Pyramids of Molecules
Pyramids have magical qualities. My grandfather (the bon vivant/entrepreneur/eccentric one, not hard-driving Russian immigrant one) used to have a pyramid sculpture over his fruit bowl and my uncle would swear — *swear* — that the bananas stayed ripe for months without rotting because of it.
Solo exhibitions have a way of aggregating all the molecules in the artist’s brain in the exact shape of a pyramid pointing towards the big day. So I think of pyramids a lot as I’m getting higher to the ever narrower point of no return, where I can’t make any more works, the truck is coming, the work needs to be dry and photographed. The dealer wants checks in to see how it’s going, my heart it racing with anticipation. It is a defining moment, like boarding a train and staring at a diminishing station until you can’t see it anymore.
Before I became acquainted with Hilma Af Klimt’s work, the Egyptian pyramids symbolized the shape my mind to symbolize the shape. Now, her work is all I see:
Hilma Af Klimt also toppled Kandinsky from being the “Father of Abstraction.”
Born in 1862, the work of Hilma Af Klimt predates the works that were once thought to give birth to the movement. (See Kandinsky’s Composition VII). Yet the Swedish artist/mystic only had her first museum show in 2019 at the Guggenheim.
I appreciate it when artists being discovered even after they’re long gone. The art world’s head is also shaped in a pyramid, pointing in the direction of discovering artists who have been virtually anonymous all this time, just because they were not a white male. I picture all the curators of the world with shovels, digging for what they buried. I wonder what other treasures they will find.