Save this storySave this storySave this storySave this story
At times, when we observe art, we may be seeking to reclaim a fragment of our history—a cherished period when we experienced a profound and memorable connection with a painting, photograph, or drawing, and when we were not only captivated by its aesthetic but also by its ability to make us feel a sense of belonging in the world, alleviating our solitude. During my childhood, I immersed myself in the monochrome photographs found in Irving Penn’s second book, “Worlds in a Small Room.” First published in 1974, this work stands as a testament to Penn’s fascination with the significance and intimacy of place. Establishing temporary studios in locations such as Morocco, San Francisco, and New Guinea, he directed his meticulous, detail-oriented gaze on how we express our identities. I distinctly recall being spellbound by an image of Peruvian children wearing floppy hats, leaning against a stool, and by another featuring three young women from Dahomey, adorned with elegantly tied headdresses and minimal jewelry. What captivated me about the book—though I lacked the ability to articulate it at the time—was that Penn’s photographs were not framed by notions of “difference.” His interest lay in his subjects because they were inherently fascinating, as compelling as the white hippie family he encountered in California in the late sixties, and the beauties who posed for Vogue over the decades. It appeared to me that “Worlds in a Small Room” had little to do with “universality,” the principle Edward Steichen attempted to promote with his controversial MOMA exhibition, “The Family of Man,” in 1955; instead, it celebrated the excitement of specificity, illustrating how the attire and adornments of Penn’s subjects conveyed as much about their desired perceptions as about their origins.
“Cold,” 2025.Art work by Sanya Kantarovsky / Michael Werner Gallery
Much of the art that has gained recognition in recent years has been externally focused, serving as a critique of a world that falls short of the artist’s hopes. While I have gleaned valuable insights from such works, I have also longed for what Virginia Woolf refers to in her novel “Jacob’s Room” as the “spiritual suppleness” of intimacy, in which “mind prints upon mind indelibly.” This was the essence I perceived in those Penn photographs and what I encountered in recent months in various exhibitions, where artists appeared to be investigating the smaller realms within rooms. It began in late spring, with Sanya Kantarovsky’s (now concluded) show “Scarecrow,” at Michael Werner. Born in Moscow in 1982, Kantarovsky immigrated to the U.S. at the age of ten. I was relatively unfamiliar with his work when I attended the exhibition, and initially, I struggled to understand the emotions his art evoked, as they unlocked a vulnerability I only partially recognized I had sealed away. The first piece that caught my eye was a small painting of spiders, which I found reminiscent of Louise Bourgeois’s unsettling and somewhat kitschy creations; I failed to grasp its significance, apart from its delightful use of color. However, upon encountering the large-scale canvas “Cold” (2025), I realized that by depicting those arachnids, who utilize their webbed abodes to ensnare living sustenance, Kantarovsky was conveying something about our own methods of enticing individuals into our personal spaces and subsequently possibly betraying them. In “Cold,” measuring seventy-five by fifty-five inches, we observe a long-legged, salmon-hued nude figure on a bed, turned away, with black hair resting against a white pillow. The gender of this individual remains unknown, as does that of the other, smaller figure beside them, whose face reflects the torment of being turned away, displaying an expression that suggests grievance and disappointment. This sorrowful, confused figure is rendered in blue—the blue of melancholy, reminiscent of Joni Mitchell’s album “Blue” (1971), with its “Underneath the skin / an empty space to fill in”—symbolizing all of us: the abandoned child, the heartbroken lover, all combined. The right hand of this blue soul is pink and rests upon their chest, over the heart. Its radiance signifies the glow of remembrance, of a fading touch, in the room where these figures are confined, silent, yet communicating profoundly, with the modern lamp beside them illuminating their intimacy as it begins to fracture.
The bodies presented in “Lisa Yuskavage: Drawings” (at the Morgan Library until January 4th) exemplify studies in focus, which, as poet Mary Oliver expressed, is the “beginning of devotion.” For over three decades, Yuskavage has dedicated herself to employing the tools of art to create an imagined realm of bodies. Her paintings serve as gardens of
Sourse: newyorker.com