HAROLD ROSENBERG : A CRITIC’S LIFE
By Debra Bricker Balken
University of Chicago Press. 640 pages. $40. ISBN 978-0-226-03619-9
Reviewed by Jim Burns
The days of the New York Intellectuals seem very distant. It’s
perhaps difficult for younger people to understand why what Mary
McCarthy said about Lillian Hellman attracted so much attention, or
why magazines like Partisan
Review, Commentary, and
Encounter were essential reading. And the furore that erupted
when it turned out that the CIA had been funding various
publications. Not to mention the way in which that organisation
backed the notion that a movement such as Abstract Expressionism
represented Western ideas of freedom of thought and expression
against the state-controlled artistic productions of Russia and the
Eastern Bloc countries.
And why did Harold Rosenberg and Clement Greenberg fall out? It
admittedly wasn’t hard to do in the hot-house atmosphere of the New
York intellectual world, where personalities competed and personal
relationships often quickly soured. But the Rosenberg/Greenberg saga
represented more than a simple matter of a clash of egos. Their
different ideas about developments in art appeared to have
significant relevance in post-1945 culture.
Harold Rosenberg was born in 1906. His father was a tailor who
“loved to read and to write verse in Hebrew in his spare time”.
Little seems to be known about his mother. When he was young
Rosenberg suffered a “debilitating bone infection that left his
right leg permanently immobilised, and he needed a cane to walk for
the rest of his life”. He attended CCNY in 1923/24, and “graduated
from Brooklyn Law School with a LL.B in 1927. He never practised
law, and in fact had little interest in a career in that or any
other commercial or business line.
In a way his “real” education began around 1928 when he met Harry
Roskolenko on the steps of the New York Public Library. Roskolenko
later recalled that the conversations he had with Rosenberg
were “a crucial part of their intellectual development”. And
he added that the whole scene was lively and stimulating: “Everyone
was there….from Kenneth Burke to Sidney Hook, philosophers, critics,
grammarians, Marxists, Trotskyists, Stalinists, technocrats,
vegetarians, free lovers – everybody with a talking and reading
Mission”. It’s worth noting that Roskolenko himself was later
identified with the Trotskyists in the United States. A poet,
journalist, and novelist, his books are well worth searching for.
The memoir of growing up in the Jewish ghetto on New York’s Lower
East Side, When I was Last on
Cherry Street, is lively and informative.
Rosenberg’s progression through the 1930s was fairly typical of a
young, bohemian poet and intellectual at the time. He contributed to
little magazines such as
Pagany, Poetry, and Blues,
the latter started by Parker Tyler and Charles Henri Ford. And he
was involved in founding a short-lived publication,
The New Act: A Literary
Review. He was also reading Marx avidly, and had a loose
association with the American Communist Party (he sometimes
contributed to New Masses,
the Party’s cultural journal), though he was never a member and
became known for his critical evaluations of Party policies and
activities.
He had ambitions to be an artist, and was employed on murals for the
Public Works of Art Project (PWAP) where he was assigned as an
assistant to Willem de Kooning, and met Lee Krasner. He was
eventually transferred to the Federal Writers Project (FWP) and
worked on American Stuff,
which essentially featured material from many of the writers
(including Roskolenko, Weldon Kees, and Kenneth Rexroth) who had
joined the Project, usually because it provided a small but steady
wage at a time when many people were struggling to stay alive.
Rosenberg continued to write for little magazines like
Partisan Review and
New Masses and to meet some of the people who became well-known
in New York intellectual circles in the 1940s and 1950s – Lionel
Abel, Philip Rahv, William Philips, and Meyer Schapiro.
Rosenberg’s interests were changing and he drifted away from poetry
and became more involved in writing about art. He joined the
editorial board of Art Front,
a magazine with a firmly left-wing approach to its subject. Among
the topics Rosenberg tussled with was “How to reconcile political
engagement with aesthetic commitment”.
It was something that often
brought him into conflict with the communists associated with the
magazine. But it was also during this period that his problems with
Clement Greenberg seem to have seriously got under way. Both men had
written erudite essays warning against the “menace of popular
culture”, and thought “that artists and writers had to form their
own communities to retain their individuality and resist
conformity”. As the years developed, however, they differed about
how to define and interpret developments in art. Rosenberg
essentially thought that paintings had to be seen in their social as
well as artistic context, whereas Greenberg might be said to have
generally taken a more purely-aesthetic view of them.
