Who is John Cohen and how did the film come about?
Dee Dee Halleck, a video artist and political activist, started making a film a long time ago. John Cohen, who has made numerous documentaries in Peru and Appalachia, has known my work since the 1950s. He lived next door to me when I was married to Robert Frank and knew my children. He brought my kids up on a roof so they could dance to a guy playing the guitar and mouth organ and singing. He looked 17 and his name was Bob Zimmerman. John married Pete Seeger’s half-sister and played with the New Lost City Ramblers. He’s 81, but performs around the country playing with his band the Velocity Ramblers.
He used some of Dee Dee’s footage; also stills from the 1950s and 1960s he had taken. You can see the chaos and intimacy of the art scene. The art world back then was tiny. Nobody expected to make money, and there were very wonderful artists who didn’t.
What was it like viewing a film of your life?
It’s John Cohen’s film and view of my work. There are parts of my life I can’t bear to look at and other things I wished were in the film. He didn’t make a biopic, but something stronger and much more personal. A lot of people seem very moved by it.
You were married to Robert Frank, the photographer. Was his photography an influence?
I was only 15 when I met him, and he had an amazing eye, which influenced me. My mother was an artist, so I had always looked at art, but his view was different.
You studied briefly with two big names, Hans Hoffmann and Max Beckmann. What was each man like, and what did you learn from them?
I studied with Max Beckmann at the American Art School on 133rd Street. I didn’t realize how great he was until later. He came over and put his adz marks on everybody’s drawing, which made them better.
I hardly saw Hoffmann. I took his drawing class very briefly twice and didn’t participate in his critiques. His paintings didn’t interest me much. I was more influenced by the students I met there. One was Jan Müller, who was German and came to America after the war. The Guggenheim had a big show of his work.
When you were living in your downtown loft, Willem de Kooning lived behind you. Did you know him? Was he an influence?
I knew him and he was wonderful. If he hadn’t been a painter, he could have been a very good writer. But he was idolized and there was a lot of fawning, which turned me off. It’s too bad because he’s such a powerful painter. I came to him late.
How did you survive in those early years, when you were raising two children?
I taught life drawing at the New School and then had a teaching job at Queens College. I also won some grants. It would have been great for me if feminism had been around earlier. The whole thing of raising children and trying to work was very difficult. It was chaos. I thought it could work, but it was a romantic notion that didn’t play out in real life.
How do you begin your pieces?
The chance possibilities that evolve from ideas and working with different materials are very powerful to me; also delving into the material itself, be it clay, ink, paint, or paper. It’s always about experience, inchoate and not verbalized… I never make the piece I intend to make. Also I draw from my background of looking at a lot of work, including folk, ancient and contemporary art, reading poetry and listening to music.
What’s the particular appeal of ancient cultures?
Ancient art, from pre-Columbian to Chinese, is pretty powerful because it covers the vast range of human emotion and expression. They didn’t distinguish between the human being and cosmic forces and animals. Those cultures didn’t draw those harsh lines between humans and nature. And look where we are now. There’s a wholeness and richness to those ancient cultures.
Was there an advantage in not going to art school?
I wouldn’t have done certain things if I’d gone to school. People would say “you can’t do that,” but I didn’t know you couldn’t, so I tried it and I could do it. I didn’t have a kiln for years and dragged my pieces to be fired in New Rochelle. One reason I made fragments was I didn’t have an eight-foot kiln. The limitation gave me freedom. I remade the torso, arm and head until I could get what I liked. I liked the spaces between. People focus on the fragment, but for me the spaces were really important.
Your photographs don’t look like photographs in the conventional sense. How did they evolve?
I started painting images – a head, mountains, a walled hill, a tree and ships – directly on the studio floor for no reason. Then I started putting leaves or sticks from the garden on top of these images, and also small, older sculptures. It was good looking down on the combination of old work and new things. I bought a cheap camera and starting photographing them. Now I use a digital camera. What you see is what I photographed. I like that it’s open to interpretation and that people can engage.
