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  • Written by Mark Stevens and Annalyn Swan
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de Kooning

An American Master

Written by Mark StevensAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Mark Stevens and Annalyn SwanAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Annalyn Swan

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Willem de Kooning is one of the most important artists of the twentieth century, a true “painter’s painter” whose protean work continues to inspire many artists. In the thirties and forties, along with Arshile Gorky and Jackson Pollock, he became a key figure in the revolutionary American movement of abstract expressionism. Of all the painters in that group, he worked the longest and was the most prolific, creating powerful, startling images well into the 1980s.

The first major biography of de Kooning captures both the life and work of this complex, romantic figure in American culture. Ten years in the making, and based on previously unseen letters and documents as well as on hundreds of interviews, this is a fresh, richly detailed, and masterful portrait. The young de Kooning overcame an unstable, impoverished, and often violent early family life to enter the Academie in Rotterdam, where he learned both classic art and guild techniques. Arriving in New York as a stowaway from Holland in 1926, he underwent a long struggle to become a painter and an American, developing a passionate friendship with his fellow immigrant Arshile Gorky, who was both a mentor and an inspiration. During the Depression, de Kooning emerged as a central figure in the bohemian world of downtown New York, surviving by doing commercial work and painting murals for the WPA. His first show at the Egan Gallery in 1948 was a revelation. Soon, the critics Harold Rosenberg and Thomas Hess were championing his work, and de Kooning took his place as the charismatic leader of the New York school—just as American art began to dominate the international scene.

Dashingly handsome and treated like a movie star on the streets of downtown New York, de Kooning had a tumultuous marriage to Elaine de Kooning, herself a fascinating character of the period. At the height of his fame, he spent his days painting powerful abstractions and intense, disturbing pictures of the female figure—and his nights living on the edge, drinking, womanizing, and talking at the Cedar bar with such friends as Franz Kline and Frank O’Hara. By the 1960s, exhausted by the feverish art world, he retreated to the Springs on Long Island, where he painted an extraordinary series of lush pastorals. In the 1980s, as he slowly declined into what was almost certainly Alzheimer’s, he created a vast body of haunting and ethereal late work.

This is an authoritative and brilliant exploration of the art, life, and world of an American master.

From the Hardcover edition.


My mother was a tyrant and Willem was stubborn. —Marie van Meurs–de Kooning, de Kooning’s sister

In Rotterdam, the boys often gathered near the harbor, playing games and picking up pocket money running errands for the dockworkers. They trailed behind the gangs of foreign sailors and watched the eccentrics who loitered around the docks. The Schiedamsedijk district—filled with bars, dance halls, street musicians, and prostitutes—was nearby. So were the shops of the Jewish Quarter, which kept unconventional hours and possessed the allure of another culture. Around the docks there was always some excitement. Rules of every kind were being broken—or so a boy could hope.

Willem de Kooning was one of the boys who haunted the waterfront. Among the largest and most modern in the world, the harbor was Rotterdam’s heart, a pulsing, vital, rude area that in the good years of the early twentieth century worked around the clock. It was a place of both mystery and hard labor, of constant traffic between the practical and the exotic. Cranes broke the line of the horizon. Ships arrived from faraway places. Strange words hung in the air. Here, de Kooning began to develop a taste for the flux and hurly-burly of the modern world. Change, modernity, and the sea came together in his mind.

Even more important, the harbor was an open promise. If de Kooning relished the human energy of the docks, his imagination also required the sea, his first and most constant muse, just beyond. “There is something about being in touch with the sea that makes me feel good,” he would later tell the critic Harold Rosenberg. “That’s where most of my paintings come from, even when I made them in New York.” The child whom his mother and sister called “Wim” would watch the ships by the hour. He liked the way “the air mirrored the water” and enjoyed the rippling give-and-take of color and light between the sky above and the sea below. When he was only four, according to his older sister, Marie, he surprised his family by drawing a big toom (his word for “boat”) on the wallpaper, the first “de Kooning” on record. Early on, the sea also became synonymous with freedom—from poverty and a too-tidy, often smothering country that, like many Protestant cultures, made a point of individuality while encouraging conformity. And freedom, too, from a suffocating family torn by furious arguments and harsh beatings.

