Tag Archives: Robert Hughes

Suddenly lost summer

Robert Hughes, Gore Vidal, Nora Ephron — this has been a grim summer for writers, and readers. In the case of Vidal and Hughes, it’s marked the loss of two role models and lodestars, writers whose work I followed for instruction as well as entertainment. They did what all great writers do — lead by example — and if my work has any quality at all, it’s partly because I remembered what it was like to have them reach out from a printed page and command my attention. Some artists work that magic with paint, or musical instruments, or physical precision and beauty, but they did it with ink on paper, and anyone who has felt that magic wants to join in its making.

With that in mind, I suggest you download James Wolcott’s essay on Gore Vidal’s passing, then get together with some writer friends, or think about the writer friends you never met in person, but got to know through their work. People who’ve never come within earshot, but whose voices are as clear and familiar to you as your own family. 

 

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Robert Hughes

Right on the heels of Gore Vidal’s passing comes word of the death of another protean, two-fisted talent: Robert Hughes, whose deeply informed, bluntly opinionated writing on art is a model for all would-be critics; and whose deceptively informal, elegantly crafted prose is an example all writers should study.

In the Seventies, when newsmagazines still felt obliged to be comprehensive in their coverage of world news and culture, Hughes stood out  in Time magazine like a Hell’s Angel gunning his Harley in the middle of a daycare center. But Hughes was an intellectual biker, one who had seen, studied, and thought deeply about everything in modern and classical art. His 1991 collecti0n Nothing If Not Critical is a showcase for his range: short takes on masters new and old, with room even for a guarded appreciation for Norman Rockwell. He was adventurous enough to embrace new artists and work of genuine value, but grounded enough to resist the fads that swept the art world.     

This educated independence made him the ideal truth-teller for the Eighties, when investors looking for something to do with their Reagan-fattened bank accounts sent art prices into orbit, and the graffiti scribblings of Jean-Michel Basquiat and the crockery-encrusted wall hangings of Julian Schnabel were the toast of SoHo. (When Schnabel made his filmmaking debut with a hagiography of Basquiat, Hughes called it “a film about our worst dead artist, made by our worst living one.”) He called Jeff Koons “the baby to Andy Warhol’s Rosemary. He has done for narcissism what Michael Milken did for the junk bond.” Nothing If Not Critical ends with a long satirical poem about the art scene, modeled on Samuel Johnson’s London, that pulls off the dual feat of honoring its model while devastating its targets.

A native of Australia, Hughes moved to Italy in 1964 and then settled in London, where he apparently did his share of swinging. (In his 2006 memoir Things I Didn’t Know, Hughes claimed to have caught the clap from Jimi Hendrix through a shared bedmate.) He relocated to New York for his Time magazine gig and made the city his home base for the rest of his life.

Hughes became something of an international celebrity in 1980 when the BBC series aired The Shock of the New, his magisterial history of the rise of modern art; he administered a shock of his own in 1987 with The Fatal Shore, a breathtakingly readable history of the United Kingdom’s colonization of Australia. It shouldn’t have been a surprise: any good art critic (any good critic, for that matter) is partly a historian. He combined the two skills again in Barcelona (1992), which like all great cities is as much an art object as a metropolis, and his book-length study of Francisco Goya (2004), an artist who opened his work to unfolding history in ways few others have matched.

Not all of his work was stellar: five-finger exercises like Culture of Complaint and A Jerk on One End felt out of date five minutes after they hit the bookshelves. Hughes narrowly avoided death in a 1999 car crash, but the aftermath left him with lingering health problems that probably contributed to his untimely death. They certainly accounted for the numerous lapses that turned his recent study of Rome into a small publishing scandal, and made the book an unworthy successor to his brilliant study of Barcelona.

Here is a clip of a highly watchable 60 Minutes piece on Hughes from 1997.

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I link, therefore I am

All eight episodes of The Shock of the New, the magisterial 1980 series about modern art, narrated by the great art critic and historian Robert Hughes, is now available on YouTube. Up above is Episode One, “The Mechanical Paradise.” The other episodes are “The Powers That Be,” “The Landscape of Pleasure,” “Trouble in Utopia,” “The Threshold of Liberty,” “The View from the Edge,” “Culture As Nature,” and “The Future That Was.”

Slavery as the midwife of American freedom.

Poetry as a game of chess.

In 1995, Disney did something quite unusual, for Disney at least — it told a veteran animator, Steve Moore, to make a short cartoon in the fractured fairy-tale mode, all with complete stylistic freedom. The result, Redux Riding Hood, mingled the Big Bad Wolf, time travel, and a jazz soundtrack inspired by Charles Mingus. Watch it here

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