SFAQ_issue_sixteen

MARIAN GOODMAN
Interviewed by CONSTANCE LEWALLEN
Lawrence Weiner, SCATTERED MATTER BROUGHT TO A KNOWN DENSITY, WITH THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD, CUSPED, 2007. Language + Materials Referred To.
Courtesy of Marian Goodman Gallery, New York / Paris.
Marian Goodman photographed by Thomas Struth. Courtesy of Marian Goodman Gallery, New York / Paris
Marian Goodman founded Multiples in 1965, publisher of limited edition artists’ prints, objects
and books. She opened her 57 th Street gallery in 1977 (in its present location since 1981)
with a strong commitment to European artists. It remains one of the most respected galleries
in New York.
I know that you grew up in Manhattan and that your father was an art
lover whose passion obviously set you on your path.
My father was a very unusual collector. I am not sure he had great sums of money to
spend, but he was an avid reader and museumgoer, especially focused on the painting
and sculpture of the 19 th to mid-20 th centuries and enthusiast of art history, especially.
It isn’t that he collected widely, but he fell in love with the work of one artist in particular,
Milton Avery, and he just seemed to have a deep joy in collecting his work. They
became friends and saw each other on a regular basis. My father did have relationships
with some other artists from whom he would buy work, but his real love was Avery.
So, you knew Avery?
Yes, he was a lovely man, and I still love his work. He was a wonderful man. I think he
was a great colorist and it is generally acknowledged that he had a substantial influence
on Mark Rothko in that regard.
You must have had many Avery’s in your apartment.
Yes [laughter], in my family’s apartment; floor to ceiling.
And didn’t an Avery painting have a part in your starting a gallery?
Yes, my father gave me an Avery painting that was worth $5,000, and I sold it to help
launch Multiples with the idea of publishing limited edition artists’ prints and objects.
I read that you started Multiples in the mid-sixties after approaching the
Museum of Modern Art [MOMA].
Yes, the idea was to make works by the most respected artists and best craftsmen
available to the public at affordable prices. They weren’t interested, so I did it on my
own with some partners.
When did it close?
In a way it never closed. Once I started the gallery in 1977 it became clear that I
couldn’t do two things at once, and I wasn’t interested in many of the artists of the 80s,
so it was easy for me to slow down. However, I continued to do projects with artists
whenever the right moment came, but no longer actively, just selectively. For example,
at that time, I published most of Sol LeWitt’s editions and all of [Claes] Oldenburg’s
etchings and aquatints.
You were one of the first dealers to recognize European artists.
It was a strange thing about the States. There was a whole world of very exciting
European artists, but the news didn’t come here, or only sporadically. There were exciting
artists working in Italy, the Arte Povera group, for example, that hardly anyone
knew. A few—Richard Long and Jan Dibbets—were showing with Leo Castelli or John
Weber’s gallery, via his Italian wife Annina Nosei. But in general European artists had
no presence here.
What got you interested in the Europeans?
My field of study was modern European history, so I had some familiarity with European
cultures. It wasn’t a mysterious place to me. Also, one of my colleagues who was
close to me and the Multiples gallery, a young German man who was our graphic designer,
encouraged me to learn about contemporary European art. I was curious before
then, but I never wanted to go to Germany given the history of World War II. In the
process of knowing him, I began to sort things out and realized there was a generation
of artists born after the end of World War II who could not be fairly held responsible
for what took place before their birth and were very aware of their past and wanted
to make amends. In retrospect, I realize how dedicated they were in seeking out better
models. Through that friendship I went to Documenta in 1968 for the first time where I
saw work of Joseph Beuys. When I returned to New York I tried to persuade someone
at MoMA to show a wonderful film of Beuys’s, which I felt was very moving indeed.
Beuys was influenced by Samuel Beckett. In one of Beckett’s novels the lead character
transfers stones from his left to his right trouser pocket, seemingly unable to decide
where they should remain—an existential dilemma. And in his film, Beuys echoes the
dilemma, moving a gigantic pile of wood from here to there, looks at it, and moves it
back and forth again, or to a third place, and back again—another existential dilemma. I
thought it was wonderful and tried to get MoMA interested but they weren’t.
Again!
After that I began to publish Beuys and the British artist Richard Hamilton. I was very
eager to meet Marcel Broodthaers who was a friend of Richard’s. He said, “come to
Berlin, there is going to be a Fluxus meeting, and I will introduce you to Broodthaers,”
and that changed everything for me. I began to publish with Broodthaers and tried
unsuccessfully to get him a gallery in New York. Since no one was interested, I decided
that I would try to show his work myself. That’s how I started a gallery, completely
impractically, and with dreams.
Your first show was Broodthaers?
Yes, two-thirds Broodthaers and one-third James Lee Byars.
Even now the majority of artists in your gallery are not American.
But I do have several—Dan Graham, Lawrence Weiner, John Baldessari, and now Julie
Mehretu. When I published editions, I worked with a number of the Pop artists, especially
Rosenquist and Oldenburg, and many others like Artschwager and LeWitt. The
gallery has grown like topsy since then; one thing led to another, as it does in life.
I know you travel extensively.
Yes.
And in your travels you see new artists. Is that the primary way in which
you discover artists?
I see a great many shows, but sometimes artists come to me and sometimes artists in
the gallery recommend other artists. So, there always seems to be a flow of artists to
consider.
Your current show of William Kentridge is based on work that was in
Documenta last year.
Yes, very much so. The Refusal of Time, the piece he presented at Documenta, is now at
the Metropolitan Museum; it’s very exciting.
Yes, I read that it is co-owned by the Met and the San Francisco Museum
of Modern Art.
Yes.
Did you travel to Moscow to see Baldessari’s recent show there?
You know, I didn’t. It was the craziest month I’ve ever had. There were two other museum
shows by gallery artists in two other countries at the same time, and an opening
here in the gallery one day after Baldessari’s opening in Moscow. Life seems to double
up that way.
You’ve been in this space at 24 West 57 th Street for a long time?
Since 1981, and from 1977 in another 57 th Street location.
You’ve expanded the gallery, but you never followed the exodus of 57 th
Street galleries to SoHo, nor did you move to Chelsea, why?
A combination of things. Most of the gallery artists liked being uptown, especially the
European artists. Also, often the spaces are too big. It didn’t seem like the best way to
look at art. It is too distracting for quiet looking. Since more of them felt that way than
not, I decided to stay.
Big spaces encourage artists to make art to fill the space and that can
lead to overblown work.
There’s a lot of that that goes on.
But you did open a gallery in Paris in 1995, why was that?
It didn’t have to do with making a fortune—Paris isn’t that kind of a market. I represent
about fifteen European artists and I try to see them regularly. That means a lot of traveling
in Europe, which gets to be challenging, getting from place to place. I always try to
end each trip with a weekend or so in Paris, which I love, to catch my breath. I opened
the Paris space through a crazy mix of circumstances. I had been asked by a French
curator who wanted to start a Kunsthalle in Paris if I would join as a commercial gallery.
Some of the artists in my gallery loved the idea. Ultimately it didn’t work because of
lack of funding. Then later, I thought to take a pied à terre. I rented a tiny space.
I visited the gallery—it was upstairs, wasn’t it?
Yes, and it was only about twenty feet square. Ultimately, artists became interested
in showing there, so no more pied à terre, rather a small gallery. I had to curate the