De Kooning means “the king” in Dutch. There was nothing royal, however, about de Kooning’s background. He was born on April 24, 1904, on the ground floor of a house that still stands at Zaagmolenstraat 13, a thoroughfare in the working-class district of Rotterdam Noord (North Rotterdam). The city of his birth was a place of tension and impermanence, at once modern and premodern. In the Rotterdam of de Kooning’s youth, workers bought produce from peasants who came to the market wearing traditional costume and wooden shoes. It was a city in which tradition was constantly challenged by the new.

Until 1850, Rotterdam was a quiet provincial port twenty-three miles upriver from the North Sea. In the second half of the nineteenth century, however, it became the Dutch city that welcomed the future, a place of gritty and dynamic vitality. It was the first Dutch city to have electricity. It was also the least snobbish city in Holland. In contrast to the aristocratic The Hague, the historic royal capital, Rotterdam was more than willing to tear down the past in order to adapt to the demands of industry. In the 1860s, Rotterdam boldly filled in the river after which it was named, the Rotte, because it was too small to handle modern shipping. It used the space to run a railway to the water. In 1874, the city constructed modern shipping facilities. The rapidly developing German industries of the Rhineland, in need of a port, then sent their goods down the Rhine to Rotterdam. In 1890 the Nieuw Waterweg—the New Waterway, or Rotterdam Seaway—connected Rotterdam directly to open water; before that, ships had to traverse a series of difficult channels. The city became an economic power. The harbor defined the city’s character, regulated its rhythms, and its unending activity turned night into day; the flow of traffic determined how well, or how poorly, Rotterdammers would eat.

At midcentury, the city had a population of fifty thousand. During the next twenty-five years, the number of inhabitants tripled. By the turn of the century, around the time de Kooning was born, Rotterdam’s population was over 300,000, and the city was the fastest growing in Holland. North Rotterdam, where de Kooning mostly grew up, was developed by speculators to house the rapidly expanding working-class population. A shabby, cramped district of endless-seeming rowhouses, North Rotterdam lay just north and east of the city center. Like other poor districts of the city, including huge areas of working-class housing south of central Rotterdam, it was home to an itinerant population of sailors, stevedores, and peasants. Many such peasants, driven from the land by cheap grain imported from North America, clumped together in colonies within the city. Thousands of poor immigrants making their way to America from Germany and eastern Europe poured into the city by train, before booking passage on the Holland-America line.

Despite the ceaseless change, Rotterdam remained fairly stable. A small number of shipbuilders and wealthy families—many of them original Rotterdammers—dominated the city. Laborers, economically insecure and often desperate for work, were reluctant to risk their jobs by challenging authority. Although the Dutch have often prided themselves on being less class conscious than the English or the French, the Holland of de Kooning’s youth, like the industrializing Midlands of England or the Wales of the young D. H. Lawrence, was a stratified society in which advancement was difficult and the wounds of class sharp. De Kooning’s ancestors were mostly servants, laborers, and craftsmen. His paternal great-grandfather, Cornelis de Kooning, was a shipbuilder from Woerden, a small river town about twenty-five miles northwest of Rotterdam. Born in 1810 or 1811, Cornelis moved from Woerden to Delfshaven, a coastal town west of Rotterdam where his son Willem—named after Cornelis’s father—was born in 1838. Sometime in the 1840s, Cornelis moved to Rotterdam to work in the city’s burgeoning shipbuilding business. He settled at Vinstraat 2 with his wife, Anna Catharina Jacoba Jurgens, his son Willem, and his daughter Jacoba.

In 1850, Cornelis died at the age of thirty-nine or forty, leaving his wife and children on their own. For the next ten years, his wife supported her family by working as a maid. At the time of her husband’s death, Willem—the grandfather after whom de Kooning would be named—was twelve years old and still in school. His education ended soon afterward. (It was the custom until well after the turn of the century for working-class children to leave school at twelve, then be apprenticed in various crafts.) Like his father, Willem worked in the shipyards. In 1865 he married Maria van Ladenstijn, who had been a maid. They had ten children, four of them boys. Among them was de Kooning’s father, Leendert.

