Franz Kline Gets a New Look in Two Gallery Shows

It’s not often that I write about exhibitions at commercial galleries. That’s not because the art is for sale — sometimes it’s not — or because the galleries are a business. I’m all for making money, and certainly a museum like the Met will do anything for a buck. And it’s not because they’re less scholarly or less intriguing or less beautiful than a museum show. Often, gallery shows are better, on all counts and, these days, less whiny and earnest. Many museum curators think they’re social workers or, worse, seem bored with art. Dealers seem to understand art for art’s sake and naturally empathize with art and artists. It’s just that there are so many gallery shows in Manhattan, and they tend to have short runs, so they come and go quickly.

Galleries often do great shows that museums won’t touch. I can’t remember the last time I saw a painting by the great Franz Kline (1910–1962) in a museum exhibition, though I see Klines in permanent-collection galleries. Tough, raw, inscrutable, and black-and-white, Kline’s art is of the slasher variety. Among his fellow Abstract Expressionists, Rothko’s work is gauzy and romantic, de Kooning’s is fluid and chromatic, Pollock’s, well, it’s all over the canvas and drippy. Barnett Newman’s zips echo Old Testament mystery, like the gossamer flames from God’s burning bush. Kline does totemic and megalithic, and no one does it better, or with more athleticism.

About the Author

Brian T. Allen

Brian T. Allen is National Review’s art critic.

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It’s not often that I write about exhibitions at commercial galleries. That’s not because the art is for sale — sometimes it’s not — or because the galleries are a business. I’m all for making money, and certainly a museum like the Met will do anything for a buck. And it’s not because they’re less scholarly or less intriguing or less beautiful than a museum show. Often, gallery shows are better, on all counts and, these days, less whiny and earnest. Many museum curators think they’re social workers or, worse, seem bored with art. Dealers seem to understand art for art’s sake and naturally empathize with art and artists. It’s just that there are so many gallery shows in Manhattan, and they tend to have short runs, so they come and go quickly.

Galleries often do great shows that museums won’t touch. I can’t remember the last time I saw a painting by the great Franz Kline (1910–1962) in a museum exhibition, though I see Klines in permanent-collection galleries. Tough, raw, inscrutable, and black-and-white, Kline’s art is of the slasher variety. Among his fellow Abstract Expressionists, Rothko’s work is gauzy and romantic, de Kooning’s is fluid and chromatic, Pollock’s, well, it’s all over the canvas and drippy. Barnett Newman’s zips echo Old Testament mystery, like the gossamer flames from God’s burning bush. Kline does totemic and megalithic, and no one does it better, or with more athleticism.