“Martin Puryear”
at the David McKee Gallery, New York.
March 3–April 15, 1995
Seven years ago, Martin Puryear’s sculpture was shown in the lobby of
the Brooklyn Museum; few exhibitions of contemporary art have
left so profound an impression on me. The majority of installations
that have occupied this space have been but frantic attempts at
diverting museum visitors while they checked their duffel bags.
Puryear’s work, however, animated the lobby with sculptural poise,
engaging viewers with its considerable grace and artisanship.
Indeed, the exhibition heralded a sculptor
of formidable talent.
Since the Brooklyn exhibition of 1988, Puryear’s sculpture has been
little seen in New York City. (His mid-career retrospective of
1991–92 did not travel to New York,
a curatorial blooper that says more about
the peculiarities of our cultural institutions than about
the merits of Puryear’s work.) So when notice arrived of the Puryear
exhibition at the McKee Gallery, it signaled an event to be looked
forward to. I am pleased to report that the four sculptures and one
drawing in this recent show offered proof that the state of
contemporary art is not so dreary as it seems to be.
Puryear’s work is, above all, sculpture that requires no alibi. In
its measured proportion and understated elegance, it can bring to
mind the sculpture of Constantin Brancusi, an artist often cited as
an influence on Puryear’s work. Puryear has a distinct gift for
sculpting with wood—his background includes working as a furniture
maker—and in