Recalling Robert Rauschenberg

On the artist’s innovative spirit

  • By Amei Wallach
  • Smithsonian.com, May 19, 2008, Subscribe
View More Photos »
Robert Rauschenberg
Robert Rauschenberg in 1969 (Reuters / Corbis)

Photo Gallery (1/3)

Chow Series

Explore more photos from the story


At Bob Rauschenberg's the television was always on. This was as true in the hulking former orphanage that became his Greenwich Village pied-à-terre as it was in the cottages scattered like coconuts amidst the palm groves of Captiva Island, Fla., his real home in the last decades of his life. He died last week at the age of 82, an American artist whose "hybrid forms of painting and sculpture changed the course of American and European art between 1950 and the early 1970s," according to the Los Angeles Times.

It was winter, sometime late in the 1970s, when I went to Captiva Island with Tatyana Grosman, the legendary printmaker who'd introduced Rauschenberg as well as Jasper Johns and a who's who of artists of their era to the infinitely experimental possibilities of printmaking. She and I and her master printmaker Bill Goldston settled into one of the cottages that Bob had bought from aging pensioners (to whom he offered free rent for the rest of their lives). Bob lived in another cottage, on a sandy beach. There was the painting studio cottage, the printmaking cottage, and on and on—many more now, since Bob became the big landowner on the island. We traveled between cottages under high trees on what felt like jungle paths.

Bob rose late, mid-afternoon. He'd reach for the glass of Jack Daniels which he was only without during short-lived binges of sobriety, then hang out with the menagerie of people who were usually around—friends, a lover, dealers, collectors, visitors from up North. There was plenty of laughter while someone prepared dinner, which I remember as being ready sometime around midnight. Bob held the stage with his actor's baritone and theatrical chuckle, his eyes crinkled and sharply alert. He was present and paying attention, but in the background, and under it all was the TV, its staccato images of breaking news and sitcoms blinking across the screen, carrying indiscriminate messages from the outside world.

After dinner we all moved into the painting studio, where Bob literally performed his work. His art is inclusive and communal, and so was the making of it. He liked people around, a kind of audience with whom to interact, as the work became an intense version of the before dinner experience. Images not so unlike the ones emanating from the TV became patterns ordered into arcane metaphors, placed among found objects which he had taught the world were beautiful, with a grace and spontaneous exactitude that Tanya Grosman had once compared to the dance of a bullfighter.

He'd invited Tanya down on the pretext of work to be done, he confided, because he thought she needed a winter vacation. Tanya's version was that she'd gone to mother him. He had that gift for intimacy with any number of people. And all of them were always waiting to be surprised, as he had surprised the world with his reshuffling of the relationship between what was then considered High Art and the everyday life of objects and experiences. He famously said that he made art in the gap between art and life. But in his own world there was no gap between the two.

In 1963, when the lithographic stone on which he was printing cracked at Universal Limited Art Editions (ULAE), Tanya's West Islip, N.Y., studio, he tried another stone. When that cracked, too, he had them use the stone and print the lithograph, crack and all, creating Accident, one of the most celebrated of contemporary prints and a metaphor for his art and his life.

I was there in 1978, when Tanya, who had been born in the Ukraine in 1904, introduced him to the Soviet-era poet Andrei Voznesensky, who could fill a Moscow stadium with his discretely apostate verse. The two men bonded over stories about their mothers, and then they began work on a series of prints. Voznesensky's idea of experimentation consisted of delicate riffs on the Russian avant-garde of the turn of the century. Rauschenberg turned it all upside down, inserting clutter, accident and apparent chaos. This is the way we do it here, he said.

He was working in Japan when Tanya died in 1982. He drew on an old photograph of her and printed it on a new material which could withstand time and weather, and brought it to her memorial to place on her grave. Goldston became his partner at ULAE, together with Jasper Johns, and they invited in a new generation of artists. None of them was as protean and profoundly inventive as Rauschenberg, because he had no fear of accidents or of the distraction of constantly inviting the world into his studio.


At Bob Rauschenberg's the television was always on. This was as true in the hulking former orphanage that became his Greenwich Village pied-à-terre as it was in the cottages scattered like coconuts amidst the palm groves of Captiva Island, Fla., his real home in the last decades of his life. He died last week at the age of 82, an American artist whose "hybrid forms of painting and sculpture changed the course of American and European art between 1950 and the early 1970s," according to the Los Angeles Times.

It was winter, sometime late in the 1970s, when I went to Captiva Island with Tatyana Grosman, the legendary printmaker who'd introduced Rauschenberg as well as Jasper Johns and a who's who of artists of their era to the infinitely experimental possibilities of printmaking. She and I and her master printmaker Bill Goldston settled into one of the cottages that Bob had bought from aging pensioners (to whom he offered free rent for the rest of their lives). Bob lived in another cottage, on a sandy beach. There was the painting studio cottage, the printmaking cottage, and on and on—many more now, since Bob became the big landowner on the island. We traveled between cottages under high trees on what felt like jungle paths.