They didn’t necessarily differ in their awareness of how what came
to be known as Abstract Expressionism developed, though Rosenberg’s
idea of the canvas as “an arena in which to act ” (The canvas was
“no longer a surface on which to paint a picture, but a surface on
which to record an event”) didn’t appeal to Greenberg. He was more
inclined to have a formalist approach to the way in which paint had
been applied to a canvas. It’s easy to see how he later promoted
colour field artists and their work.
Rosenberg’s term for what was happening was “Action Painting”
and he said, “The human being is nothing else but the situation in
which he is acting”.
Debra Brickett Balkan says of the artists: “As painting liberated
itself from the figure, their Marxist politics became internalised
as ‘personal revolt’…..these artists became engaged in the enactment
of what Rosenberg called ‘private myths’, or the revelation of their
interior lives”. The problem with a term such as “action painting”
may have been that the word “action” is inevitably associated with
movement, and as a consequence became linked to Jackson Pollock’s
highly-visual method of drip-painting. I doubt that many people had
Action Painting in mind when they looked at canvases by Willem de
Kooning, Robert Motherwell, and Franz Kline.
It might be useful to register that the critic Robert Coates had
earlier described what painters like Pollock, Kline and de Kooning
were doing as “Abstract Expressionism”,
and the artist Robert
Motherwell preferred to refer to the “New York School” and thought
that it represented “less an aesthetic style than a state of mind”.
I think it would now be generally acknowledged that Abstract
Expressionism is the term mostly used in relation to what someone
like Pollock produced, though Action Paining might well sum it up
better.
Rosenberg’s disability meant that he wasn’t conscripted, but he did
join the Office of War Information (OWI) and served on the War
Advertising Council, which was, after 1945, “renamed the Advertising
Council and became a national consortium of leading ad agencies,
broadcasting outlets, and print media”. His work in this line didn’t
go down well with many of his old comrades on the Left. Sidney Hook,
for example, said that Rosenberg was involved in “celebrating the
virtues of American business and at the same time was a ‘closet
revolutionist’ or ‘parlour social nihilist’ attacking everyone else
for selling out”. And he added that Rosenberg was “a shameless
political opportunist”. I don’t suppose these arguments mean much
now, but they are interesting to read about in the context of the
1930s and 1940s. Hook’s comments may have been brought about by
Rosenberg’s dismissal of those people who had gone into academia, as
Hook had done. But in retrospect, it’s relevant to look at Hook’s
later involvements with CIA organisations, and Rosenberg’s own
eventual entry into academic employment. Both can be said to have
compromised in their different ways.
Whatever Rosenberg did to earn a living he didn’t give up on his
artistic interests. He mixed with artists, and in 1948 co-operated
with Robert Motherwell on a one-shot little magazine called
possibilities.
Motherwell at the time was
heavily involved with his large, influential book,
The Dada Painters and Poets,
and Rosenberg more or less took over the editorial role of the
magazine. There was soon a disagreement between them. Rosenberg also
managed to fall out with Mark Rothko. It was during this period that
Lionel Abel, who met up again with Rosenberg in Paris, remarked, “It
is the same old story, only older and less interesting. He can
scarcely talk about any subject without blowing his horn, and all of
his ideas sound like advertising slogans – for what?”. The contempt
that many intellectuals had, and probably still have, for those who
work in advertising is well-known. But it would be interesting to
look at some lists of poets and artists who have had stints, and
sometimes careers, with advertising agencies. I can think of one
friend, in particular, who produced excellent, well-received poetry
while paying the bills by working in advertising.
Rosenberg was a regular presence at “The Club”, the meeting place
for the new painters in which they held discussions and invited
critics, poets, and others to give talks. In Balken’s words: “The
Club was a remarkable gathering place, known for its erudite talks
and as a place to assemble, gossip, and take part in shop talk..….It
was avowedly non-partisan, a place where politics was left at the
door, and no single aesthetic credo dominated”. Rosenberg said that
it was alight with “exuberance”.
