[Vung Tau, 4/16/24]
For two days, I’ve been thinking about John Sloan and Grant Wood. Each attempt to start a new article had to be aborted, however. On top of my exhaustion, I had also been subjected to an elaborate sabotage, in the form of dancing women. Living just half a block from Triangle Park, I must walk by there at least twice daily. Nothing is more disorienting than these women dancing, and they’re always dancing. Since many are middle-aged, they can’t possibly wiggle their asses for even 15 minutes, so as soon as I’m out of sight, they collapse. I’m certain there’s a squad garrisoned there overnight, just in case I walk by at, say, 3AM.
Conditions are never perfect. Having mentioned Lafadio Hearn, I thought of the artist as ethnographer, of how much of society, of other people’s lives, he can capture. To do this, he must not only observe those close to him, but goes where he doesn’t belong. The more narcissistic, the less qualified he’s for this task.
At the Philadelphia Art Museum, there’s a smallish canvas by Sloan, Three AM, that’s quietly fascinating, though not particularly well executed. Its very crudeness suggests a sketch, done in haste or by stealth, and that’s its genius. One fully dressed woman is at a table, drinking coffee or tea. Another is in a nightdress, smoking while cooking. One shoulder and much of her bosom are bare, for she’s in a private space, which makes the painter, and us, voyeurs. The title is crucial. What are they doing up at 3AM, eating and smoking?
On 4/28/1909, John Sloan wrote in his journal, “A good day’s work, painting on the subject that has been stewing in my mind for some weeks. I have been watching a curious two room household, two women and, I think, two men, their day begins after midnight, they cook at 3 A.M.” The “I think” means he’s not even sure they lived with two men. Sloan paid that household enough attention to know their day began after midnight. Interesting, too, the fact that Sloane had to stew for weeks to produce something that ended up rejected by several juries for being too scandalous! Nearly all artistic exertion is wasted. Even the best paintings are locked away in private collections or destroyed by men who relish destruction.
There’s a Sloan etching, Man, Wife and Child, that’s also an insertion into private lives. By the beginning of the 20th century, realism made by hand was seriously challenged by photography. This 1905 print, though, was an imagined scene, so could not have been photographed. As with Three AM, Sloan wasn’t there. He knew this family well enough to construct this image of a man and woman dancing rather aggressively, just like lovemaking, with their young daughter looking on. Each detail, spoon in cup, half open middle drawer, pitcher in basin or pant suspenders dangling, had to be imagined.
Born in tiny Lock Haven, PA, Sloan lived in Philadelphia from age 6 to 33, then moved to New York City, where he matured as an artist. Like so many others, Sloan was exhilarated by the world’s most magnificent human zoo. To quote just two lines from Blaise Cendrar’s “Easter in New York” of 1912:
La rue est dans la nuit comme une déchirure, Pleine d’or et de sang, de feu et d’épluchures. [The street at night like an open wound, Stuffed with gold and blood, flames and trash.]
In 1935, Grant Wood would write “Revolt Against the City,” to make a strong case that one needs not leave Bumfuck to make art, but Sloan was also a regionalist, of New York City and, to a lesser extent, Santa Fe. If anything, Sloan was more grounded than Wood!
NYC allowed Sloan to peer into many windows, as illustrated by his Night Windows of 1910. Barely visible is a balding man on the verge of falling off a roof. It’s well worth it to catch glimpses of a half naked woman. Sloan’s teacher, Robert Henri, said something about the nude as the most beautiful form. With his porn addiction, the 21st century man fully agrees as he wipes his furry hand. As for oil paintings, you’ve got to be kidding! Even life in the flesh can’t beat what’s found online.
Once, any man could delight in festering and festive streets, such as I have daily in Southeast Asia. The New York as depicted in Sloan’s Hairdresser Window of 1907 is long gone. At Grand Central, a man has just been arrested for punching a nine-year-old girl in the face. Locked inside while staring at a screen, even those in NYC may not be aware of this incident. Who cares, really? On another day, someone is knifed, shot or pushed onto subway tracks, unprovoked. It’s safest and much more enjoyable to get off alone.
With tiny screens conforming to their wishes, many still insist there’s no social degradation, economic collapse or war ruining their pornography. It’s been forever since they’ve looked up or outside.
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