An American Master: Wayne Thiebaud
Pastel-colored paintings of pies and cakes launched his career, but there is more to Wayne Thiebaud than desserts.
By Jason Edward Kaufman
The California-based painter Wayne Thiebaud, who turned 100 last November, is best known for pictures that he made around 60 years ago that depict pie and cake slices on plates arranged in rows on countertops. These pictures of ready-to-serve diner desserts have become icons of American Pop Art, but they are only one course in the visual banquet that Thiebaud (pronounced TEE-boh) has produced over a seven-decade career.
Thiebaud never considered himself part of the Pop Art movement, but his realistic paintings of sweets, sandwiches, clothing, cosmetics, and other humble items coincided with Warhol, Lichtenstein, and others depicting mass-produced products from Campbell’s soup cans to Mickey Mouse. Their work was critical of consumerism, but Thiebaud’s celebrated the abundant pleasures of post-war American middle-class life. When his food still-lifes appeared in his first New York solo show, at Allan Stone Gallery in 1962, they sold out, and museums including MoMA acquired works.
That same year he was included in two seminal exhibitions that consolidated the Pop Art phenomenon: “New Realists” at Sidney Janis Gallery in New York and “New Painting of Common Objects” at the Pasadena Art Museum, and he was given a solo show at the de Young Museum in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. With favorable reviews in art periodicals as well as The New York Times, Time magazine, and Newsweek, Thiebaud, in his early 40s, was on his way.
He went on to paint people and landscapes ranging from Southern California beach scenes to the hilly topography of San Francisco and abstract panoramas inspired by the Sacramento River Delta. Lately he has made a series of vignettes that feature clowns, a somewhat wistful commentary on the artist as entertainer and the human comedy in general.
Examples from each series are currently on view in “Wayne Thiebaud 100: Paintings, Prints, and Drawings,” an exhibition organized by the Crocker Art Museum in Sacramento to mark the artist’s centennial. [See sidebar for tour venues and dates.]
Cartoons and Commercial Art
Thiebaud was born in 1920 to a working-class Mormon family in Mesa, AZ, but grew up mainly in Long Beach, CA where his father found work after a failed effort at cattle ranching in Utah. Like many kids of his generation, Thiebaud loved “the funnies” and dreamed of being a cartoonist. As a teenager he briefly apprenticed as an animator for The Walt Disney Studios, and took classes in commercial art at a trade school in Los Angeles. He interrupted junior college to serve in the Army Air Force (1942-1945) where he hoped to be a pilot, but his artistic talent led to his designing posters and drawing cartoons for the newspaper of his base near Sacramento.
After the war, newly married, he tried unsuccessfully to sell his cartoons to New York magazines, then worked several years in advertising at Universal Studios and Rexall Drug Company where an erudite colleague urged him to think of himself as an artist. He resigned in 1949 to pursue a teaching degree at San Jose State College on the GI Bill and transferred to California State College (now California State University) in Sacramento where he completed a B.A. and M.A. (1953) in art history and education. By 1951 his paintings, influenced by Abstract Expressionism and Bay Area Figurative Art, were the subject of a museum show at the Crocker Art Gallery in Sacramento.
In graduate school he began an eight-year stint teaching art history, film, and television production at Sacramento Junior College (now Sacramento City College). During a 1956-1957 sabbatical in New York he met Willem de Kooning who advised him to find his own path. Thiebaud threw himself into painting the now famous still-lifes with a reductive realism informed by his memories of restaurant jobs and his training as a commercial artist.
He reveled in finding the fewest gestures needed to suggest a three-dimensional object on a flat canvas. Subjects are set against single-color backgrounds in indoor settings bathed in clear, bright even light. The sharply modeled forms, rendered in saturated hues, cast bluish shadows. Edges are delineated with parallel bands of vibrant green, orange, blue, or red, giving objects a sort of electric halo that he dubs “halation.”
Thiebaud learned graphic clarity from the advertising men, sign painters, and cartoonists with whom he worked, but the sensuality of his paint derived from the gestural brushwork of Old Masters and Abstract Expressionists. He thickly applied oil pigments to underscore their materiality and to replicate the things they represent – creamy white paint spread like butter frosting or daubed into puffs of meringue, or dense crimson paint that doubles as greasy lipstick.
