Picasso's War - Book Summary

The brushstroke revolution: Picasso leads the charge into the American art scene

Imagine, if you will, the sensational world of art. It's a realm where colors dance and shapes defy expectations—a vibrant tapestry where tradition and innovation collide. Yet, amidst this dynamic landscape, there lies a fortress of conservatism, a stronghold resistant to the unfamiliar and the avant-garde. Welcome to early 20th-century America, a land that, at the time, was bounded by conventional artistic ideals and an entrenched affection for the Old Masters.

This was the challenging and often inhospitable terrain that great European visionaries like Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse had to navigate. At a time when the American public largely favored the detailed realism of artists like Rembrandt and Velázquez, modern art was dismissed out of hand. To many, the work of Picasso and his contemporaries was not just artistically dubious, but dangerously radical. It prompted outrage, with critics decrying it as a manifestation of madness, a rebellion against the very essence of culture and taste.

Yet, change was in the air — and it was led by none other than the enigmatic Spaniard, whose legendary oeuvre had already stirred the European scene. But the question begged to be answered: How would such revolutionary art find a foothold in the skeptical American psyche? As it turned out, it would require a combination of audacity, advocacy, and serendipity.

This is the intoxicating journey of Picasso and modern art's tumultuous reception in the United States, a tale of cultural struggle, perseverance, and ultimate conquest. So, sit back and let us delve into the fascinating odyssey of how Picasso's vision transcended borders, defied expectations, and eventually captivated a nation that had, until then, been ardently opposed to the changes sweeping the canvas of the art world.

When Cubism met the Big Apple

It was a crisp day in the Big Apple when John Quinn, the prominent lawyer and patron of the arts, stepped into the quaint loft space of 291 gallery. His eyes met with a charcoal sketch titled "Standing Female Nude," an enigmatic piece by Pablo Picasso. Crafted in the throes of Picasso's Cubist phase, the artwork thrust viewers into a jarring world of sharp angles and bewildering perspectives. This gallery, a humble 15-square-foot room warmed by nothing more than a rudimentary wood-burning stove, would be etched into history as the site of the Spanish artist’s first foray into America's art domain.

The drawings were a far cry from the familiar -- they were provocative, even bewildering, and they represented a seismic shift in artistic expression of form and space. It wasn't just John Quinn that found the exhibit challenging. Public reaction to this peculiar artistic expedition ranged from confusion to disdain. Critics lambasted Picasso's work with derision, likening the sketch Quinn pondered to "a fire escape" — and not even a particularly well-designed one.

Quinn, a man entrenched in the cultural limelight and with a finger on the pulse of the progressive, found himself perplexed yet intrigued by Picasso's daring defiance of convention. Despite his cultivated relationship with literary giants like W. B. Yeats, James Joyce, and T. S. Eliot, Quinn realized that modern art's embrace in America had yet to blossom. The Old World's adoration for artists like Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Cézanne had not found its counterpart on these shores, leaving a chasm between America’s traditional tastes and the avant-garde insurgency from Europe.

Standing in the iconoclastic warmth of 291, Quinn had an epiphany. Though he did not fully grasp the enigmatic allure of Picasso's Cubism, he sensed its revolutionary pulse. Picasso was a trailblazer who appeared unconcerned with appeasing the masses, a trait that earned Quinn’s respect. As he left the gallery, John Quinn might have been uncertain about this new artistic revelation, but he was clear on one thing: he needed to witness more of Picasso's transcendent rebellion on canvas. With that, the seeds of modern art's entrenchment in the American imagination were sown.

The Collector's Crusade and the Birth of a New American Art Scene

For John Quinn, collecting avant-garde art wasn't just a pastime; it was a fervent quest. Every dollar from his legal career was zealously invested into acquiring pieces that others snubbed. In his eyes, the Metropolitan Museum was lacking, bereft of the innovative spark that defined the 19th century. Taking it upon himself, he dreamt of his collection seeding a true museum dedicated to modern art — a beacon of progress in a conservative cultural landscape.

Quinn’s passion for modern art culminated in a pivotal push for recognition. In 1913, he backed the seminal Armory Show, an exhibition inside a military training center in New York that mapped the evolution of contemporary art. The journey began with the genteel Impressionism of Monet and ended with the shockwave of Cubism, featuring works like Francis Picabia’s canvases and Marcel Duchamp’s "Nude Descending a Staircase."

