Monday, April 2, 1917. In Washington the American president, Woodrow Wilson, is urging Congress to make a formal declaration of war on Germany. Meanwhile, in New York, three well-dressed youngish men leave a smart duplex apartment at 33 West 67th Street and head out into the city. They walk and talk and smile, occasionally breaking into restrained laughter. For the thin, elegant Frenchman in the middle, flanked by his two stockier American friends, such excursions are always welcome. He is an artist who has not yet lived in the city for two years: long enough to know his way around, too short a time to have become blasé about its exciting, sensuous charms. The thrill of walking southward through Central Park and down toward Columbus Circle never fails to lift his spirits; the spectacular sight of trees morphing into buildings is, to him, one of the wonders of the world. As far as he is concerned, New York City is a great work of art: a sculpture park crammed full of marvelous modern exhibits that has more life and urgency than Venice, Man’s other great architectural creation.
The trio ambles down Broadway, a shabby interloper between streets both rich and beautiful. As they approach midtown the sun disappears behind impenetrable blocks of concrete and glass, bringing a spring chill to the air. The two Americans talk across their friend, whose hair is swept back to expose a high forehead and bold hairline. As they talk he thinks. As they walk he stops. He looks into the window of a store selling household goods. He raises his hands, cupping his eyes to eliminate the reflection in the glass, revealing long fingers with manicured nails and powerful veins: there is something of a thoroughbred about him.
The pause is brief. He moves away from the storefront and looks up. His friends have gone. He glances around, shrugs and lights a cigarette. Then he crosses the road, not to seek his friends, but to find the sun’s warm embrace. It is now 4:50 p.m. and a wave of anxiety has washed over the Frenchman. Soon the stores will close and there is something he desperately needs to buy.
He walks a little faster. He tries to close his mind to all the visual stimuli around him, but his brain is unwilling to comply: there is so much to take in, to think about, to enjoy. He hears someone shout his name and looks up. It is Walter Arensberg, the shorter of his two friends, who has supported the Frenchman’s artistic endeavors in America almost from the moment he stepped off the boat back on a windy June morning in 1915. Arensberg is beckoning him to cross back over the road, past Madison Square and on to Fifth Avenue. But the notary’s son from Normandy has tilted his head upward, his attention now focusing on an enormous concrete slice of cheese. The Flatiron Building captivated the French artist long before he arrived in New York, an early calling card from a city that he would go on to make his home.
His initial encounter with the famous high-rise building was back when it was first built and he was still living in Paris. He saw a photograph of the twenty-two-floor skyscraper taken by Alfred Stieglitz in 1903 and reproduced in a French magazine. Now, fourteen years later, both the Flatiron and Stieglitz, an American photographer-cum-gallery owner, have become part of his new-world life.
His reverie is broken by another plaintive call from Arensberg, this time laced with a little frustration, as the stout patron and art collector waves vigorously at the Frenchman. The other man in their party stands next to Arensberg and laughs. Joseph Stella (1877–1946) is an artist too. He understands his Gallic friend’s precise yet wayward mind and appreciates his helplessness when confronted by an object of interest.
United again, the three make their way south down Fifth Avenue. Before long they arrive at their destination: 118 Fifth Avenue, the retail premises of J. L. Mott Iron Works, a plumbing specialist. Inside, Arensberg and Stella stifle giggles while their companion ferrets around among the bathrooms and door-handles that are on display. After a few minutes he calls the store assistant over and points to an unexceptional, flat-backed, white porcelain urinal. Joined again by his friends, the group is informed by a wary store assistant that the model of urinal in question is a Bedfordshire. The Frenchman nods, Stella smirks and Arensberg, with an exuberant slap to the assistant’s back, says he’ll buy it.
They leave. Arensberg and Stella go to call a taxi. Their quiet philosophical French friend stands on the sidewalk holding the heavy urinal, amused by the plan he has hatched for this porcelain pissotière: to use it as a prank to upset the stuffy art world. Looking down at its shiny white surface Marcel Duchamp (1887–1968) smiles to himself: he thinks it may cause a bit of a stir.
After buying the urinal Duchamp takes it to his studio. He lays the heavy porcelain object on its back and turns it around, so it appears to be upside down. He then signs and dates it in black paint on the left-hand side of its outer rim, with the pseudonym “R. Mutt 1917.” His work is nearly done. There is only one more job remaining: he needs to give his urinal a name. He chooses Fountain. What had been, just a few hours beforehand, a nondescript, ubiquitous urinal has, by dint of Duchamp’s actions, become a work of art.
~~What Are You Looking At -by- Will Gompertz
No comments:
Post a Comment