He painted the figure in the same manner as the still-lifes. Though models included his wife and friends, his portraits are devoid of personality and sentiment. Typically shown in isolation standing at attention or seated on a chair, subjects are emotionless with blank expressions concealing their inner worlds.
Landscapes of the Imagination
After buying a house in San Francisco in 1972, he began an inventive series of cityscapes exaggerating the vertiginous topography. Streets rise vertically, parallel with the picture plane, dotted with cartoonish cars and flanked by buildings drawn in perspective that cast shadows across the pavement. The resulting distortion of space and height creates a roller coaster effect that conveys the chaos and instability of urban life. Related pictures of overlapping freeways thronged with traffic embody the density of California’s networks.
In the mid 1990s he turned his focus to the rural landscape of the Sacramento River Delta. These large canvases portray imagined vistas often with no horizon or sky, as if from an aerial perspective and from more than one viewpoint. Cultivated fields, represented by intensely colored patterns, form a patchwork intersected by roads and reflective bodies of water, relieved by details such as trees and cattle. These abstract visions, and a series of mountain pictures begun in the early 2000s, portray the American West as a magic-real terrain of mesas, buttes, and solid clouds that calls to mind the setting of George Herriman’s “Krazy Kat” cartoons and draws on Thiebaud’s memories of the family ranch and his grandfather’s California farm where he spent time in his youth.
American Master
Soaring auction prices in the past decade reflect growing recognition of Thiebaud as an American master. Pies (1961) sold for $4 million in 2011, Encased Cakes (2011) leapt to $8.5 million in 2019, and Four Pinball Machines (1962) set a new Thiebaud record when it topped $19 million last year.
His work is collected by most museums of modern and American art, including The Whitney Museum in New York, the Hirshhorn Museum and the Smithsonian American Art Museum, both in Washington DC, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, and numerous other major institutions. He represented the U.S. at the São Paulo Bienal in 1967 and has had retrospectives organized by SFMOMA in 1985, the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco in 2000, and Acquavella Galleries in 2012. He was awarded the National Medal of Arts by President Bill Clinton.
His primary dealer was Allan Stone from 1962 until the dealer’s death in 2006. Currently he is represented by Paul Thiebaud Gallery in San Francisco and Acquavella Galleries in New York and Palm Beach.
Thiebaud revisits themes from earlier periods — he is still painting pies today – and he has worked in multiple mediums, including graphite, charcoal, ink, pastel, watercolor, etching and aquatint, and lithography. In addition to his fine art, he has made ten covers for The New Yorker and provided illustrations for two cookbooks. His distinguished teaching career includes 42 years in the art department at University of California Davis where he remains professor emeritus.
Twice married, with multiple children and stepchildren, he continues to live and work in Sacramento where he has occupied the same house for half a century.
Thiebaud recently spoke with us on the phone from his Midtown Sacramento studio, recounting the advice he received from de Kooning, the importance of humor, caricature, and color in his work, his relationship to Mormonism, and life as a centenarian.
Interview with Wayne Thiebaud (March 4, 2021)
How does one master the craft of painting, the basics of looking and recording?
Yes, the formal values and the basic tools. Since I didn’t go to art school — I would have loved to have done so — I had a lot of wonderful people who helped me, and they gave me a critical premise for how you do things properly to achieve good effects. I owe a great debt to sign painters and graphic artists, and women fashion designers, graphic designers generally, and commercial art certainly.
Early in your career you painted with a loose touch related to abstract expressionism. After your 1956-1957 sabbatical in New York, where you met Franz Kline, Willem de Kooning, and other established artists, you returned to California and began straightforward still-lifes. Did de Kooning really offer you advice that led to the change?
I had been taking students on holiday field trips to artists’ studios and museums New York. I asked de Kooning if he would let us come to his studio. He was a kind of saint in terms of approachability, just kind and good to every painter. So I had some meetings with de Kooning by myself at his studio on 10th Street. He was forthcoming in the following way: He said that he thought I was a pretty good painter, but that it lacked any kind of focus in a way which was important. He said, like so many young painters you’re focusing on what I call “the signs of art”. In other words, someone suddenly becomes famous and everybody looks at what the signs of that particular painter are — brushstrokes, drips, whatever. So, you think, maybe that’s what I should get into my work. He said, that’s not the way to go about it. “Why are you painting anyway?” That was a question which stopped me. I just said, “Well, I love doing it.” He said, that’s not enough. He said, you have to find something you really know something about and that you are really interested in, and just do that. Don’t spend so much time looking at what you think will make you successful.