Leendert was born in Rotterdam on February 10, 1876, and grew into an ambitious but also stiff and emotionally withdrawn man. His face was shuttered—a vein of selfishness, according to family lore, ran through the de Koonings. He began his working life selling flowers, first from a cart and then at a flower stand at the railroad station. In 1896, the year he turned twenty, he started a small company with his oldest brother that bottled and distributed beer to pubs. Eventually he went off on his own, establishing a beer-bottling and distribution business in a modest building at Vledhoekstraat 26 in North Rotterdam, not far from a large new Heineken brewery. He appeared stable and was earning a little money. If he was very reserved, that was hardly unusual in Holland, and might have even appeared romantic in a handsome man in his early twenties. In 1897 or 1898, his eye settled upon Cornelia Nobel, who was everything Leendert was not—fiery, impetuous, caustic, and outspoken. In turn-of-the-century Rotterdam, Leendert’s ambitious and frugal nature would make him seem an excellent match for a working-class girl like Cornelia Nobel.

Cornelia’s family had lived in Schiedam, a town adjacent to western Rotterdam, since at least the eighteenth century. In 1873, Cornelia’s mother—also named Cornelia—had married Christiaan Gerardus Nobel, a packing-case maker and carpenter. The couple settled at Rotterdamsedijk 47A, in a small lane in Schiedam, where Nobel made barrels and cases to hold the cheap gin for which Schiedam was known. The marriage produced nine children, five of whom died young. Three of the surviving children were girls. (The lone son, de Kooning’s uncle, Chris Nobel, was the first in the family to set out for America. He settled in Brooklyn, where de Kooning sometimes visited him after coming to New York.) Cornelia was born on March 3, 1877. Even as a child she was considered formidable. She possessed, as her relatives said diplomatically, a “temperament.”

Small and slim, Cornelia had black hair, dark eyes, and a figure in which she took great pride. She was a restless young woman, constantly on edge, with a sharp temper and wicked tongue. She rarely laughed. Acquaintances consistently thought of her as being much taller and bigger than she was, a “masterful woman who dominated the entire family,” in the words of Jacobus “Koos” Lassooy, her third surviving child and the offspring of a later second marriage. Everyone in her family found her difficult. Henk Hofman, a cousin of de Kooning’s, said that even his mother—Cornelia’s sister—could not bear her for long. A woman who demanded center stage throughout her life, Cornelia was histrionic by nature; an interest in performing seems to have run in her family. She sang in her youth, according to family history, and did some amateur acting once her children were grown. Her relatives credited her with taste—which may have been a way of saying she was socially ambitious and put on airs. She was also “very quick,” according to members of her family, and spoke rapid-fire Dutch with “a heavy” Rotterdam accent.

As an adolescent, Cornelia left her family in August 1894 and went to the town of Haarlem, probably to work as a maid. It was a bold step: Haarlem was about fifty miles from Rotterdam, a significant distance in that era. But Cornelia returned to Schiedam the following year, at the end of October 1895, perhaps because she was ill-suited to the role of a servant. Two possibilities were open to a woman in her position. She could marry, or she could work in menial jobs. She was a pretty young woman, and her flair and dramatic personality no doubt proved a charming and interesting challenge to young men. In September 1898, she became pregnant with Leendert’s child. Such an occurrence was not unusual, either for the period or the couple’s social class. If pregnancy out of wedlock was not condoned, neither was it forcefully condemned. Few young men could afford to support a family; members of the Dutch working class often married late. As a result, it was not surprising that the young engaged in sex outside of marriage or that, in the days before birth control, young women often became pregnant. Rotterdam was a city full of people at loose ends in which traditional sexual mores were more respected than followed.

Nonetheless, a man was still expected to take responsibility for a woman he impregnated. The couple was married on December 22, 1898, in Schiedam. Leendert was twenty-two, Cornelia twenty-one. No one knows whether their marriage was strongly desired or merely the result of a brief sexual encounter. What is certain, however, is that the young couple immediately came under intense personal pressure. In 1899, six months after the wedding, de Kooning’s older sister, Marie, was born. Twin girls—Adriana and Cornelia—soon followed, in 1901, but they died days after their birth. Then came another daughter, Cornelia, in 1902, who died when she was eight months old. Willem de Kooning—the fifth child, but only the second to survive—was born in 1904, on April 24. By then, Cornelia had spent virtually all of her married life pregnant, either taking care of infants or burying them. She did so in a neighborhood where every day was a struggle: de Kooning’s family was part of a great mass of people hanging on week by week, trying to find their way in a newly evolving society.

