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Seascape I, 1964, screenprint on Rowlux, ed. 200, from New York Ten portfolio [via]
You know how you just think you’ll blog about one thing, and then you want to get a little context, so you dig a bit, and then a bit more, and a bit more, and.. anyway, even though I rather obsessively collected out a bunch of his source comic books in the early 1990’s, I haven’t been a close follower of Lichtenstein’s work. Or rather, I think I’ve been lulled into a sense of familiarity by Lichtenstein’s almost immediate recognizability, and I never paid too much attention to when he made what and why or how. It just was.

Seascape I, 1964, printer’s proof, Rowlux, different horizon, no Benday [via]
Which is why these early landscapes and seascapes are so fascinating. They’re so odd, so resolutely unfamiliar, almost unrecognizable as Lichtensteins, and yet they’re from 1964-68, a period when Lichtenstein’s career specifically and Pop Art generally were both gaining global recognition. They seem like experiments, avenues of persistent research. They account for some milestones: Lichtenstein’s first use of his own subject matter, inclusion in his first museum show. They have clear–or at least compellingly arguable–influence on later, major work. But they still somehow feel atypical, marginal, minor, dead-ends, even failed. But are they? Could they just be underseen or underappreciated? Undervalued by the market because they don’t “look” like Lichtensteins [yet]?

Black and White Sunrise, 1964, oil on magna on canvas [via]
According to the Roy Lichtenstein Foundation’s official chronology, the artist began making landscapes in early 1964. Some were painted rather spectacularly, like the black and white sunrise [above]. And with others:

Begins to incorporate plastic, Plexiglas, and metal into some of his landscapes.

And near the end of ’64, there’s this [images top]:

Rosa Esman begins Tanglewood Press with the portfolio, New York Ten which includes Seascape, 1964, a color screenprint on clear Rowlux by R.L.

Rowlux is a wavy, prismatic plastic sheeting material which Lichtenstein apparently discovered at a novelty store. Its moire pattern can simulate reflections on water. [Hmm, novelty shop? The Rowland brothers were trying to market Rowlux for use in highway signs, and according to Ron Abbe’s 1976 paper, “Experiment with Rowlux,” Salvador Dali was the first artist to use the material, in 1962. Dali decked some models out in Rowlux collages for a “couture” show in 1965. What a mess.]

Moonscape, 1965, silkscreen on Rowlux, ed. 200 [image]
In 1965, Lichtenstein made painting collages using Rowlux and other materials. The dealer Mark Borghi, which is selling Littoral [below], lists some more. Littoral was purchased from Castelli by Larry Aldrich and made its way to his museum, which apparently deaccessioned it at some point.

Littoral, 1965, Metalized polyester foil, aluminum and magna on board, [via]
1965 was also when Lichtenstein began experimenting with adding backlights and motors to his Rowlux painting collages, making them a hybrid of kinetic art, light art, and moving picture. Examples of these Electric Seascapes were included in the artist’s one-man show at the Pasadena Art Museum in 1967.

Electric Seascape #1, 1966, Rowlux, paper, light, electric motor, formerly Collection Guggenheim Museum [via]
I think two statements Lichtenstein made about his explosion paintings, which he began around the same time, are also relevant to these landscapes. First, from his interview with John Coplans for the 1967 Pasadena show catalogue, there’s a conscious technical distancing from painting: “I wanted the subject matter to be opposite to the removed and deliberate painting techniques.” And in Aspen No. 3, published in December 1966:

Explosions give me a perfect opportunity to do a completely abstract painting which seems, on the surface to he realistic.

Electric Seascape #2, 1966, Rowlux, wood, light, motor [via]
While Moonscape is pretty strongly representational, many of these landscapes are as abstracted as Rothkos or Sugimoto photographs. Sometimes the only representational element is the hint of a Benday horizon contour–or the light playing on rippling water, which is, of course, an illusion intrinsic to the material itself.

Landscape 2, 1967, silkscreen on Rowlux overlay, ed. 100 [via]
Lichtenstein kept on making these Rowlux collages and editions at least through 1967, when they were reduced to almost nothing but a horizon line. The two 1967 works here were from Ten Landscapes, Lichtenstein’s first solo print portfolio, published by Castelli.