That was a rude series of thoughts I had not even considered. I was just going along trying anything that might work. And that’s when I came back to Sacramento and sat down and thought about what he said. I said to myself, well, I’ve never been to art school. I know a little bit about art history. What has my life been? I grew up a Mormon boy in America. I worked in restaurants and helped cook hamburgers, washed dishes, was a busboy. What is that world? Is there anything in that world? So, I said I’m going to just start as directly as I can. And I took the canvas and made some ovals, thinking about Cézanne — the cube, the cone, and the sphere — and put some triangles over them and thought, well, that maybe could represent a pie on a plate. I had seen them laid out in restaurants and I was always kind of interested in the way in which they formed these nice patterns. I said, alright, I’ll go ahead with this and I’ll make them into pies. I was really enjoying myself…and as I finished, I looked at it, and said, my god I just painted a bunch of pies. That’s going to be the end of me as a serious painter.
But I just could not leave it alone. It was so entrancing. I painted another one of a different kind of pies, and I made some little cakes, and I said, well, I’m out of the art world and in a way, good riddance. Because I had also experienced in New York how desperate all of us young painters were to get our paintings into the art world. I’ve got a teaching job so I’m okay. These [paintings] certainly don’t belong in the art world, so I’m really kind of back to commercial art. I just enjoy doing them and that’s what I’m doing. I’d painted some gumball machines very early on, all tricked up with silver paint like Jackson Pollock. Again, all the signs of art. I decided I’ll just paint a damned gumball machine and that’s the way it’s going to happen. I can’t take a lot of credit for any intellectual insight into it. There were lots of accidents.
Your still-lifes turned out to be a great success when you showed them in 1962 at Allan Stone Gallery in New York. But then your focus shifted to figure painting. You treated sitters much as you treated still-life objects. There’s no dramatic action and no clues about their state of mind. What were you trying to achieve in painting figures?
It is the most difficult subject matter of all, in my opinion. I tried to paint some figures from memory and ran smack up against my limitation of awareness of anatomy and of the conditions that make figure painting work. So I went to work and did academic drawings weekly for about seven and a half years. I wanted to make a decent figure painting, in proportion and space, so that it looks like almost a piece of sculpture existing in a little fictive three-dimensional world. But, also not to have any kind of expression, to be expressionless, not to denote any narrative — just to be presented as straightforwardly unencumbered as possible, as if you’re sitting looking at someone across from you. You don’t know them, they don’t know you, you don’t know what they’re doing. You look at their clothing, you look at their shoes, they might have some type of dress, and you try and present that as clearly as possible, with a cast shadow.
Do you think that approach corresponds with your relation to other people?
I admire the photographs of Auguste Sander because they’re just plain presentations of a German cook, a German schoolteacher, a butcher. This is some guy in his ordinary jacket and pants and shoes, or someone sitting in a chair with his back to you. That’s what my paintings were. I’d have people come, usually friends, and ask them to take a stance, turn around, sit down, stand up, sit down and read, until I finally get at a position that I would like [in order] to, as my wife described it, get them sort of frozen in time.
The San Francisco pictures and the Sacramento River Delta landscapes play with space in ways that are very different from the more straightforward still-lifes and figures. Do you think that the landscapes marked a fundamental change in your work?
I hope so. I believe very much in changing. I paint people, places and things, which gives me the option of painting anything. I would like to believe I could paint anything, any day, any time, any way in which I would like to do. That’s my particular approach. It’s not a very good career move according to many fellow painters, but for me, that’s the challenge and that’s the charge, that’s the joy and the agony. I’ve never required being successful. That’s why I went into teaching — probably for all the wrong reasons — just to support my family. But it proved to be an enormous, wonderful challenge and I never did stop. And I still teach even today.
Can you talk about color in your work?
For my painting students the palette has two yellows, a warm and a cool, two reds, two blues, and then black and white or tertiary colors of some measure. It’s a Fauve-type palette and it gives you the basis of being able to make not just any color, but the power of the color. That’s the secret of painting: getting the value right. Then you can use the color in extraordinary ways. If the value is not right, then the painting will fall apart. So it’s a great lesson in so many ways. And that’s the palette that I continue to use. I always try to get some of each color in as many different areas of the picture as I can, so there is a kind of aura, almost like sunshine or the rainbow effect.
