Forty-odd years since the triumph of American painting (to borrow
Irving Sandler’s stirring phrase), Abstract Expressionism
has been going through something of
a reappraisal. Within the past
few months there have been significant gallery and museum exhibitions
devoted to artists linked with what is probably the most influential
movement in twentieth-century American art. What is interesting
about the cumulative impact of these shows is not
that they constitute a critical re-evaluation—far from it.
Rather, they serve as a
confirmation of New York’s one-time artistic pre-eminence. Such
ego-boosting seems inevitable, and is it any wonder? The art world,
having become accustomed to a cultural fatigue fueled by novelty and
narcissism, may well be pining for—dare it be said?—art
of substance.

But is Abstract Expressionism necessarily the best place to find it?
The event of the season has been the retrospective of paintings by
Willem de Kooning at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. De Kooning is
probably the last touchstone for a variety of artists who have little
else in common, and his status as a painter approaches legend.
However, viewers resistant to art-world machinations and hyperbole
(a crowd whose number is, apparently, quite
limited) found the exhibit to be a sobering experience. If the
retrospective confirmed
de Kooning’s genius in his paintings of the
Forties and early Fifties, then the rest of the exhibition
documented a depressing slide into self-parody. If de Kooning,
arguably the finest proponent of Abstract Expressionism, has proved
to be merely mortal, then what does