Landscape 5, 1967, silkscreen on Rowlux on board, ed. 100 [via]
When they were made, then, Lichtenstein’s hotness and Castelli’s marketing magic helped these trippy landscapes into major collections like the Guggenheim’s and Larry Aldrich’s. They were what’s available, and they got snapped up. And then at some point, those institutions decided they were expendable, or outside the Lichtenstein narrative, and they ended up back out into the market. Assuming it’s still available, Borghi’s Littoral has been on the market for at least two years.
Besides their intentional distance from the painting process–a major concern of almost all Lichtenstein’s work–these shimmery landscapes and seascapes are almost nakedly direct explorations of the characteristics of light, sight and visual perception. The play of light and reflectivity would become significant subjects for Lichtenstein going forward–his first painting of a mirror [below] was made in 1969. In 2000, an entire show of Lichtenstein’s light-related works, titled “Reflection/Reflessi,” was organized in Rome. The inclusion of Electric Seascape #1 only highlights the extent of Lichtenstein’s investigations.

Mirror #1, 1969, oil on magna on canvas, [via]
But these landscapes also related directly to another series of unusual works, the ones that started me on this whole researching jag: Lichtenstein’s only films. Which are coming soon to a blog near you.

This is why greg.org readers earn the big bucks, people. GF-R spotted this hilarious/sublime juxtaposition of ad and content from the LIFE Magazine report on the 1958 fire at the Museum of Modern Art and asks,:

coincidence? Or the work of the advertising and layout guys at LIFE? I’d love to know. The color image of the grilled cheese sandwich even looks like a proto pop art piece. (although I know there is no way of that being intentional and is only the result of my own retrospective anachronism).

Oh, I don’t know, someone check Claes Oldenburg’s resume for suspiciously ad agency internship-sized gaps. Meanwhile, add whoever designed that frying pan to the list of random cranks suing Damien Hirst for plagiarism.

Over the weekend, I hit the road to interview some people I’ve wanted to meet and talk with for months now. I’ll be publishing the results soon here on greg.org. One of the artists whose work I’ve been interested in is Roy Lichtenstein. This wasn’t where I had planned to start my Lichtenstein story, but the beginning just keeps getting pushed back. And the Manitoba Museum of Finds Arts’ archive of Frank J. Thomas’s photos from the Pasadena Art Museum are just too awesome to ignore:

John Coplans gave Lichtenstein his first solo museum show in 1967, and while the artist was in Pasadena, the Museum organized a little excursion, which involved some old-timey outfits, and an old bus. And a ladder.

And a casual yet elegant affair in a Sears parking lot. A Sears promoting the–yes, you read that right–the “Vincent Price Art Collection.”

Roy climbed the ladder onto a Foster and Kleiser billboard.

And unveiled a giant billboard for his show, with what looks to be a life-sized reproduction of his 1964 painting, Temple of Apollo.

Which he promptly signed.

The Temple of Apollo was [is?] in a local Pasadena collection. The Billboard Temple of Apollo‘s fate and whereabouts are unknown, but I would start looking in either the Foster’s or the Kleiser’s garage.
update: Robert Rowan, a Pasadena trustee, bought the Temple. It’s mistranscribed in Castelli’s AAA interview as “tempo”.

The fire at the Phillips Collection in Washington DC this morning reminded me of the incredible story of another museum fire, at The Museum of Modern Art in 1958. Before my time, I know, but I’d only learned of it last year, when Ann Temkin staged a show of Monet’s Water Lilies [Here’s Roberta Smith’s review, and a tangent I went on about Pollock] and mentioned the fire.
Mentioned the fire because it destroyed a giant, 18-foot-long Water Lilies painting the Museum had acquired just a couple of years before. [The current 3-panel Water Lilies was the replacement.]
UPDATE: LIFE published a 2-page color spread of the painting with the announcement of The Modern’s acquisition in 1957:

So what happened? The New York TImes’ report from the scene [purchase required] is riveting. [one image above] Director Rene d’Harnoncourt “trudging out” onto the street in tears. One worker dead, two visitors injured, and dozens of firefighters treated for smoke inhalation. Visitors and staff trapped on the penthouse terrace being evacuated by Alfred Barr, who throws a chair through a window and catches women and children on the roof of the neighboring townhouse. The fire chief marveling “at how women employees, soaked by dripping water, kept helping save the pictures.”
Like the Phillips fire [apparently], the MoMA fire was triggered by construction. In the Modern’s case, contractors installing air conditioning on the second floor were smoking near open paint cans, sawdust, and a canvas dropcloth. The work meant that except for the largest paintings, all the other art had been cleared from the second floor.
Art on the third and fourth floors was undamaged, and was evacuated to the garden, and to the Whitney Museum, which abutted MoMA on 54th St. Among those works? Hello, Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, which was on its one and only loan from the Art Institute of Chicago. Close call.

Meanwhile, besides the Monets–the large Water Lilies was apparently hanging on the 53rd St wall and had been “hacked” fighting the fire–the Museum initially reported that four works had been damaged or lost. The other Monet, another, smaller, late work hanging in the Bauhaus Staircase, was supposedly restorable, despite, as the Times put it, having “its oil flowed and blistered,” and “looking like a toasted marshmallow.” I guess I’ll have to check, but the Giverny painting known as The Japanese Footbridge [above] came into the collection in 1956, so unless MoMA had three late Monets at the time, that’s the toasted one.
[UPDATE: They did. Temkin’s essay about the Water Lilies makes it clear that the stairway painting was a smaller, but still big, Water Lilies. The Museum tried for three years to restore it, but in 1961, it was declared to be damaged beyond repair. Jackson Pollock’s No 1A, 1948. was also in the staircase and also damaged, but it was conserved.
Of the fate of the largest Water Lilies, Temkin wrote, “After the fire, Museum officials returned to find the painting buried under a pile of debris on the ground; firefighters had unknowingly destroyed it breaking through the windows into the building.” There’s a photo of the aftermath in LIFE Magazine’s April 28, 1958 issue. It is unreal.]

Boccioni’s The City Rises is still around, as is Pawel Tchelitchew’s Cache-cache [Hide and Seek], which was described as “probably the most popular [painting] in the museum.” [More on that in a second. The controversial original 1953 version of Larry Rivers’ Washington Crossing The Delaware [below] was damaged, though for some reason, it’s not listed in MoMA’s collection. Which means the only other total loss besides Water Lilies was a World’s Fair mural by the Brazilian artist Candido Portinari.

In a Times sidebar on April 16 detailing the art losses, Sanka Knox was reassured by a Museum “spokesman” that “none of the damaged pictures, including the two Monets, are among the most valuable of the museum’s paintings,” and then an unnamed “staff member” said that, “apparently none of the museum’s most valuable holdings” were damaged.” Which begs the question, right? Right:

Among these “most valuable” works, according to a staff ember, are Rousseau’s The Dream, Picasso’s Three Musicians, Van Gogh’s The Starry Night and Gaugin’s Still Life with Three Puppies.”

I’m sure it means nothing, but the only museum official quoted by name in Knox’s piece was Barr himself. Now about that most-popular Tchelitchew.
In 2007 FIT art history professor Richard Turnbull gave a Brown Bag Lecture at the Museum about the divergence of curatorial and popular opinion titled, “From Pavel Tchelitchew’s Hide-and-Seek to Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World” [mp3 available]. He said the museum education staff gets asked about Hide-and-Seek all the time by teachers; apparently it’s been in the NYC public school curriculum for decades, and they always want to walk kids through the painting’s cycle of life allegories. [Actually, I just finished listening to the whole lecture; it’s more like Tchelitchew hid so many faces and figures in the painting, you can stare at it for hours. It’s like a psychosurrealist Where’s Waldo?] It hasn’t been on view since around 1999 when the Museum closed for renovations.
Is it just me, or do all these paintings still look burnt? What a palette.
[images: top, nyt; the rest: moma.org]

this is pretty awesome: