Plexi Man, Part 2

In which I take you behind the scenes of the last post

Earle Olsen, work on plexi, 1960s

In Part 1, I discussed a portrait Hans Namuth took of my father and one of his works on plexiglas. I could critique the excerpt itself, which may be too research heavy—again. I’m not sure how much people want to know about plexiglas and the history of art framing, though I am fascinated by that kind of material culture. But instead, this time I think I’ll tell you a little bit about my research process.

I have worked on this memoir for five years now and I still don’t know the origin, or story, of that portrait. There is no information on the back of the print, besides the stamp of Namuth’s studio. As far as I can tell, the two men didn’t know each other or have any friends in common. Namuth could have been hired to take a promotional shot for a gallery opening, but my father had no exhibitions thatI know of in the late 1960s. They may well have interacted through Kulicke Frames, the art framing business my father worked for then, but what was the occasion for a portrait? I contacted the Center for Creative Photography in Tucson, where Namuth’s archive is held, and they had no knowledge of this print either. [Now, writing this, I can think of avenues I haven’t yet tried. Sometimes that feels like an important purpose of these posts: stirring the pot.]

In 2019, before the pandemic made much in person research impossible, I went to the Smithsonian’s Archive of American Art in Washington D.C. and combed through a box of photographs by Hans Namuth, hoping to find some clues. Namuth’s images of the art world of the 1950s were carefully preserved with tissue paper between each print; multiple copies of each were stamped on the back with the address of Namuth’s East 72nd Street studio. Spread out over the paper and contact prints were lively parties ranging from galas at the Metropolitan Museum of Art to crowded gallery openings. There were society folks in black tie at the Met and slouchy figures in shorts and cardigans at the galleries; everyone smoked. A few pictures showed women artists working or installing their work, bent over in head scarves and sneakers. I skimmed through, thinking that maybe my father’s face would jump out at me among the crowd, like a Where’s Waldo game. But it didn’t. I couldn’t recognize anyone else either, except for Jackson Pollock, whom Namuth had made into a visible celebrity.

Washington, D.C. 2019

So this is a gap or absence. You have them too in your writing and research. What do you make of them? They aren’t just holes to go around; they are their own things. In this case, I’m presented with a paradox: my father wasn’t a famous artist. He is not in the Smithsonian’s Archives of American Art.¹ But he was somehow famous enough to be photographed by Namuth, the celebrity photographer of the Abstract Expressionists. Famous/not famous. I can’t explain it.

You get a feel for important touchpoints as you search and write. These are places that are warm with significance or mystery, that you find yourself returning to. Or they are places where other people respond with interest. The art historian who paid attention to my father when I mentioned Namuth. The people who admire the photograph when I show it to them. How does that feel? Mixed, like the paradox: gratifying and sort of tantalizing, like a satisfaction just out of reach. IF I could prove the connection to Namuth, THEN I could bolster my father’s reputation….

The paradox of the Namuth portrait reveals something I don’t want to see: I am invested in this, I care too much about it. I want Namuth to prove that my father was a good artist, that he was a part of “the art world.” When my father left our family in 1970 he said it was to rededicate himself to his art. Since art and family were usually pitted against each other for us (at least in theory), I want this stamp of approval that the art mattered. That feels shameful though. It’s disheartening to feel that childish, to buy into this vision of art history as a group of (white) men pointing at each other. I haven’t even mentioned Lee Krasner in this piece yet. She was making her own art in a tiny studio upstairs while Namuth filmed Pollock painting outside their shared home in Springs, Long Island. I have told myself that my memoir is not about defending my father’s art or career— but maybe I’m wrong. I am ambivalent (care/don’t care) about fame and recognition. So was my father. So is my memoir.

Even knowing this, I still can’t help looking for the connection between Namuth and my father. My family had spent summers in nearby Sag Harbor in the late 1960s and my father lived there for a time after the divorce. I visited the Pollock-Krasner House this past August with my husband, mother, sisters, and brother-in-law. My mother carried her Pollock-inspired tote bag and we took photos. If art and family were ever severed for me, I now think the work of my memoir is to re-integrate them.

As always, please like, share, and comment on anything you find valuable. It helps to spread the word and it helps me to know what is most useful for you. Thank you for reading!

Exercise: Identify a paradox within your family history. Try this with two words, like famous/not famous. Move outward from the paradox toward something it reveals about your and your project. Paradoxes are useful because they put two elements in a relationship this is tight but unresolved. What does that lack of resolution point to? It may be a feeling that is also unresolved and therefore warm with meaning.

1. Footnote here: he is there, tangentially. I’ll write other posts about finding him in other people’s address books or oral histories.