Quackery by Quacks

To a lot of people, I'm sure the title was clunky.

To me, "3 in 30: The Advent of American Modernism at the 1913 Armory Show" was like a clarion call.

And not just to me, mind you, because there were easily more than a dozen others who showed up for the breakneck gallery walk, too.

We were all the more fortunate because Sylvia Yount, chief curator and curator of American art, was doing the leading.

She warned us that our tour might run over given her enthusiasm for the subject and not a soul seemed to mind the prospect.

We played right into her hands when she asked what we knew of the landmark Armory show and someone said, "Duchamp."

Well, sure the French had raised a scandal with their modern art, but her focus was on the American components of the show.

And, just for the record, only a third of the participants were European. It's just that their art garnered the most ink and blather.

She asked what we considered modern art to mean and agreed that in 1913, it meant not conventional (the kind where all body parts were in the right places and of the right amounts).

Using the VMFA's galleries, she did a focused and fascinating talk on some of the artists who participated in or had connections to early American modernism.

We looked at Arthur Davies' "Moral Law: A Line of Mountains" and saw the influences of Cezanne

She spoke of the speed with which the Armory show came together (less than ten months) and how far along in the planning they were before even putting out a call for American submissions (three months).

We heard about what a conservative painter Childe Hassam was despite his Impressionistic style and inclusion in the show, even decrying it, calling it, "quackery by quacks."

Apparently even Roosevelt made his negative feelings on modernism just as clear.

Few in the group, including me, had heard of Manniere Dawson, who Yount said was the first artist to produce pure abstraction in this country.

"The Struggle" showed two prismatic figures who must have seemed crazy to 1913 eyes.

Yount explained the significance of the Armory show in terms of exposure, how it had been the occasion of Edward Hopper selling his first work.

Even so, she said most of the works sold from the show were European.

But mostly it was important for the development of collectors in the U.S., the impetus for that generation of collectors to start acquiring modern art.

So people like Duncan Philips began buying as a result of the show.

Alfred Steiglitz bought some.

The next generation of robber barons, too, meaning the children of the Vanderbilts and Rothchilds and other disgustingly rich people.

Ah, for the good, old days of the Medicis.

Finally, it seemed, the country was ready for more advanced art.

Just as we were all leaning in for more Armory talk, our tour was over.

I'm sure Yount was glad to escape us but she'd been so knowledgeable, so eager to share that people had hung around long after she thanked us.

Eventually we broke camp and I went up to Amuse for a nibble at a crowded bar.

Enjoying a satisfying dish of housemade Chorizo and pan-roasted brussels sprouts with a sunnyside-up egg on top, I might have heard some stories from those around me.

One was a tale of a protracted night singing karaoke.

Possibly the best line came when the guy suddenly looked at the girl and asked sincerely, "Did I do "Proud Mary" last night? I did, didn't I? That just came to me."

She confirmed the horror.

A guy came in and took the one empty stool next to me and promptly ordered a Legend white ale.

The bartender began telling me about the new cocktail list they're cooking up for the Tom Wesselman pop art exhibit and he perked up.

She was working on a drink that began with a spritzer of absinthe sprayed into the glass, so naturally my interest was piqued, too.

I thought I saw gin and Cointreau, some lemon juice and god knows what else, but a taste proved it came across as a citrusy refresher with just a whiff of the green fairy.

All at once, the guy requested his check, saying, "I better catch up with my friends. I slipped away and they're probably starting to wonder."

You gave your friends the slip? Whoa.

I soon slipped away also, on my way to Balliceaux for the League of Space Pirates book and record release and dance party.

It was local skull-a-day artist Noah Scalin whose book was being released, so surely some part of that would be interesting or even amusing and why not?

Walking in to the front bar, I got water and struck up a conversation with a guy eating next to me.

Moving quickly through discussion of out-sized portions and mountains of fries, we soon discovered that we'd both come from the VMFA.

"I didn't go listen to jazz, though," he qualified. "I just wandered the galleries, taking stuff in. I like to read every single description of art when I go."

Here was someone I could talk to.

He'd been stopped in his tracks by the Worsham-Rockefeller bedroom, leading to a discussion of form versus function.

Since he'd just been at Ikea last weekend, it was only natural for him to marvel at the contrast of bedroom as art form.

Not that there's anything wrong with Ikea, he clarified.

Don't I know it. I've had my Ikea bed since before grunge.

Just as we were taking the conversation up a notch, I saw a familiar face standing next to me.

What are you doing here, I inquired, surprised to see him.

Like me, he'd come to see what a hybrid book/record/dance party looked and sounded like.

Oh, good, here was someone to people watch with me. Conveniently, it's a habit we've shared for years.

In the back room, we found an interesting-looking crowd.

According to my pal but unbeknownst to me, space attire had been requested, which we had to assume accounted for a few things.

Like the girl in the black leather bustier that laced up in back, worn with a black and white striped mini skirt in the front and train and bustle in the back, thigh-high black boots and finger-less gloves.

19th century space pirate, I'm guessing.

Or the girl in a shiny, blue harem outfit, complete with waist length blue hair and black lips.

Kaleema from Mars, maybe?

We took a booth, the better to listen to the DJ in a gold viking helmet play club soul.

The groove got so funky at one point that the lanky guy behind us began busting out his best Blaxploitation dance moves, at least according to my friend.

Meanwhile his Zooey Deschanel-lookalike girlfriend grinned and wiggled in her seat.

A lone dancer took to the dance floor, moving sinuously non-stop to whatever the DJ played.

I commented that it looked almost like modern dance and my pithy friend quipped, "One word comes to mind. Jazzercise."

Soon she was joined by others, including the author himself and several exuberant dancers.

Now we were getting somewhere or at least to minor dance party status.

When the song ended,the blue-coiffed one took the stage and began to belly dance to something the DJ had put on for her after a whispered conference.

Those who had just been dancing formed a semi-circle around the stage, watching her hips move rhythmically, almost hypnotically.

I'm not sure what this had to do with releasing books and records, but it was certainly unexpected entertainment.

And since that was why I'd come out in the first place, I was well satisfied.

It's at least right up there with singing "Proud Mary" for strangers.