User description

Remembering peter schjeldahl: irreplaceable critic, poet and lyrical observer of embodied art experience *+-*>It was noon after august of this year when the poet and art historian peter schjeldahl received his doctor's first phone call to inform him that his lung cancer gay scat videos had spread. He was on his way to a date with his wife, brooke, at that cottage in bovine, which is in catskill. Patsy cline's "walkin' after midnight" was playing on the car radio, and sjeldahl freshly drove mile 81 on the new york state highway. The emerging mountains reminded him of a candid painting by thomas cole; the hills stretched out before him, who reflected on how long the artists had painted these mountains. Sjeldahl describes a similar point in the skill of dying” (the new yorker, 2019), a detailed essay and critical journey through said existence in art history, where he usually discovers previously inaccessible potentials of painting in the most diverse places. He became an indispensable art critic, writing with the poet's lyrical observations. Schieldal's direct and unwavering prose made the enemy of self-satisfied or proudly dissatisfied art writing, which had little personal use for art. A respected poet and critic, for many years he was an enthusiast of painting, new york and healing abilities, craftsmanship in a period of everyday and collective crisis. “I didn’t keep a diary or a diary at all, because it scares me that i don’t turn to someone,” he wrote. “When i write, the main rule is to make a connection.” Despite the anguish of practice, with an incurable disease, in the event that his image, in his own words, took on the presence in the "group war between immunotherapy and cancer, both living off the land", he continued to write fluent and eloquent criticism during throughout its existence. Last summer. At the time of his death, schjeldahl was 80 years old and a longtime art critic for the new yorker, whom he originally joined as a staff correspondent in 1998. Voice, where ironic humor was often mixed with judicial observations in the excitement of pigment and line, sjeldahl's artistic writing was divorced in artforum, art in america, new york times magazine and vogue. He spent more than half a century in his office, his apartment on the outer floor in the east village. However, despite the glamorous glamor of those solid and mid-range magazines, he did write about new york with the verve of an outsider, a master food navigator, which we can now call ups and downs in cultural production. the schjeldal developed in the snow-strewn gray midwest. Born in fargo, north dakota, he was the eldest of 5 children raised by "prairie princess" mother charlene and heroic working-class father gilmore in provincial minnesota. The patented inventions that brought schjeldahl's father moderate success—the widespread plastic bag for air sickness, and later the nasa echo 1 and echo 2 satellites—mylar helium balloons—led to such a son being considered a "rich kid" if he smoked. Cigarettes as a 16-year-old teenager behind the high school football stands in northfield, minnesota. Every week the family would get together to enjoy the ed sullivan show, especially once in 1956, since we had elvis presley. And changed any. Just how early experiences like this affected the native prose that came later. First of all, schjeldal felt the duality of every provincial boy he managed to get out: a tender disdain for the fact that each of us can live our own being in the teeming center of things, mixed with picking up our vices in craftsmanship through the awareness of food, what life looks like. For the underprivileged, everyone speaks international artistic english abroad of gangster strongholds of blue-chip galleries. Now it is a rare double qualification. It's no secret that in "andy warhol," the first collection of essays in the defiantly read hot, cold, heavy, light: 100 literary works 1988-2018 (2019), he celebrates warhol not as a twisted ironist, but as a representative of the working-class class. A boy who had the imagination to take "the format of barnett newman and bring elvis presley to the fore." Time from 1962 to 1964. And then during a minimal and unproductive period at a fresh school in manhattan, schjeldahl acknowledged that a high school diploma was [his] greatest accomplishment."This was not entirely true, as he had received several prestigious and honorary awards, notably the frank jewett mather award from the college art association for excellence in art history; howard wursell memorial award from the american academy of arts and letters for "recent prose deserving recognition for the good quality of its cosmic and very important guggenheim fellowship, through which he spent a large part of the money to buy a lawn tractor in bovine. But poor marks for schjeldahl and concrete anti-academic reputation became only a force of style. Mixing calmness and self-deprecation, he said that "the main thing - in this i am a world expert - is my personal experience." He became that rare writer whose description of the encounter with different genres of art made the reader understand that the partner also outlives him. He favored the embodied experience of art, a painting that stubbornly emerges from the presence of the singlea itself and that celebrates the ability of painting to combine "our strongest sense," vision, and "our greatest physical ability, the hand": "this is why i use the first person." After a short stay in paris, which his use did not consider so remarkable, sjeldal settled in greenwich village and immersed himself in the poetic life of the city. “For about a dozen years in the long 1960s,” sjeldahl mused last year, “i hung out, drank and slept with artists, they didn't take me seriously. I observed, heard, overheard and absorbed a lot. He practically did not sleep, in order to get a large number of errors. One brief but successful get-together during those heady days was with frank o'hara, a poet and curator at the museum of modern art, whose poetry often comes close to pressing your ear against a brownstone wall and eavesdropping on your neighbor's more interesting gossip the night before. . He called them "personal poems". O'hara was a particular advocate for the suave and outgoing writing sensibility that the young poet-critic had begun to cultivate. About one year later, in july 1966, o'hara died. In a dune buggy accident on fire island. Schjeldahl wrote a famous obituary in the village voice (where he later served as an art critic from 1990 to 1998): “absolutely everything related to o'hara is easy to demonstrate and very difficult to guess,” he wrote with characteristic clarity. “And the aura of the legendary, which by no means left him while he remained alive, now, it seems, in the near future will absorb the memory of what he became and what a useful thing he did.” Much of schjeldahl's reality is the same. In the 1970s, schjeldahl set to work on the definitively abandoned biography of o'hara and recorded hundreds of hours of interviews with those who remained active and hanged. On the new york stage. The rating was reanimated from the cutting room floor when ada calhoun, peter and brooke's only child and a diligent writer, accidentally discovered the tapes. In june 2022, she published the widely acclaimed book also a poet: frank o'hara, my father and me, a gentle and perky portrait of the author and father, with perhaps a flaw in the role, but who never missed a beat as chronicler. New york art scene for half a century. “I have been saying for a whole century that in the situation when my time comes, my task is to go fast,” he reflected in “the art of dying.”