Her husband had little energy to give to his family. Still in his twenties, he was working hard to establish his own business, hiring several employees to help him bottle beer for Heineken and other breweries. He also delivered the beer by means of dog and pony carts from his Vledhoekstraat concern to pubs throughout the district. Soon he expanded his business to bottle and distribute Elko lemonade as well. At the time of Willem’s birth, the de Koonings lived on Zaagmolenstraat, where the houses were slightly larger than those on the neighboring side streets—a subtle mark of Leendert’s rise in the world. But the house itself was anything but fancy. In de Kooning’s neighborhood, a man was rich if he owned a bicycle. (It was not unusual in the Rotterdam of 1910 for a man to walk two hours each way to work.) Most money was spent on necessities, though workers often blew their paychecks in the pubs—the only spots of warmth and brightness in the dank darkness of a Rotterdam winter, when the wind swept in from the North Sea. Meat was usually eaten once a week, on Sundays. The staple was potatoes flavored with lard from the butcher’s shop.

Housing for workers, including the house where the de Koonings lived, was typically built according to the same plan. An apartment consisted of two small rooms, one used as a parlor and the other as a kitchen and gathering spot for the family. In between the two rooms was an even smaller and windowless half-room—essentially a passageway—which served as a communal bedroom. On each side of the passageway there was a sleeping alcove, one for the parents and the other for the children; as many as three or four children might share a bed. Water came from a cold-water tap on the landing that was used by the two families sharing the floor. They also used a common toilet, located in a closet on the landing, which contained a bucket that was emptied manually. Since heat cost money, people were often cold. The de Koonings probably used a coal stove. Those still poorer relied on small cooking stoves to take the chill off the day; coins were inserted into a meter that turned on the gas. Baths were typically taken once a week at most, either at a public bath or at home, where each member of the family used the same tub of heated water. The hot water was purchased at the local grocery store and then hauled back home and up the steps to the apartment. Since washing clothes was difficult and expensive—it required buying hot water or hiring a laundress—clothes were rarely clean. Bedclothes, cumbersome and hard to dry, were almost never washed.
Mark Stevens|Annalyn Swan|Author Q&A

About Mark Stevens

Mark Stevens - de Kooning

Photo © Joanne Chan

Mark Stevens is CEO of MSCO, a marketing and strategy consulting firm. The author of the Business Week bestseller Your Marketing Sucks, Mark is totally unique in a plain-vanilla world of business experts. He has evolved from being an adviser to clients on specific issues such as marketing programs to being their “secretary of war,” advising them on personal and professional strategies that will get them to the next level of success. Mark is also the author of such prominent books as The Big Eight, Sudden Death: The Rise and Fall of E.F. Hutton, and Extreme Management.

About Annalyn Swan

Annalyn Swan - de Kooning

Photo © Courtesy of the Authors

Peter W. Bernstein and Annalyn Swan are veteran journalists and editors who between them have worked at U.S. News & World Report, Time, Newsweek, and Fortune magazines over the last twenty-five years. Swan is coauthor, with Mark Stevens, of de Kooning: An American Master, which was chosen as one of the ten best books of 2005 by The New York Times Book Review, and which won a Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Critics Circle Award. Bernstein and Swan are cofounders of ASAP Media, which helped produce Secrets of the Code: The Unauthorized Guide to the Mysteries Behind the Da Vinci Code. They live in New York City.

Author Q&A

Q: This is the first major biography of de Kooning, who is widely regarded as one of the leaders of the New York School of art. What drew you to him?

A. To begin with, de Kooning is a seminal figure in 20th century art, but he has not been the subject of a serious biography. Today, many artists regard him as the last great painter–if not artist–in the Western tradition. The last to be schooled in the Academy. The last to lay on the paint in the grand style. The last great draftsman. The last great painter of the female figure. He has an inimitable "touch" and a bravura brushstroke.

But we were also drawn to him because he's one of the rare artists to transcend the medium and become an emblematic figure in American culture. De Kooning embodies many classic American themes, notably that of the immigrant who comes to America, is desperately poor, and then succeeds–only to have success almost destroy him. In the 1950s, he became one of the first art world celebrities, with all the sex and swagger that implies. Walking with de Kooning through Greenwich Village was, a friend said, like walking with a movie star.

Q: Why hasn't more been written on his life?

A: After the tremendous success of abstract expressionism in the 1950s, Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg and the other Pop, Minimal and Conceptual artists took art in a different direction. De Kooning, in particular, became a figure whom young artists and critics defined themselves against. It was not until the 1980s that de Kooning's reputation began to soar again. But this re-emergence was clouded by questions involving his final works, which he painted while descending into an Alzheimer's-like dementia.

