"Best" List - Best Artists:

Open Letter to Artists

You know those "Best" lists? They crop up every year - itemizations like Random House's "100 Best English Language Novels" and the American Film Institute's top 100 "Greatest Movies of All Time." As if there were no more than 100 best of anything. It takes chutzpah to call anything "best."

The biggest problem with such lists may be the danger of taking them too seriously. But while I'm spouting this common sense, guess what? I have a list, too – the 10 best American artists. In my defense, I think naming favorite artists signals to readers my biases. (Every critic has them, you know). Defining "best" is a purely subjective thing. But in the interest of transparency, I've named those artists who best reflect our times.

I looked for things with staying power, an emotional resonance that lingers, that both lights the eyes and makes the throat ache. I also borrowed a couple of measuring rods from the American Film Institute - popularity and cultural impact - and from Picasso, who asked: "What do you think an artist is, an imbecile who has only eyes? On the contrary, he's at the same time a political being, constantly alive to heart-rending, fiery or happy events, to which he responds in every way."

As I draw up this list, I see only nine. So be it.

GEORGE SEGAL

"Walk - Don't Walk" 1976.
Sculptural situations that show life-size white plaster casts of anonymous-looking figures placed in real-looking environments are signs of the times: people lost, overtaken by places, events.

Walk, Don't Walk by George Segal, 1976

EDWARD HOPPER

"Nighthawks" 1942.
The impassive look of bored, lonely figures in a diner, underlining their isolation and alienation from themselves and the world around them, is the story of many in our rootless century.

Nighthawks by Edward Hopper, 1942

JACOB LAWRENCE

"War Series, Going Home," 1947.
Flattened, angular forms, which are ornamental and festively colored, tell deceptively simple stories of black culture in America. But they're loaded with social conscience.

Going Home, War Series by Jacob Lawrence, 1947

SUSAN ROTHENBERG

"Hector Protector," 1976.
Mixing abstract and real, painter Rothenberg creates sketchy images - horses, mostly - silhouetted against obscure, thickly painted backgrounds that tends to muffle, even stifle the animals, which makes them emblems of Everyman struggling to be, to rise above the mire.

EVA HESSE

"Repetition," 1968
With an inventive use of materials, such as rubber tubing and wire, Hesse created sculpture at once emotional and mysterious. Maybe it's because I know that she was born Jewish in Nazi Germany, that her parents divorced, that her mother committed suicide, that her own marriage failed, that she suffered from a brain tumor, and that she worked from a wheelchair to the end, but her work puts that ache in the throat I was talking about. It's also gorgeous in its way.

Repetition III by Eva Hesse, 1968

BEN SHAHN

"Passion of Sacco and Vanzetti," 1932
Shahn was a social realist whose subjects were topical and usually about class struggle. He used incisive line to show society's scapegoats and underdogs that, for their deadpan looks, can break your heart.

The Passion of Sacco and Vanzetti by Ben Shahn, 1932

ALICE NEEL

"Warhol," 1970
A portrait painter who rendered her subjects, usually posed staring straight out at the viewer, with a raw quality and a trademark directness that etches your brain.

Warhol by Alice Neel, 1970

LOUISE NEVELSON

"Sky Cathedral," 1958
By arranging in display boxes found wooden furniture and buildings parts - knobs, moldings, chair slats - sculptor Nevelson created shrinelike displays with a message. In isolation, the wooden parts have little impact. Only in relation to each other do they take on their spiritual air.

Sky Cathedral by Louise Nevelson, 1958

MARK ROTHKO

"Black on Maroon," 1959
His way of painting rectangles hovering, one over the other, so that they shimmer in gentle rhythm is hypnotic. Their mystery, like the movement of the sea, is something to meditate by.

Black on Maroon by Mark Rothko, 1959

Feel free to disagree, folks. The dialogue will do us all good.

Photo credits: Wikipedia; Google Images

— by Joan Altabe  |  December 29, 2006  |  Print Version - PDF

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