Quinn's eloquent opening address couldn't mollify the public's disdain, nor could it soften the critics' pen. Thousands visited the Armory Show, but for many, it was a carnival of derision. Esteemed figures like former President Theodore Roosevelt dismissed the art as the musings of a “lunatic fringe.” Newspapers branded modern art a deleterious force, with The New York Times decrying it as a societal poison.

While Quinn aimed to invigorate the international art trade, he was shackled by onerous taxes on recent foreign art — a protectionist measure that left America's art scene in the dust. Unwavering, Quinn leveraged his legal clout in 1913 to abolish this stifling tariff, opening avenues for American collectors and European dealers alike.

In the next chapter, we explore the European merchants who shaped Picasso's destiny — and how this singular artist would finally captivate the American imagination. It's a tale of ingenuity and perseverance, of a man whose works would eventually transcend the chasm of misunderstanding to redefine the very essence of American artistic appreciation.

Art Dealers and the Movers of Modernism

Picture this: it's July 1907, and a young, ambitious art dealer named Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler stands before the decrepit Montmartre abode of Pablo Picasso. Greeted by the artist himself, barely clothed in his underwear, Kahnweiler is ushered into a world littered with the chaotic signs of creation. This disheveled studio, blanketed with ash and the aroma of oil paint, held within it the untapped potential of modern art's greatest catalyst.

Kahnweiler, a German-Jewish novice in the Parisian art scene, was poised to make a deal that would intertwine his destiny with Picasso's. They swiftly struck a contract, united in their disregard for the fanfare of promotion. Kahnweiler's taste for modernity and his minimalist approach to selling art provided Picasso with the platform his groundbreaking work demanded.

One of the first to recognize Picasso's brilliance was Sergei Shchukin, whose Russian estate boasted a growing collection of modern masterpieces. His open-house Sundays in Moscow fed a burgeoning love for the avant-garde among its visitors. Shchukin, along with Kahnweiler's patronage, vaulted Picasso to art stardom, alongside contemporaries like Braque, Derain, and Gris.

As the shadow of war loomed over Europe, the art world braced for upheaval. Kahnweiler, a German national in wartime France, faced the confiscation of his assets, including hundreds of pieces by his roster of artists. Dispossessed of his gallery and fortune—and to the benefit of his rival, Paul Rosenberg—the war scattered Kahnweiler's hard-won collections to the winds.

Personable and theatrical, Rosenberg was Kahnweiler's antithesis. He reveled in the ostentation of his art openings and the glamorous cultivation of clientele. When Kahnweiler was forced to abandon Paris, it was Rosenberg who took up the mantle, pushing Picasso's oeuvre to new heights in Europe and beyond.

The tale of these dealers is a vying narrative of taste, circumstance, and legacy. It speaks to the shrewdness required to navigate the unstable terrain of war-torn Europe and underscores how the right champion can shepherd an unconventional talent to worldwide acclaim. In the end, it was Rosenberg's indefatigable commitment to Picasso that kept the artist's work in the limelight, fostering his rise as the modern master capable of captivating an entire world—most pivotally, the once resistant shores of America.

The Twilight of a Collector and the Dawn of a New Art Institution

As the glimmer of modern art shone brighter in Europe, John Quinn, the man propelling it forward on American soil, was grappling with a somber reality. Diagnosed with cancer in 1919, his years were numbered. Yet, even as he faced his mortality, his Upper West Side apartment brimmed with a burgeoning collection of modern masterpieces. Paintings by the greatest innovators of the age were stacked wall to wall, a testament to his impeccable taste and dedication.

But the cultural tide in America had yet to turn. To the press, these visual rebellions were nothing more than Bolshevik propaganda, dangerous art that could only taint the American psyche. When Quinn's curtain call came in 1924, not a single work of the modernists he so admired graced the halls of the Metropolitan Museum.

His death left a staggering 2,500 pieces without a home, masterpieces unappreciated by estate lawyers and without a local institution willing to preserve his legacy. Across the ocean, the Louvre accepted donations, yet much of his collection scattered across auction blocks, with no American museum showing any inclination toward the avant-garde.

Distressed by this, three art-loving ladies of New York high society—Lillie P. Bliss, Abby Aldrich Rockefeller, and Mary Sullivan—resolved to honor Quinn's vision. They established the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in 1929, a decision that would forever alter the American art landscape.