In your landscapes and still-lifes forms are edged in various colors that create an aura effect that you’ve called “halation.” It gives objects a kind of quivering presence. Was that something that you devised deliberately, or did it just happen when you were outlining elements?
It happened that way. The big advantage is a white background because if you take anything out in the sunshine and put it on a white surface you get very clearly those auras and those vibrating halations. It comes with the fact that we’re seeing [with our binocular vision] two views which never quite coordinate. That makes a quiver.
Rather than represent every minute detail of a motif you seem to try to get the essential contours and tonal changes. That reductive approach can tend toward abstraction, and some of your works – for example, Four Pinball Machines — appear to include miniature Minimalist or hard-edged compositions.
I admire abstract painting very much and I’m basically always convinced that my work is abstract. Brushstrokes are simply shorthand notations, like taking shorthand of writing. You learn to get what you hope will essentially denote something rather than rendering it. When there is too much [detail] that kind of rendering leads to a kind of taxidermy, a kind of death. It’s like you’re an accountant rather than a shorthand taker. There are wonderful combinations — sometimes unconscious, often accidental — that go into mixing and matching.
It is one of the most extraordinary miraculous things that we have these wonderful alternate painting worlds by Van Gogh and Rembrandt and on and on and on. They’re their own little painted worlds. We wouldn’t have had the worlds of Van Gogh without that extraordinary unique set of organized paintings that come from his taking from Monticelli, French tapestries, and so on. Those influences are in there, but it still comes out Van Gogh.
Can you give us a sense of your living situation and your daily routine?
Well, I have families. Great numbers of us are scattered around Sacramento. I have stepchildren and wonderful daughters, grandchildren, wives of my sons. We all seem to get along and I see them and talk with them often. We have a good family interchange which I’m pleased to have.
My own life is quite simple. I live alone since my wife passed away now five years ago. So I do my own laundry and cooking – I was once a kind of second-string cook. But the big life is in the studio. I get up almost every day, including holidays and weekends, and go to work.
I’ve lived at the same house for almost half a century. I have a studio on top of the house that my wife got me to create so I could go up there in my pajamas and work. My son, who passed away also five years ago, became quite a good dealer in San Francisco and handled the work for me. He built this wonderful place for storage in midtown Sacramento and made me a nice little studio in that same building. It’s called Lebaron’s Fine Art and that’s where I am speaking from now.
Do you still play tennis?
I have a lifelong love of tennis and I did play senior tournaments for a number of years with my wife and that was a great joy. I am still trying to get out and hit the ball once in a while. I’m just an old hit-and-giggle guy. My whole family play. Some play tournaments and are quite serious. So we have a good athletic program and that’s good for you, as you know: get out and move your body.
What are you working on these days?
I’ve gotten together all the figure paintings which I have kept around, about 150 of them: a number of self-portraits which I’ve never shown, some little narrative paintings that I’ve fooled around with, the portraits of the clowns. I am determined now to make a book of these, plus the ones that are in collections and museums. There will be a kind of catalog raisonné of the figures, of which there’s never been a comprehensive show. I’m going to call it “People: figure paintings, portraits, self-portraits and clowns”.
The book will be the big figure paintings, little figure paintings, self-portraits, regular straight portraits. There are paintings of little figures on beaches, in shopping malls, on dance floors. I’m interested in combining those totally different kinds of working with the figure. I’m not interested in planning an exhibition. I just want to create a catalogue as I did of the clowns and of monotypes, so that it will be part of the archives of my foundation. I’m reworking some of the paintings, changing them quite dramatically, which I also like doing. I know that conservators don’t like this sort of thing, but I don’t give a damn as long as I can get it to look the way I want it to look.
It’s a truism that we grow wiser with age, yet it seems that we are never going to figure out exactly why we are here on earth. How has your enormous reservoir of experience informed your outlook? And how has longevity impacted your work?
I’m puzzled, as you are, about what’s what. I have no idea. I guess I would say something like this: I think art is probably our saving grace. It can almost ignore our animal premise and spirits. It’s worth investing in as many and as deeply involved people as we can muster because I think that’s where our hopes lie: in giving us a life of pleasure, challenge, comfort, joyousness — all of the things which make us human and make us able to relate kindly to each other.
