Your search for "Elizabeth Pochoda" returned 28 entries.
Artists and writers in eighteenth-century America, eager to craft a democratic culture distinct from that of Europe, but nonetheless notable for its refinement, elevated the idea of “taste” as an index of character and national virtue. This was not a populist project, but it reached into everyday life through the efforts of the people Catherine Kelly calls “aesthetic entrepreneurs,” who painted portraits, disseminated prints, opened museums, and produced banners and memorabilia to draw the multitudes into a patriotic festival of right-minded taste.
With a boost from Broadway, the caretakers of Hamilton Grange cast new light on the charms of Alexander Hamilton's once bucolic home.
Lately I’ve noticed that fewer and fewer of the e-mails I receive begin with a full salutation. Most notes these days open merely “Greg” or “Gregory.” The name isn’t preceded by “Dear,” or “Greetings,” or “Hello,” not even a “Hi” or a “Hey.” Maybe the brisk efficiency of digital communication is to blame. Or perhaps it’s an effect of inequality: in tightfisted times, with each of us protecting his or her own withered patch of prosperity, unconsciously we have forgotten about simple courtesy. Whatever the reason for the change, I miss that small gesture of civility represented by the word “Dear,” which, after all, costs nothing more than a few keystrokes.
As we say farewell to Betsy Pochoda, who moves on to her next adventures after eight years at the helm of ANTIQUES, we welcome Gregory Cerio as the new editor.
It has been something of a long goodbye, my planned departure from these pages, and yet it has taken all of five months to arrive at the right successor. Now we have—Gregory Cerio, an old friend as it happens, whom you will meet on the last page of this issue. We are all pleased. We know Greg as someone with an unyielding faith in the arts of the past and a keen sense of how to give them a lively presence today.
The American Revolution has a hit on its hands with Hamilton, the hip-hop musical currently lighting up Broadway. “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story,” the cast sings in its sly retooling of our republic as the story of Alexander Hamilton’s rise through the imperial city of New York (“History is happening in Manhattan and we just happen/to be in the greatest city in the world...”).
One sign of an important exhibition may be its ability to move us into unfamiliar territory. By that measure, as by others, the recent show at the American Folk Art Museum, When the Curtain Never Comes Down, has claimed our attention. Its twenty-seven self-taught/outsider artists are represented by both permanent works— assemblages, garments, instruments, drawings, and the like—but more significantly by their actions in movement, song, and other forms of evanescent self-display. In the current art climate it is a relief to encounter art that for the most part cannot be bought or sold. But surely we are drawn to these evangelists of the self for other, deeper reasons
Margo Jefferson | Miniature trains and boats; animals and picture books; balls that bounce and tops that spin: these toys belong to non-human worlds. Dolls are the only toys made in our image, the only human-like creatures children are given dominion over
If you are fraktur ignorant, fraktur agnostic, or fraktur allergic, this is an exhibition that should win you over. From its opening moment where a huge curving wall enlarges a small 1834-1835 gem of Adam and Eve attributed to Samuel Gottschall, the visitor is primed for seduction