At the helm was Alfred Barr, a young visionary with a passion for educating on modern art. Under his direction, MoMA's inaugural show in 1929 proved an unprecedented triumph. It celebrated the pioneers of modern art—Van Gogh, Gauguin, Cézanne, and Seurat—and captivated audiences and critics alike, with queues snaking around Fifth Avenue.

Barr's curatorial style was a breath of fresh air. No longer would salon-style clutter the viewer's experience. His white walls featured carefully spaced, eye-level paintings. More than just presenting artwork, Barr aspired to enlighten. Accompanying booklets and exhibition texts narrated the rich tapestry woven by the artworks—those handy placards beside each piece? A Barr innovation.

Thus, in Barr's capable hands, MoMA became more than a gallery. It was an educational beacon, enriching the American public's understanding of the art that had so fervently captivated John Quinn and the circle of admirers who sought to keep his dream alive. With each passing exhibition, Barr cemented MoMA's status, shining a light on modern art and ensuring its rightful place in the heart of America's cultural consciousness.

The Triumph of Modern Art in America

In the 1930s, the world witnessed a series of cultural upheavals that inadvertently championed modern art as a bastion of liberty. As the Nazi regime clamped down on what they denounced as "degenerate art," a label previously employed in American criticism, artists found themselves in the crosshairs of authoritarian condemnation. The Gestapo began stripping walls of innovative artworks in Germany, an ominous echo of similar suppressions in Stalinist Russia.

These dark times saw a diaspora of creative minds seeking refuge, with many setting their sights on the promise of America. As the nation sheltered these artistic souls, the perception of modern art shifted; it became a symbol of democratic freedom, a realm where creativity could flourish unchained.

At the forefront of this cultural renaissance was the Museum of Modern Art under the guidance of Alfred Barr. One exhibition, in particular, focused on the poignant works of Vincent van Gogh. Instead of a traditional curator’s note, Barr presented Van Gogh's impassioned letters to his brother, providing a narrative that was as moving as it was educational.

However, Barr's ultimate aim was to showcase the art of Pablo Picasso. He believed that a carefully curated retrospective could shape the public's understanding of modern art, presenting it not as the product of madness but as a coherent evolution from historical traditions.

This dream proved elusive. Picasso’s complicated personal life, coupled with art dealer Paul Rosenberg's reluctance to risk another transatlantic shipment, led to repeated postponements. But when World War II threw the world into chaos, the trajectory changed. Rosenberg sought safety for his family and his art, and Barr's museum became a sanctuary for his spectacular collection.

Thus, November 1939 marked the momentous opening of "Picasso: Forty Years of His Art," an exhibition featuring over 360 works that traced the artist's remarkable journey. It was a resounding success. People flocked in droves, and the exhibition set out on a record-breaking national tour, garnering acclaim at every stop.

The impact was profound and wide-reaching. Picasso's influence spilled over into fashion boutiques and design studios across America. The exhibition left an indelible impression on the emerging talents of the day, artists like Roy Lichtenstein and Jackson Pollock, who drew profound inspiration from the vast panorama of his work.

After years of perseverance and an interplay of historical forces, modern art found a warm embrace in the American cultural landscape. The transformation was complete; Picasso had not only won the hearts of the American public but had also woven his vision into the very fabric of American culture. The art scene, and indeed America itself, was forever changed.

Pioneers of American Modern Art: From Quinn to MoMA

John Quinn's name stands as a synonym for the tide that carried modern art into the heart of America. A New York lawyer by trade, Quinn was also a fervent advocate for the avant-garde, using his influence to shepherd the inaugural exhibition of modern art and to strike down import taxes that stifled artistic exchange. His dedication was such that upon his death, his bountiful collection sowed the seeds for the inception of the Museum of Modern Art.

Under the directorship of Alfred Barr, MoMA took on the ambitious mission of distilling modern art's essence for the American public. Through compelling exhibitions and educational efforts, Barr unveiled the historical richness behind works that had once confounded viewers. Landmark shows featuring greats like Van Gogh and, ultimately, Picasso, broke through cultural barriers, captivating a nation once skeptical of modern art’s bewildering forms.

These enduring efforts paved the way for a burgeoning era in America, where figures such as Lichtenstein and Pollock would soon take the baton and define a new chapter in the story of modernism. The American art scene was irrevocably transformed, tracing its roots back to the advocacy and vision of John Quinn, the forward-thinking legacy of MoMA, and the indomitable spirit of modern art that refused to be confined.