Can you speak about humor in your work?
Humor has always been at the center, or certainly near it, in almost all of the work that I do. I really began as a cartoonist, or tried to, and I love that whole development. I collect original cartoons and I have a great respect for them. In my own work I love it when people smile or when they are bemused. So, it is central to the work.
I am reminded of the clown pictures that you’ve created in recent years. A clown can be funny, but their pratfalls remind me also of the comedy of aspiration and the futility of striving. A clown might be a metaphor for the artist as a public figure, as a kind of entertainer. You title a work “One Hundred Year-old Clown”. Are your clowns somewhat autobiographical?
Yes. I love humor. It’s part of our visual art poetry so it’s a serious subject matter for me. When I was a young man I worked briefly in the circus and became a great admirer of the clowns and carnival people that I sold newspapers to as a kid. So that world interested me and I’d never done anything with it. When my wife passed away, and my son within a year, I wanted something just to sort of be preoccupied with, so I concentrated and painted maybe 50 or 60 or 70 of those clowns in as interesting a way as I could manage.
They depart from the earlier figure paintings not only because many of the clowns are in motion rather than still, but also because you paint them more freely.
The sense of caricature is very much part of my interest in terms of style. I think stylistic derivation and expansion and development is based on a kind of caricature, whether it’s medieval caricature or the way that Goya uses caricature or the way the Persians caricature. All of those stylistic variations are based on a sense of caricature. And it’s not just as simple as cartooning. It’s much richer. There’s a caricature of color, a caricature of space, like Cubism. There’s a caricature of almost all the formal elements that you can use, in my opinion.
Other than portraits painted before the model, much of your work is based on memory. Can you talk about that?
Memory is probably not the defining word. The imagination needs to confront the memory and to learn that the memory is not a fixed thing. It’s not something you just have so much of. Rather the memory is developed by confronting your lack of knowledge. So while the memory is a great product of expression and awareness, it’s essentially the imagination that you finally are able to use.
Do you use reference images, maybe photographs?
I have a very big aversion to photography as a thing to use or even as a habit or tradition of painting. It’s a seductive medium and a wonderful medium and a great convention, but it’s a separate convention from our two-eyed view as human beings. It is essentially and crucially different and I don’t encourage its use at all as a painting premise.
Some of the Pop artists transcribed photographs or used photo-mechanical means of getting the image onto the canvas. The results are very flat, but your images look tangible and real.
I think they are not realistic. They are representational. And that means that I’m using some convention. If you look carefully at a tie or a sucker, that’s such a basic shape that it doesn’t require much memory. And the same is true of many of the object paintings. They’re usually chosen for their pretty clear-headed simplicity. Or they are things which have become almost touchstones in our daily life.
They’re not highly complex forms.
No. The complexity hopefully comes from figuring out compositionally what you might be able to develop. You try to look for ways of presenting them in ways that you have not seen them presented. And sometimes to do things which you shouldn’t do.
What do you mean?
To make a landscape composition where you simply go from one diagonal point [corner of the canvas] to the other. Or to overwhelm the weight distribution of the painting so that it is somewhat uncomfortable, its balance slightly tentative. This, of course, is a way of building tension. If we’re using our bodies, and the plumb line, and are very much aware of the sense of balance, that’s what we base these little rectangles and squares on. It’s all about how they relate to the edges, and not just the four sides, but other vectors. They also must come outside towards us and recede inside away from us to infinity. Those are the options you have as a painter. Even though you’re on this flat surface, the extraordinary, miraculous aspect of painting is fictive space. And getting yourself to make the leap to faith, that that space can be coherent and believable in your sensations, is a major and wonderful trick.
You perform it wonderfully. The landscapes are particularly engrossing.
Thank you. They come quite simply from the use of various projective systems, or not being hesitant to use whatever extraordinary combinations you can come up with. And you’re very influenced, of course, by cultural variations [of landscape], whether it’s Japanese, Chinese, Persian, any kind of other modalities that you can think of. And that’s why art history is so crucially important to painters. It’s not just our inspiration but our guidepost and our visual library.
You’ve talked about yourself as a kind of “thief” of art history. I see relationships between your works and Manet, Matisse, Morandi, Hopper, Walt Kuhn, Richard Diebenkorn, Saul Steinberg and many others.