Bob rose late, mid-afternoon. He'd reach for the glass of Jack Daniels which he was only without during short-lived binges of sobriety, then hang out with the menagerie of people who were usually around—friends, a lover, dealers, collectors, visitors from up North. There was plenty of laughter while someone prepared dinner, which I remember as being ready sometime around midnight. Bob held the stage with his actor's baritone and theatrical chuckle, his eyes crinkled and sharply alert. He was present and paying attention, but in the background, and under it all was the TV, its staccato images of breaking news and sitcoms blinking across the screen, carrying indiscriminate messages from the outside world.

After dinner we all moved into the painting studio, where Bob literally performed his work. His art is inclusive and communal, and so was the making of it. He liked people around, a kind of audience with whom to interact, as the work became an intense version of the before dinner experience. Images not so unlike the ones emanating from the TV became patterns ordered into arcane metaphors, placed among found objects which he had taught the world were beautiful, with a grace and spontaneous exactitude that Tanya Grosman had once compared to the dance of a bullfighter.

He'd invited Tanya down on the pretext of work to be done, he confided, because he thought she needed a winter vacation. Tanya's version was that she'd gone to mother him. He had that gift for intimacy with any number of people. And all of them were always waiting to be surprised, as he had surprised the world with his reshuffling of the relationship between what was then considered High Art and the everyday life of objects and experiences. He famously said that he made art in the gap between art and life. But in his own world there was no gap between the two.

In 1963, when the lithographic stone on which he was printing cracked at Universal Limited Art Editions (ULAE), Tanya's West Islip, N.Y., studio, he tried another stone. When that cracked, too, he had them use the stone and print the lithograph, crack and all, creating Accident, one of the most celebrated of contemporary prints and a metaphor for his art and his life.

I was there in 1978, when Tanya, who had been born in the Ukraine in 1904, introduced him to the Soviet-era poet Andrei Voznesensky, who could fill a Moscow stadium with his discretely apostate verse. The two men bonded over stories about their mothers, and then they began work on a series of prints. Voznesensky's idea of experimentation consisted of delicate riffs on the Russian avant-garde of the turn of the century. Rauschenberg turned it all upside down, inserting clutter, accident and apparent chaos. This is the way we do it here, he said.

He was working in Japan when Tanya died in 1982. He drew on an old photograph of her and printed it on a new material which could withstand time and weather, and brought it to her memorial to place on her grave. Goldston became his partner at ULAE, together with Jasper Johns, and they invited in a new generation of artists. None of them was as protean and profoundly inventive as Rauschenberg, because he had no fear of accidents or of the distraction of constantly inviting the world into his studio.

    Subscribe now for more of Smithsonian's coverage on history, science and nature.



 

Add New Comment


Name: (required)

Email: (required)

Comment:

Comments are moderated, and will not appear until Smithsonian.com has approved them. Smithsonian reserves the right not to post any comments that are unlawful, threatening, offensive, defamatory, invasive of a person's privacy, inappropriate, confidential or proprietary, political messages, product endorsements, or other content that might otherwise violate any laws or policies.

Comments (4)

Lovely!

Posted by Ellen Luzy on May 24,2008 | 02:14 PM

a vivid snapshot of the artist's later life. I particularly enjoyed the description of the many different sorts of people keeping him company. The writer created an appealing image of scattered cottages on the island, each serving as a unique venue for mingling art and life. One tiny criticism: how could it be that "Bob held the stage," yet he was "present and paying attention, but in the background?" it caused me to wonder if The Smithsonian had relaxed its editorial standards...? Whether or no, this article made me want to learn more about the artist, and for that I'm grateful!

Posted by Joy Nelson on May 23,2008 | 12:24 PM

Amei does a great job giving you a sense of the man Robert Rauschenberg. I met "Bob" once and this article is what I imagined hanging with RR would've been like. Great job.

Posted by Martin Smith on May 22,2008 | 09:22 PM

I loved this article. It filled out what I knew of Robert Rauschenberg including a brief meeting in Chicago in 1992. I am going to include this article with mine entitled Meeting Robert Rauschenberg as they are natural companions. Mine from the starry eyed fan perspective and this one from what it was like to really know the man. I left my breif meeting with "Bob" wishing I could have visited Captiva and enjoyed some late dinner. Thanks to Amei Wallach and Smithsonian for sharing.

Posted by Martin Smith on May 22,2008 | 05:22 PM

it is nice to see the smithsonian finally commenting in the present... as opposed to a million miles away. Yes - a glass of Jack Daniels indeed. Such a talent we wont see soon.

Posted by Lucy on May 19,2008 | 09:33 PM



Advertisement


Advertisement

Follow Us





First Name
Last Name
Address 1
Address 2
City
State   Zip
Email


Travel with Smithsonian




Smithsonian Store