A Short Life of Trouble: Forty Years in the New York Art by Marcia Tucker

By Marcia Tucker

This engrossing memoir brings to vibrant lifestyles the behind-the-scenes struggles of Marcia Tucker, the 1st lady to be employed as a curator on the Whitney Museum of yankee artwork and the founding father of the hot Museum of latest artwork in long island urban. Tucker got here of age within the Nineteen Sixties, and this lively account of her lifestyles attracts the reader at once into the burgeoning feminist circulation and the thrill of the recent York paintings global in the course of that point. Her personal new methods of pondering led her to take principled stands that experience replaced the way in which paintings museums think about modern artwork. As curator of portray and sculpture on the Whitney, she equipped significant exhibitions of the paintings of Lee Krasner, Joan Mitchell, Robert Morris, Bruce Nauman, and Richard Tuttle, between others. As founding father of the hot Museum of up to date paintings, she prepared and curated groundbreaking exhibitions that regularly excited about the nexus of paintings and politics. The publication highlights Tucker's dedication to forging a brand new process whilst the existing one proved too slender for her expansive imaginative and prescient.

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Extra resources for A Short Life of Trouble: Forty Years in the New York Art World

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My head hit the pavement and bounced. My nose and cheek scraped the sidewalk, and I heard my leg snap. Time became elastic. A minute felt like a year, and then, gradually, I began to see Michael’s blurry face in front of me. I watched his mouth move but couldn’t make out what he was saying. It was very quiet, even peaceful; the sky was a particularly beautiful shade of blue gray, with a puffy cloud floating in it like cappuccino foam. From far away, I heard sirens, and 44 a short life of trouble I thought about the length of the sound waves it takes to produce that distinctive in-and-out whine and wondered idly what they were racing to.

It finally sank in, painfully, that I simply couldn’t sing, that I’d been born with a tin ear and a wooden tongue. Even Liza, sweetheart that she was, admitted that I had a ways to go before we could perform together at the local café. Still, she was determined not to let my failure to carry a tune stop us. And after weeks of practice, working late into the night on “House of the Rising Sun,” “John Henry,” “I Know Where I’m Going,” and “I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow,” we decided to give it a try.

We called it our spa. In one corner of our apartment was a tiny, airless room with a toilet but no light fixture. The WC was illuminated by the candles that we burned on the sill of the boarded-up window, great for atmosphere but less than ideal for hygiene—not that we would have cleaned the bathroom anyhow. ” Our place was always full of visitors, among them my brother and one or two of his friends, all released into my care on an occasional weekend pass from Hillside. There were also musicians, bikers, friends of high school friends, and the occasional friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend who was passing through and needed a temporary pad.

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