her papers were a rich collection of letters, photographs, and invitations from notable artists, performers, and writers working in New York in the early twentieth century.

Google provided very little information on Roberts besides a lovely portrait by Robert Henri. Luckily her papers include an unfinished autobiography, “Point of View,” in which she tells of her experiences living as a child in the town of Deadwood, being hired as a journalist on newspaper row in Manhattan, and becoming editor of The Craftsman magazine. She also describes frequently dining with John Butler Yeats, John Sloan, Robert Henri, William Glackens, their wives and others at Petitpas restaurant.

Unfortunately, her papers have very little documentation on her career as the founding editor for The Touchstone and Decorative Arts magazines and as a writer of art criticism under the name Giles Edgerton. However, they do reveal her participation in numerous social events and art openings and her efforts to sponsor the American debuts of many performers. As a friend of Isadora Duncan and the Duncan Dancers, Roberts had within her papers two files regarding the Committee to Further Isadora Duncan’s Work in America. The committee included such members as John W. Alexander, Robert Henri, George Grey Barnard, and Karl Bitter.

I completed this project satisfied that such an interesting collection of documents would be available to researchers online. I only wish Mrs. Roberts had finished her autobiography and shared with us what must have been an amazing insider view of New York society.

Erin Kinhart is a processing archivist at the Archives of American Art.

Alice Neel and My Mom

Alice Neel, 1968 / Jonathan Brand, photographer. Alice Neel papers, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

Doris Scherbak at a family gathering to celebrate her birthday. Photo: Loren Scherbak.

I was first introduced to the Archives of American Art 12 years ago when I applied for a cataloging position here. I told my mother, Doris Scherbak, that I was not sure about the position, but it must be a nice place to work because it was located in the Smithsonian Institution, after all. I did not know about the Archives even though I graduated from art school, but my mother did and she was thrilled! She had done research here to look at the personal papers of Alice Neel, a very candid, no–nonsense, and unsentimental portrait artist who had created a middle-aged self-portrait that my mother dearly loved.

I am not surprised she loved Alice Neel as my mother was a similar woman, full of verve and curiosity about people and known for her direct questioning style which often embarrassed me as a young adult.

Mom died a few weeks ago and I am still in that very-fresh-grief period. In looking for her in Alice Neel’s papers, I see that Alice motivated my widowed mother—a single parent—to live her life fully as a woman, honestly, without embarrassment or excuse, and with fascination about every person she met. Thanks to the Archives, I have the presence of Alice’s papers to motivate and inspire me as they did my mother.

Loren Scherbak is an artist and database administrator for the Archives of American Art.