It’s kind of unlimited. That’s why I kept teaching. Having to teach art history, aesthetics, criticism became my education, since I had not had any. It was a great challenge to try to catch up on some deeper and more useful educational potential, coming into the world of ideas, poetry and great literature, and music, and so on. That’s the code of honor, so to speak, about trying to make yourself an artist of some kind. That’s one of the most difficult things to do, to try to find your own voice, to try and love tradition but not be overwhelmed by it. However tiny a contribution you can make, it doesn’t matter so much as simply to take it on and contend with it.
How would you describe your original contribution in that sense?
I don’t feel myself being particularly original. I love the idea of being in the tradition of bravura painting, starting with maybe Velázquez and coming down all the way to Manet through hundreds of wonderful bravura painters. So that certainly can’t be counted as original. Who’s to say about originality? I don’t think Velázquez ever thought of that. I don’t think he even knew what he was doing. He was just an extraordinary visual, very alive performer. You don’t see a lot of drawings or preparations or schematics. He just did it.
You have explained that making a successful artwork requires balancing the real world, the art world, and the personal world. The real world is the shared notion that we have about the things around us, as exemplified in photographic realism, that kind of accounting or taxidermy that you were talking about. The art world is art history, criticism, theory and the tradition of painting and drawing. And the personal world is private perception and psychological experience, all the idiosyncrasies of self.
I think that’s a helpful outline of trying to keep things in balance. If you’re going to be an art critic you don’t want to just talk to other art critics. You want to talk to literature and to other forms. The same in painting. You want to be sure you’re not just a kind of megalomaniac or you end up being someone like Trump in a total world of the self.
Does non-objective abstraction lack a shared consensus about the world?
It depends upon the particular and unique painting.
Can you talk about beauty?
Ahh, beauty. The writer David Hickey once asked at a conference what theme we should be focused on in coming years. Everybody gave interesting responses until he said the word “beauty.” He said it emptied out the place. They were much more interested in social issues and god knows what? But beauty — yes, it’s primary. It’s what we search for.
Your father was ordained as a Mormon bishop. Was Mormonism important to your upbringing and are you practicing today?
They’re interested in taking a leap to faith. When I was about 15 or 16, and began to read and go to school, it was very clear to me that I could not make that connection. I read the Mormon bible, called the Book of Mormon, and it was an awakening about what, at least from my standpoint, did not make it possible for me to have faith in any way. I talked to my father about it and he was very generous and understanding. His father [who immigrated from Switzerland in the mid 19th century] had been a schoolteacher and eventually Superintendent of Schools in Indiana. That intellectual tradition and his influence was very powerful, and I moved slowly away from the church. It was never a dramatic thing. I still greatly loved and enjoyed my parents who spoiled me and continued to support me in every way they could.
The power of the Mormon Church is wonderful in terms of nourishment. They take care of their own people. They are like the Jewish tradition, very cloistered and inbred. My experience was that I was spoiled rotten by my parents and by a big group of nourishing aunts and uncles. My grandfathers were bigamists, so I have all these relations. So I’m one of the very lucky people who went through the Mormon tradition. They’re very good about encouraging people, taking care of their own people. So it’s a wonderful tradition in itself, but lacks the interest and intellectual challenge which I was fascinated in, particularly in the arts. I was never married in the church or was interested in pursuing performance. I don’t attend church. My sister was a committed Mormon. She was a wonderful sister and she had two girls who are still very much involved in the Mormon Church. They’re both schoolteachers.
You’ve had a remarkably singular life and career. Do you have any regrets, and what have been your greatest satisfactions?
My greatest satisfaction is being the wonderful recipient of old age. That is a supreme gift for me, which I treasure and deeply appreciate. I have been one of the luckiest people that I know.
[SIDEBAR]
“Wayne Thiebaud 100: Paintings, Prints, and Drawings” is on view the Toledo Museum of Art in Ohio until May 2. The survey travels to the Dixon Gallery and Gardens in Memphis (July 25–Oct. 3, 2021), McNay Art Museum in San Antonio (Oct. 28, 2021–Jan. 16, 2022), and Brandywine Museum of Art in Chadds Ford, PA (Feb. 5, 2022 to May 8, 2022).
Jason Edward Kaufman ©
A version of this article appeared in Luxury Magazine, Spring/Summer 2021, pp. 190-201.
