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“Something Else Entirely: The Illustration Art of Edward Gorey” is on view at the Society of Illustrators through January 3. “Edward Gorey: The Gloomy Gallery” is on view at Houghton Library through January 12. In 1981, the late American Abstract Expressionist Joan Mitchell appeared in the pages of Vogue wearing a black leather blazer, cornflower blue turtleneck sweater, and a pair of rust-colored pants. Her trademark spectacles and no-nonsense Prince Valiant haircut, along with the electrifying diptych Two Sunflowers (1980), completed the scene. It’s a wonderful example of Mitchell’s often terrific style. In the accompanying profile, art critic Barbara Rose remarked on the fact that Mitchell refused to remove her glasses, “even to be photographed”—adding that the “high degree of discipline in Mitchell’s work is especially surprising since she is so casual about dress and decor that she could easily be mistaken for the last Beatnik.” This year marks the centennial of Mitchell’s birth (a new show, “To Define a Feeling: Joan Mitchell, 1960–1965,” opened at David Zwirner in New York this week), and it provides an opportunity to reevaluate the life and work of one of the greatest artists of the 20th century. In front of a Mitchell canvas, whether George Went Swimming at Barnes Hole, but It Got Too Cold (1957), La Vie en rose (1979), or the 21 paintings that make up the La Grande Vallée series (1983–84), all kinds of emotions can materialize. She channeled the thrill of color with her brushstrokes or marks—she used rags and her hands, too—often creating a kind of music for the eyes. At the Louis Vuitton Foundation in Paris, where a show that put her work in dialogue with Claude Monet’s ran simultaneously with a major Mitchell retrospective, I trembled at her paintings’ glorious rhythms and evocative mysteries.Saturday Are For The Cards Shirt
As Rose implied, Mitchell was not an obviously fashionable person. It seems highly plausible she felt the same way about clothes as she did about her work. “My paintings have nothing to do with what’s in and what’s out,” she told the New York Times in 1991, speaking from Vétheuil, France, where she had lived since 1968. It’s a sentiment echoed by the gallerist John Cheim, who knew Mitchell in her later years. “Like her paintings, she is anti-style, very much an authentic rebel,” he says. “She wore what she liked—jeans, corduroys, turtlenecks, untucked Oxford shirts, suede athletic shoes, cashmere scarves—and she could wear this anywhere, anytime and look sharp and imposing.” The first time he clocked her, it was in Manhattan, following a performance of Parade at the Met Opera in 1981. Cheim says Mitchell was wearing “a broad-shouldered, waist-length fur ‘monkey coat’ and slacks, with large, dark glasses. She struck me as a character out of a 1940s Hollywood film—perhaps Joan Crawford, Katharine Hepburn, or Barbara Stanwyck.” Born in Chicago, Mitchell grew up in a rich family. Her father, James Mitchell, was a physician and president of the American Dermatological Association (he was also an amateur watercolorist), while her mother, Marion Strobel, was a co-editor of Poetry magazine, which published the likes of Ezra Pound. As a girl, Mitchell was a debutante, diver, and champion figure skater who loved dungarees and mannish shirts. She discovered Van Gogh at age six and wrote poems, one of which included the line: “Her eyebrows were plucked and she wore French heels.”
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