It might be thought that Rosenberg’s left-wing associations would
have invited attention from the FBI and HUAC as anti-communist
feeling built up in the late-1940s and early-1950s. It does seem
that the FBI had a file on him, but he was never called to appear
before HUAC. It may have been that his record of anti-Communist
Party statements in the 1930s, and the fact of his being criticised
by the Party for some of his activities, had been noted by the
authorities. His work began to be published in
Commentary, a right-wing
Jewish publication, and he was hired to teach at the New School for
Social Research. In 1959 his
significant collection of essays,
The Tradition of the New,
was published. This isn’t the place to go into an analysis or
discussion about its contents, other than to say that, though art
criticism might have taken pride-of-place, Rosenberg also engaged in
surveys of “poetics, Marxism, and cultural politics”.
A couple of years before the appearance of
The Tradition of the New
a short story by Leslie Fiedler entitled “Nude Croquet” had been
published in Esquire. It
was a sharp satirical look at some old 30s radicals (“they share a
Marxist past, the only glue that remains of their sagging
friendships”) who come together for a party and proceed to fall out
as personalities clash and they drag up old arguments and enmities.
Balken says that Rosenberg “is represented by the character Howard
Place, an abstract painter who is about to represent the United
States at the Venice Biennale. Place is overly sure-footed about his
professional success, yet envious of his friends with younger
wives”. There is an oblique reference here to Rosenberg’s
long-standing and long-suffering wife, May Natalie Tabak, who
somehow tolerated his womanising and a string of affairs.
As Balken puts it: “He
thought his bohemianism freed him from monogamy. He would travel
through life with multiple partners, but he would never leave his
marriage”.
Rosenberg had substituted for Robert Coates as the art critic of the
New Yorker for a short
period, and in 1967 was offered the post on a full-time basis. It
gave him increased status in the New York art world, the
New Yorker having a wide circulation. As another example of his
now-rising reputation he was invited to teach at the University of
Chicago (his friend Saul Bellow probably helped to get him there)
where he had the post of a Professor of Social Thought. It was a
curious move for a man who earlier had inclined to the view that a
university was not, in Balken’s words “the way to advance
intellectual life”. Some may have seen him as part of the academic
establishment, but it wasn’t how many in that establishment viewed
him. She points out that Rosenberg’s presence at the university
wasn’t always welcomed: “Unlike the Committee on Social Thought,
where he was sought after and valued, the older art history faculty
members were threatened by his public stature….They wrote off
Rosenberg’s pedagogy as ‘too anecdotal’, not grounded in
connoisseurship and commitment to archival detail”.
Harold Rosenberg died in 1978. A couple of his colleagues at Chicago
wrote short stories about him. Richard Stern’s “Double Charley”, and
Saul Bellow’s “What Kind of Day Did You Have?" both dwell on the
same theme – Rosenberg’s reputation as a Lothario. Bellow’s
character, Wulpy, an art critic with a gammy leg, was a “bohemian
long before bohemianism was absorbed into everyday life”. And he is
described as still taking Marx as his gospel and giving talks about
the “application of The
Eighteenth Brumaire to American politics and society – the farce
of the Second Empire. Very timely”.
Balken, summing up his life, offers this account: “Rosenberg knew
that his ideas could not be spun into lasting theory. Unlike
formalism, action was
evanescent. He also knew that his signature term had run its course
with the demise of the avant-garde in the late-1960s. With this
demise, intense debate had ceased to matter”. He was out of place in
the new art world and looked on Andy Warhol, and other Pop and
Colour Field painters as “virtuosos of boredom”.
Debra Bricker Balken has written a fascinating, well-documented
biography of Rosenberg which brings to life a long-lost world of
radical politics, bohemian writers and artists, and serious debates.
It was a world of little magazines, disputes, and near-poverty in
its early days. It would be wrong to romanticise the social
situation which helped create it, but likewise it would be wrong to
dismiss what came out of it as lacking interest. With so much art
and politics now focusing on novelty and triviality, Rosenberg and
Greenberg could claim they’ve been proved right about the threat
from mass culture. Rosenberg’s “Herd of Independent Minds” has
particular relevance in terms of how large numbers of people,
including intellectuals, can be persuaded to admire and desire the
same things, though some might want to question his role in
advertising in relation to this. But it’s useful to look back to a
time when it appeared that “ideas were worth fighting for” and being
serious mattered.
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