Also, Elaine–de Kooning's wife–re-entered de Kooning’s life in 1978 after more than two decades of separation. Elaine, while warm, witty and herself a talented artist and critic, was also extremely controlling. Until her death in 1989, an independent biography of de Kooning could not have been written.

Q: This book has been over a decade in the making. Talk a bit about the process of writing this. What sort of research did you do? Were you able to interview many of his contemporaries?

A: We wanted this biography to be as complete as possible, both about de Kooning's life and his art. So we began at the beginning, doing research in Rotterdam Noord, where de Kooning was born in 1904. With the help of several Dutch researchers, we did extensive archival work on de Kooning, his family, the academy where he studied and the Rotterdam of his youth. Much of the research on his life after 1926, when he came to the States as an illegal immigrant, was done through interviewing hundreds of his friends and contemporaries, going back as far as the 1930s. Since we also wanted to set de Kooning firmly in the time in which he lived–we felt portraying a life in isolation tells only half the story–we also tried to reconstruct the cultural history of American art from the 1930s onward. The interviews with artists at the Archives of American Art were invaluable, too, since many in de Kooning's generation had died by the time we began the book in the early 1990s.

Q: What kind of childhood did de Kooning have?

Very poor. His parents divorced when he was very young. He only saw his father very rarely. He was beaten by his mother, who was a histrionic woman who took up all the oxygen in the family. He was very close to his sister.

Q: De Kooning said to himself, when looking at New York's skyline shortly after his arrival in America, "There's no art here. You came to the wrong place." How much of this sense imbued his early work? Was this an inspiration to him or a hindrance?

A: That moment when de Kooning drove with an early friend up to Storm King, looked back over the city and said "You came to the wrong place" is actually an important turning point in his life. De Kooning originally came to America to make it rich, not to be an artist. He hoped to become a highly successful commercial artist. What he subsequently discovered, however, was that what he wanted to be a true artist. That had been his childhood dream as well, until the time when he became carried away, as many other young artists were, by the powerful new commercial and applied art scene emerging in Germany and the Netherlands in the 1920s.

De Kooning did not devote himself to painting full time until the mid-1930s, after a stint on the WPA. But the emphasis in his mind began to change as soon as the early 1930s. This is a book about, among other things, the evolution of a sensibility.

Q: De Kooning said, "I can't see myself as an academic. I think of myself as a song-and-dance man." What did he mean by that?

A: De Kooning hated pretense and had a healthy suspicion of people-and institutions-who take themselves too seriously. He was, after all, a product of the working class who never got beyond a middle-school education and who lived for years in poverty and obscurity. He was never comfortable around the polished rich or the Establishment that offered honorary degrees and other prizes. He identified with another, more vital America–show girls, Times Square, constant change. Not the staid establishment.

By the way, de Kooning said many marvelous things during his life and that was one of the great pleasures of doing this book. Most artists are not great talkers, but de Kooning, who kept his Dutch accent, spoke a wonderful kind of broken home-made English, filled with puns and slang, which poets always loved. About classical art: “The Greeks hid behind their columns.” About his imitators: “They couldn’t do the ones that don’t work.” About the process of painting: “You pick up a paintbrush, and you have fate” (his way of pronouncing the word “faith”).

Q: Though many were impressed with de Kooning's classical training, he was insecure about his academic background. How did this affect his work? Was it part of why he would destroy pieces and had such trouble finishing his paintings?

A: More than one of de Kooning's fellow artists thought that his art was marvelous precisely because, as one put it, he was “forever in doubt.” He wasn't insecure about his academic background. But his problem was how to be truly and authentically original and of his time. He struggled with facility and tremendous talent. He wanted something better and stronger than easy or conventional effects. To finish a painting was the hardest thing for him because he had stop changing it. "Every time I paint a picture I'm rolling the dice," he would say.

Q: Like many major artists, his real education–conceptually, at least–seems to have come from other artists. Picasso was one of the major influences upon him, helping him become a "modern painter", as you write in the book. How much did his peers influence him?

A: De Kooning once said, rightly, that he never painted a Cubist picture in his life. But for all artists who came of age in the 1920s and 1930s, the shadow of Picasso was inescapable. Elaine de Kooning, his wonderfully witty wife, once said that Picasso was like Sherman on his march to the sea–there was nothing left after he’d passed through.
While Picasso was a great influence, however, he was a distant one. De Kooning always said that he was tremendously lucky on first coming to America to meet the "Three Musketeers," as he called them–Stuart Davis, John Graham and Arshile Gorky. While the first two mattered greatly to him, it was the Armenian-born artist Gorky who was the most important to his development into a serious, and full time artist. De Kooning had a nearly religious experience when he first stepped into Gorky’s studio. Here, he had at last found a modern American artist totally committed to art.

Q: The later accounts of de Kooning's life in the 1930s and 1940s, as well as that of his peers, talks about his poverty. How poor was he?

A: "I'm not poor; I'm broke," de Kooning liked to say, making a distinction between what he suffered in the 1930s and 1940s and the class-bound poverty he endured as a child. Nonetheless, his poverty–like that of his fellow artists–was very real before success came in the 1950s. It profoundly shaped his sensibility. Gorky described it as "crushing," and said no one who went through it survived intact. De Kooning and Elaine were often so poor that they could not pay the rent. They lived in cold water flats. They hid from the Con Ed man and stole electricity by tapping lines. They often had to decide between cigarettes and a square meal. The "outsider" status of the downtown artists became such a powerful bond that, in fact, it was very difficult for them to deal with success in the 1950s. Being on the inside made them extremely nervous–and prompted much of the drinking that beset them later in the decade.

Q: Did de Kooning's relationships with women affect his work? Did he hate women, as is commonly thought?

A: De Kooning did not hate women. Quite the opposite. They were his muses. In the 1930s, de Kooning first painted a series of ashen men. But from 1940 on, after Elaine entered his life, de Kooning began to paint boldly colored, increasingly abstract figures of women. He returned again and again to this major theme. His women have many different moods: the ferocious Woman I of 1952, her more benign sisters painted later in the decade, the contemporary cuties in the 1960s, the great lush pastorals of the 1970s, in which the female figure becomes a kind of passionately charged landscape.

De Kooning was always perturbed, in later years, by the ferocity others found in Woman I and some of his other images. He insisted that he loved women, and that it was just his occasional irritation with them that came through. He also insisted on the funny aspect of his women, which he thought had been overlooked. They were part ancient idol, part Pop Princess.

De Kooning did not portray women “realistically” from the “outside.” Instead, he painted his sensations of the body. He saw the figure from inside. The pictures are not static. De Kooning had a kind of living relationship with what appeared on the canvas. At times, he almost seemed to make love to his subjects even as he painted them. You can see that in the caress of the brush, the tumescent build-up of paint, the distinctive flesh-tones of the paint. There was often a simultaneous connection and alienation–a love-hate, as it were.

Q: How did de Kooning feel about Jackson Pollock? Critics put them at odds. Did they have a contentious relationship? Why do you think de Kooning hasn't had as high a profile in the mainstream as Pollock, despite the fact that they clearly shared the top slot of artists of their time?

A: Much has been made of the rivalry of de Kooning and Pollock–a rivalry fueled in particular by the critics Clement Greenberg and Harold Rosenberg, who helped make their reputation by championing one painter or the other. But de Kooning and Pollock were, above all, friendly rivals–first among equals. There’s a wonderful story about the two of them sitting on the curb one night in front of the Cedar Bar, the artists' favored haunt in the 1950s, saying drunkenly to each other, "You're the greatest painter, Bill." "No, Jackson, YOU'RE the greatest painter."

There are several reasons why de Kooning never captured the American imagination to the degree Pollock did. One was that Pollock busted out of the art tradition in a very fresh way with his famous “drip” paintings, while de Kooning held in many ways to the great traditions of Western art. For example, de Kooning wanted his paintings to be on the human scale–no bigger than his outstretched arms–while Pollock celebrated the mythic and grand. Pollock also became a romantic figure, a kind of cowboy who lived hard and died young in a car crash. De Kooning outlived Pollock by more than 40 years and died a death shadowed by dementia. But de Kooning tells just as important an American story: that of an immigrant who makes his way in the new world.

Q: Why was de Kooning such a tremendously powerful figure among the many celebrated artists of the New York School?

A: Because he was, in every sense, a painter's painter. Nobody worked harder; nobody was more supportive of his fellow artists, especially younger painters; nobody had shown more determination through years of bitter poverty to be a real artist. He was so closely identified with the famous Club, which the artists founded in 1949, that it began to be called “de Kooning’s Club”–to the annoyance of some of his old friends.

Q: Describe a typical night at the Cedar Bar.

A: The Cedar was a bit of a dive, a place with garish fluorescent lights and beat-up booths, that the artists began to frequent in the early 1950s because it was near the Club. At first only the hardcore downtown artists–de Kooning, Franz Kline, Philip Pavia, Ludwig Sander–went. As the ‘50s wore on, however, everyone–artists, writers, critics–wanted to join the Club and hang out at the Cedar, and glowing articles about the downtown scene began to appear in magazines. The Cedar became a magnet not just for artists but Frank O’Hara and the New York poets–the group that one writer dubbed “the poets and the wits”–as well as such celebrities as Marilyn Monroe and Gloria Vanderbilt. The drinking went late into the night. There were fistfights and pickups. In one famous incident, Jackson Pollock pulled the door off the men’s room. Franz Kline once had 23 beers.

Q: Did the painters sleep around as much as the stories would have it?

A: As you can imagine, as the downtown scene exploded and the artists became boldface names, the art groupies followed. De Kooning and Elaine, his wife, began to live separately in the late 1940s, and each went their separate ways sexually throughout the 1950s. De Kooning’s most important relationship was with Joan Ward, the mother of his daughter, Lisa. But like the other artists, he had innumerable flings, especially as the decade wore on and the drinking became more and more maniacal. And of course de Kooning was the artist to sleep with. One person described it as bells going off all over the Village when de Kooning went on a bender, alerting young women that he was available.

Q: Once he moved to Long Island, de Kooning's work never reached the same heights that paintings such as Woman 1 and Excavation did, and De Kooning learned that there aren't any second acts in American life. Did he ever get over this?

A: Actually, we would argue the opposite–that de Kooning turned the cliché on its head and showed that there can be a second act in American life. It's true that he had a down period in the 1960s, when he suffered an eclipse in reputation as the next generation became the great new thing. He was drinking heavily throughout the period, and uncharacteristically had trouble reinventing himself after the magisterial works of the late 1950s. Some of his openly sexual paintings of the 1960s are so graphic that critics were embarrassed by them. But then, in the mid 1970s, de Kooning began a series of great, sweeping pictures in which he essentially reinvented the pastoral tradition in American art. That would have been second act enough. But in the 1980s, he rallied from alcoholism to create one last final series, his controversial so-called "ribbon paintings." Many people love them. They capture what it’s like to be old. They’re the master’s good-bye, a kind of sublime emptying out, a whistling past the edge of the grave.

Q: How did de Kooning's descent into an Alzheimer's-like dementia affect his work?

A: The most important thing to say about de Kooning's dementia, which began to be noticeable in the late 1970s, is that it progressed slowly, and not monolithically. In other words, there were good days and good periods balanced against bad days and bad periods. Dementia did not truly impair his ability until the mid to latter part of the eighties. We quote Oliver Sacks, among others, talking about the ability of artists even in advanced-stage dementia to maintain their "muscle memory," as it were, and still create great paintings. In a sense the 1980s are two separate periods–the early part of the decade, in which de Kooning began to empty out his canvases but retained the distinctive energy of his surface, and the latter part of the decade, when he began to churn out paintings, many of which appear more formless and clotted.

Q: What surprises you most about de Kooning? What were the most fascinating discoveries you made while writing this book?

A: The most fascinating thing about de Kooning, in the end, is that his art never really settles down. It can never be pinned down. He’s an immigrant who never stops moving. He was part European, part American, part romantic, part classical, part woman-hater, part woman-lover. Whatever was said of him, the opposite could be said as well. He was even ambivalent in his relationships, always avoiding a definitive break. You can imagine how difficult that was for the women in his life!

Q: What is de Kooning's legacy? How will his work and contribution be viewed in 50 years?

A: He will be regarded as a painter who, in his earlier work, created a masterful synthesis of Cubism and Surrealism and then, bravely, threw away this blue chip style–to embark upon risky explorations of the figure and the landscape. He will be admired for creating a new kind of female figure and a new kind of pastoral landscape. He will be viewed as an artist with one of the great “hands” in art, a master of “touch” who developed an utterly distinctive brushstroke. He will be respected as a “painter” when many artists were losing interest in the craft of art. And he will be remembered, too, as a painter with an eternally restless eye. An existential wanderer.

From the Hardcover edition.



WINNER 2005 Pulitzer Prize
WINNER 2005 National Book Critics Circle Awards
WINNER 2004 L.A. Times book Prize (Biography)
WINNER 2005 Ambassador Book Award

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