A Short Life of Trouble: Forty Years in the New York Art by Marcia Tucker

By Marcia Tucker

This engrossing memoir brings to shiny lifestyles the behind-the-scenes struggles of Marcia Tucker, the 1st lady to be employed as a curator on the Whitney Museum of yankee artwork and the founding father of the recent Museum of up to date artwork in big apple urban. Tucker got here of age within the Sixties, and this lively account of her existence attracts the reader without delay into the burgeoning feminist circulation and the buzz of the hot York paintings global in the course of that point. Her personal new methods of considering led her to take principled stands that experience replaced the way in which artwork museums examine modern artwork. As curator of portray and sculpture on the Whitney, she equipped significant exhibitions of the paintings of Lee Krasner, Joan Mitchell, Robert Morris, Bruce Nauman, and Richard Tuttle, between others. As founding father of the recent Museum of up to date artwork, she equipped and curated groundbreaking exhibitions that frequently inquisitive about the nexus of paintings and politics. The booklet highlights Tucker's dedication to forging a brand new process whilst the existing one proved too slender for her expansive imaginative and prescient.

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An accident? Then something hard slid under my neck and I was being lifted onto a stretcher and shoved into an ambulance. I yelled, “Michael! Michael! ” but no sound came out. ” Doors swung open and shut. There was a shiny table and lots of doctors and nurses. They rolled me onto the table, and suddenly there was a pain that was absolutely amazing, as though someone had taken a burning poker and shoved it up my leg, from the bottom of my arch to the middle of my thigh. They cut away my clothes and someone tried to get my boots off with a saw, and they were all talking at once.

Michael had been staying with Jeffrey, a high school friend of mine who had moved to a ramshackle walkup in the East Village. To buy some time, we asked Jeffrey if I could move in, too. His apartment was dark and bare of all but the basics—two beds, a couple of beat-up chairs salvaged from the street, bare lightbulbs dangling from the ceilings, a smelly sofa, and some cracked china. He was happy to share his place, especially since he was almost never home—we later found out that was because he was out selling drugs.

My darling,” he wrote, “I am so glad you told your father. It is terrible to have to keep such a secret. But I cannot take his money. It isn’t right for him to pay my passage. I must do this myself, and I will. I have a new job, in an office, and I am saving everything I can so that I can buy my ticket. ” My father told me how much he respected Henri’s decision, and I went back to my summer job, unable to concentrate, edgy with waiting. Our letters flew back and forth across the ocean, full of love and hope and dreams and plans, until one day I opened his envelope and read: “Ma chérie, I cannot believe my bad news, but I am drafted despite my medical deferment.

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