Marchel Duchamp by SangHee Kim

SWIMMING FREELY: DESIGNS ON DADA, 1915–1923

THE ART OF MAKING ART IN THE AGE OF MECHANICAL REPRODUCTION F R A N C I S M. N AU M A N N

M A R C E L D U C H A M P: T H E A R T O F M A K I N G A R T I N T H E A G E O F M E C H A N I C A L R E P R O D U C T I O N

SWIMMING FREELY: DESIGNS ON DADA, 1915–1923

PUBLISHED BY Ludion Press Ghent Amsterdam

DISTRIBUTED BY Harry N. Abrams, Inc. Publishers

Distributed in 1999 by Harry N. Abrams, Inc., New York

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Every effort has been made to contact copyright-holders of illustrations. Any copyright holders whom we have been

Naumann, Francis M.

unable to reach or to whom inaccurate acknowledgment

Marcel Duchamp: the art of making art in the age of

has been made are invited to contact the publisher.

mechanical reproduction/ Francis Naumann p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

1. Duchamp, Marcel.

Marcel Duchamp the art of making

1887–1968 — Criticism and interpretation No part of this book may be reproduced or published in

2. Appropriation (Art)

any form or in any way, by print, photoprint, microfilm or

3. Art — Reproduction

any other means, without prior written permission from

I. Duchamp, Marcel, 1887–1968.

the publisher.

II. Title.

Harry N. Abrams, Inc. 100 Fifth Avenue

N 6 8 5 2 . D 8 N 39 1999

New York, N.Y. 10011 www.abramsbooks.com

709’.2 — dc21 99 – 29063

art in the age of

mechanical reproduction Francis M. Naumann

SWIMMING FREELY: DESIGNS ON DADA, 1915–1923

Preface and Acknowledgments

Introduction 15

Contents

286 Aftermath and Conclusion 298 308

Glossary

Bibliography

326 Index

27 Swimming Lessons: Early Experiences in the Art of Printmaking, 1902–1909

Keeping Afloat in a Sea of Opposition: Years of Major Transition, 1910–1915

Being Discovered in the Infinitive, 1965–1968

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255

Proliferation of the Already Made: Copies, Replicas, and Works in Edition, 1960–1964 207

95 Taking Note of the Past with an Eye on the Future, 1923–1934

The Circus Continues, 1952–1959

123 Vacationing in Past Time: Seven Years to Pack a Valise, 1935–1941

Unpacking Your Past in a Country of the Future, 1941–1951

175

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3 SWIMMING FREELY: DESIGNS ON DADA, 1915–1923

Chapter3

Swimming Freely: Designs on Dada, 1915–1923

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Swimming Freely : Designs on D A D A , 1915–1923

Just as Duchamp characterized his early artistic development as “eight years of swimming lessons,” he later said that the time he spent in America was like “bathing in a calm sea,” for it was so totally free of an artistic heritage, that it was only there where he felt he could “swim freely.”1 Indeed, more than for any other reason, Duchamp wanted to leave Paris to free himself from the entrenched artistic atmosphere that he felt stifled his creative activities. New York turned out to be exactly the kind of place he was looking for, and he immediately embraced all aspects of modern city life. Upon arrival, he announced that he wanted to find a studio in the turret of a skyscraper (only to learn that zoning restrictions prohibited residential occupancy). The only thing Duchamp did not like about America was the reverential attitude it harbored towards European art. “If only America would realize that the art of Europe is finished—dead,” he exclaimed. “America is the country of the art of the future.”2

critical attack (not to mention the fact that it sold, as did three other paintings by Duchamp included in the exhibition). In contemplating his move to New York, the artist found additional support from the American painter Walter Pach, who had been instrumental in arranging for Duchamp’s work to be included in the Armory Show, and with whom he had maintained contact through correspondence. But Duchamp was worried about how he would make a living in this new country, for as he explained in a letter to Pach written prior to his departure, he spoke hardly any English and he was no longer interested in pursuing an artistic life. “I refuse to envision an artist’s life in search of glory and money,” he wrote Pach. “But I am afraid to end up being in need to sell canvases, in other words, to be a society painter.”4 In spite of these reservations (as well as others expressed by Pach), Duchamp insisted upon his decision to move, and arrived in New York on June 15, 1915. He was met at the piers by Pach and immediately whisked off to the home of Walter and Louise Arensberg, wealthy collectors of modern art who owned a large duplex apartment on West 67th Street, where their impressive collection—which by then already included works by Picasso, Gleizes, Matisse, and others— was on display in almost every room. When Duchamp arrived, the Arensbergs were probably out of town, vacationing at their summer home in Pomfret, Connecticut, but they would soon come into the

Years later, Duchamp explained that the idea of going to America came to him through conversations with Francis Picabia, the French-Cuban painter of abstractions whom he had met and befriended a few years earlier in Paris and who had traveled to New York at the time of the Armory Show in 1913.3 Although not physically present, Duchamp had gained a certain notoriety in America during the time of that show, for his N U D E D E S C E N D I N G A S T A I R C A S E had been a focus of

From an interview with Jean Antoine, Neuilly, summer 1966.

2 “The Nude-Descending-a-Staircase Man Surveys Us,” New York Tribune, September 12, 1915, Part IV (Special Feature Section), p. 2. Of course, at the time when he made this statement, Duchamp could not have known how his own artistic future would dramatically affect the future course of American art, which—arguably—he did more to change in the second decade of this century than any other artist of his generation.

N UD E D ESC E NDI N G A S T A I RCASE [No. 2] 1912 oil on canvas Philadelphia Museum of Art The Louise and Walter Arensberg Collection

3 Unpublished interview with Sidney, Harriet, and Carroll Janis, New York, 1953 (transcript papers of Carroll Janis, p. 17). 4 Duchamp’s actual words were an “artiste- peintre,” which could be translated as “an artistic painter” (as distinct from a house painter). But in the context of Duchamp’s remarks, he was referring to the kind of painter who would be financially obligated to please his public, which could be considered a society painter.

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THE October 1915 original manuscript sheet: ink on paper Philadelphia Museum of Art The Louise and Walter Arensberg Collection 5 Alfred Kreymborg, “Why Marcel Duchamps [sic] Calls Hash a Picture,” Boston Evening Transcript (18 September 1915), p. 12.

6 Reported in a taped interview with Calvin Tomkins: see Tomkins, Duchamp: A Biography (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1996), p. 154. 7 See Jennifer Gough-Cooper and Jacques Caumont, “Ephemerides on and about Marcel Duchamp and Rrose Sélavy,” entry for October 18, 1915, in Pontus Hulten, ed., Marcel Duchamp, exh. cat., Palazza Grassi, Venice, 1993.

city to meet their new “starboarder.” Through his friendship with the Arensbergs, Duchamp would be introduced to the most important writers, artists, critics, and supporters of modern art in New York.

In October 1915, approximately one month after this interview appeared and after having spent only about four months in America, Duchamp, stimulated perhaps by Arensberg’s example, as well as by his own efforts to master a new language, conducted his first literary experiment. On a small piece of writing paper, he wrote “THE”, probably his first manuscript text in English. According to instructions that he wrote below the verse, readers are asked to replace asterisks that appear throughout the text with the article “the.” For someone learning English for the first time, it must have come as a surprise to learn that articles do not change in accordance with the gender and number of the noun they precede (as in French or any other Romance language). Duchamp must have considered “the” as a given, something as immutably fixed in language as everyday objects are in the space they occupy (in other words, a literary readymade).

At the time of Duchamp’s arrival, Arensberg, who had graduated cum laude from Harvard in 1900 with honorable mention in English literature and philosophy, had established himself at the center of the modern poetry movement. He backed the publication of Others, a vanguard literary magazine dedicated to the new verse and edited by the American poet Alfred Kreymborg, which was just then about to release its first issue. A year earlier, Arensberg had published a book of his own poetry and, when Duchamp arrived, he was in the process of writing other poems for inclusion in a second volume. Both Pach and Arensberg spoke French fluently, as did many of their friends, so Duchamp must have felt comfortable in his new surroundings. Yet like most other foreign immigrants, he struggled to learn the language, which came with some difficulty. After only three months, however, he knew enough to allow himself to be interviewed by the American press (a situation which he had earlier avoided). Kreymborg was one of the first to conduct an in-depth interview with the artist, and in his published report, he provided a valuable early account of Duchamp’s linguistic progress (worth quoting at length, for, as we shall see, Duchamp’s efforts to learn English are a critical component in understanding the motives and meanings of many works that date from his first sojourn in America):

In October of 1915, Duchamp moved into temporary quarters in a small apartment located across the street from the Pachs on Beekman Place. Years later, he recalled that the landlord who lived in this same building was a Turk who hung various things from the ceiling of his apartment, an unusual feature of home decor the artist would himself soon emulate.6 Meanwhile, to make himself feel at home, it was reported that in these new surroundings, Duchamp “installed a revolving bicycle wheel on a kitchen table between the four legs of an upturned chair,” in a fashion that resembled the construction he had made two years earlier in his Paris studio.7 Either this report is inaccurate or he soon replaced the inverted chair with an ordinary kitchen stool, as this assembly appears in a photograph of Duchamp’s studio taken a few years later. Whatever configuration the replica might have taken, Duchamp probably made it with the same innocent motives he said had prompted his making of the original (because he enjoyed watching the wheel spin, “like flames dancing in a fireplace”). But in knowing that he would soon come up with a single word to classify these works, it is hard not to imagine that by this time his musings were inspired by more profound aesthetic inquiries.

He talks in a low, gentle, humorous voice, tinged at unconscious intervals by a serious undertone of quiet enthusiasm. Words are few with him, phrases concise, and they are delivered slowly, even when he uses his mother tongue. He is proud in a gleeful way of his English, of which he can deliver a perfect sentence on rare happily inspired occasions reached with sorely dramatic effort and put forth with arduous emphasis. His blunders are laughable, but he laughs long before you do; as a matter of fact, you laugh at his amusement, not at him.5

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In November 1915, Duchamp moved into a studio in the Lincoln Arcade Building, a large structure composed almost entirely of artists’ studios, located on Broadway and 66th Street, a short distance from the Arensbergs’ apartment. Duchamp shared this new studio with Jean Crotti, a French painter who had himself only recently moved to America. It was while living in the Lincoln Arcade Building that Duchamp continued to work in earnest on the two large rectangular panels of glass he had purchased a few months earlier, progressing at such a rapid rate that within a few months he reported to the collector John Quinn that his “big glass” was nearing completion.8 But in having worked out most of the details for this enormously time-consuming project years earlier in Paris, Duchamp found its actual execution burdensome, and eventually placed the two glass panels together and leaned them against a wall in the corner of his studio. For the next two years, Duchamp left these two glass panels in a state of perpetual incompletion, working on them only when the mood struck him (which, apparently, it did only rarely).

I N A D VANCE O F T H E B ROK E N A RM 1915 readymade: snow shovel Original lost Philadelphia Museum of Art The Louise and Walter Arensberg Collection 8 Duchamp to Quinn, undated but marked “Received/January 27, 1916” (John Quinn Memorial Collection, New York Public Library). 9 Unpublished interview with the Janis family, 1953 (transcript, p. 44).

SWIMMING FREELY: DESIGNS ON DADA, 1915–1923

It must have been shortly after he moved into the Lincoln Arcade Building that Duchamp brought into being his first American readymade. Accompanied by Jean Crotti, he went into a hardware store on Columbus Avenue and 67th Street—just down the street from the Arensberg apartment—and purchased an ordinary snow shovel. “Crotti was so proud of holding it on his shoulder and walked down Broadway up to my place,” Duchamp recalled. “He was very enthusiastic about it.”9 Later, he explained that the selection of this particular object was not easy, for he wanted something that, in its design, exhibited no obvious aesthetic qualities (neither pleasing, nor displeasing) and, as he later emphasized, such items are not as common as we might assume. Once his selection was made, Duchamp took the shovel back to his studio and inscribed it along the handle: “In Advance of the Broken Arm” and signed it “[after] Marcel Duchamp.” The word “after” was meant as a qualifier, to emphasize the fact that his work had come from him (as in from his intellect), rather than indicate that it had been made by him (as in the case of a traditional sculpture created 65

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T U M’ 1918 Oil and pencil on canvas with attached bottle brush, thress safety pins, and a bolt Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven; Katherine S. Dreier Bequest

by hand). He then hung the shovel from the ceiling of his studio— emulating the same space-saving techniques he had seen practiced by his Turkish landlord on Beekman Place—thereby completing the action that would transform this ordinary object into a work of art.

“objets d’art which they have picked up in Italy etc etc etc and handle and love etc etc.”10 These are precisely the aesthetic sensitivities Duchamp intended to avoid. “The choice of readymades is always based on visual indifference,” he later explained, “and, at the same time, on the total absence of good or bad taste.”11

In selecting his readymades, the one thing Duchamp insisted upon was that they avoid taste. In conversations with Arensberg in this period, he explained that taste was an operating principle that motivated the work of nearly all artists and writers, even those they had come to identify as leading members of the avant-garde. Picasso, for example, had carefully selected and arranged the elements within his compositions, just as vanguard poets “weighed words,” choosing them for the most appropriate “sound and sense,” so as to attain “a sort of balance.” He used Gertrude Stein and her circle as a typical example of these aesthetic sensitivities. “[They are] people of taste,” he explained. “Even when their taste is bad.” He singled out the bibelots they displayed on the mantelpiece of their apartment in Paris as

At first, it seems that Duchamp intended all of his readymades to be accompanied by an elaborate title. He did this because either he felt the literary connection gave the object some justification that went beyond the mere act of its selection (he later likened it to the process of adding color in a painting), or he still carried fresh in mind the furor that had been caused by the title he inscribed on his relatively innocent depiction of a nude descending a staircase. Whatever his motives, although he still wanted the titles to have no direct relationship to the objects he selected, he soon decided that they could contain a literary quality in their own right, as in the title he inscribed on an ordinary chimney ventilator: P U L LE D A T F O U R P I N S , four words that,

when translated into French, would read literally “tiré à quatre épingles,” an idiomatic expression that means being exceptionally well dressed or groomed.12 Almost immediately, Duchamp realized that the idea of the readymade resulted in expanding the traditional definition of art. “The readymade can be seen as a sort of irony,” he explained years later, “or an attempt at showing the futility of trying to define art.”13 Shortly thereafter, he must have realized that a new, more open-ended definition of art could be directed at his own creative production, so with each successive readymade he set about to consciously challenge the revisions he had himself already established. It must have been similar reasoning that prompted Duchamp to expand his notion of a readymade to include not only objects that were familiar and portable—like the shovel and chimney ventilator—but things far more massive in scale, even buildings, just as long as he could come up with an appropriate inscription. In January 1916 he wrote the following reminder to himself in his notes:

10 The note was published for the first time in Molly Nesbit and Naomi Sawelson-Gorse, “Concept of Nothing: New Notes by Marcel Duchamp and Walter Arensberg,” in Martha Buskirk and Mignon Nixon, eds., The Duchamp Effect (Cambridge: The M I T Press, 1996), pp. 156–57. 11 Pierre Cabanne, Dialogues with Marcel Duchamp (New York: Viking Press, 1971), p. 48.

12 This ventilator was given as a gift by Duchamp to Louise Norton, an especially appropriate recipient, for she spoke French fluently and would have understood the pun in his inscription. She displayed the ventilator proudly on the mantelpiece of her fireplace until tenants to whom she rented her home accidentally discarded it (see Arturo Schwarz, The Complete Works of Marcel Duchamp, New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2nd rev. ed. 1970, p. 544). 13 Interview with George Heard Hamilton, New York, January 19, 1959 (published in The Art Newspaper, London, vol. 111, no. 15 (February 1992), p. 13).

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Letter from Marcel Duchamp to Suzanne Duchamp dated “around the 15th of January [1916]” ink on paper, one page (recto and verso) Papers of Jean Crotti and Suzanne Duchamp, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington D.C. gift of Alice Buckles-Brown 14 Arturo Schwarz, Notes and Projects for the Large Glass (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1969), note 58, p. 96.

“find [an] inscription for [the] Woolworth Bldg/as readymade.”14 Upon completion in 1913, the Woolworth Building was the tallest building in the world, a record not to be exceeded until the Chrysler and Empire State buildings were erected some thirty years later. It was a skyscraper of these proportions that Duchamp had in mind when he told reporters earlier that he was looking for a studio to rent in one of their lofty turrets. Apparently, so far as we know, Duchamp never came up with an appropriate inscription for this massive structure, so the T H E W O O L W O R T H B U I L D I N G never officially attained the status of a finished readymade. It was at just about this time, in mid-January of 1916, that Duchamp came up with the term “readymade” to categorize all of the works he had created in this vein, and he immediately wrote a two-page letter to his sister in Paris, asking her to preserve two objects he had left behind in his studio—the bicycle wheel and bottle rack—which, he explained, were purchased as sculptures tout fait, or sculptures “already made,” to which he had given the name “ready made.” He then carefully explained to his sister that he chose intentionally meaningless titles for these works, which he inscribed upon them. After providing a few examples, he tells her: “Don’t try…to understand it in the Romantic or Impressionist or Cubist sense that does not have any connection with it.” This having been said, he proposes an artistic collaboration with his sister: he invites her to add an inscription to the base of the bottle

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THE WO OLWORTH BUILD ING ca. 1915 postcard Francis M. Naumann, New York 15 Duchamp to Suzanne Duchamp [Desmares], dated “Around the 15th of January [1916] (Papers of Jean Crotti and Suzanne Duchamp, Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C.). 16 Duchamp to Suzanne Duchamp, October 17, 1916 (AAA); Naumann, “Affectueusement, Marcel,” p. 7. 17 Unpublished interview with the Janis family, 1953 (transcript, p. 46)

rack, which, he stipulates, should be written “in small letters painted with an oil-painting brush, in silver white color.” Only after adding the inscription should she sign the work, which, as in the case of his snow shovel, should read: “[after] Marcel Duchamp.” Since Suzanne was some 3,000 miles away at the time, Duchamp declared this to be “a readymade from a distance.”15 By the time Duchamp wrote this letter to his sister, she had probably already cleaned out his studio and discarded the two objects he designated as readymades. Consequently, we may never know if she completed the artistic collaboration her brother proposed. The only thing we do know is that nine months after he had sent this letter to his sister, he wrote again asking if she had written the phrase on the “ready made.” If not, he says “do so—and send it (the phrase) to me indicating how you did it.”16 Years later, Duchamp would forget the precise sequence of events documented in these letters, and he told numerous interviewers that he forgot the phrase he had inscribed on the original bottle rack, which led many subsequent historians to conclude that the idea of “making a readymade from a distance” was something that, at this point, Duchamp had only carried to the level of speculation in his notes. “My sister moved my things from my studio in Paris when I was here [in America], in ’15, 16, 17,” Duchamp later explained, in describing the fate of his Bottle Rack,” and the thing disappeared. They probably didn’t pay any attention to it, they probably thought it was one of my crazy ideas and they didn’t have to keep it at all so they probably threw it [in]to the garbage can and the inscription went with it, so after that I could never remember what was on it.”17

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Bibliog raphy Adorno, Theodor. “Letter to Walter Benjamin (18 March 1936).” Trans. Harry Zohn. In Aesthetics and Politics. London: 1977, pp. 120–26; repr. Allington, Edward. “Venus a Go Go, To Go.” In Anthony Hughes and Erich Ronift, eds. Sculpture and its Reproductions. London: Reaktion Books, 1997, pp. 152–67. Banham, Reyner. Theory and Design in the First Machine Age. New York: Prooger, 1960; 2nd ed. 1967. Bottye, John Christopher. “If you’ve Seen One, You’ve Seen Them All.” Art and Artists 5, no. 8 (November 1970), p. 64.

Didi-Huberman, Georges. L’Empreinte. Paris: Musée National d’Art Moderne, Centre Georges Pompidou, 1997. Duchamp du signe. Ed. Michel Sanouillet. Paris: Flammarion, 1975. From the Green Box. Trans. George Heard Hamilton. New Haven: Readymade Press, 1957. Gaugh-Cooper, Jennifer, and Jacques Caumont. Plan pour écrire une vie de Marcel Duchamp. Paris: Musée National d’Art Moderne, Centre Georges Pompidou, 1977.

Kosloff, Max. “Three-Dimensional Prints and the Retreat from Originality.” Artforum IV, no. 4 (December 1965), pp. 25–27. Marcel Duchamp: Letters to Marcel Jean. Munich: Silke Schreiber, 1987. Rosenthal, Nan. “The Six-Day Bicycle Wheel Race.” Art in America 53, no. 5 (Fall 1965), pp. 100–05. Schwartz, Hillel. The Culture of the Copy: Striking Likenesses, Unreasonable Facsimiles. New York: Zone Books, 1996.

Giedion, Siegfried. Mechanization Takes Command: A Contribution to Anonymous History. New York: Oxford University Press, 1948.

Stouffer, Serge. Marcel Duchamp: Die Schriften, vol. 1. Aurich: Regenbogen Verlag, 1981.

Golding, John. Duchamp: The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even. New York: Viking, 1972.

Steefel, Lawrence D., Jr. The Position of Duchamp’s Glass in the Development of His Art. New York: Garland, 1977.

Brodersen, Momme. Walter Benjamin: A Biography. Trans. Malcolm R. Green and Ingrida Ligers. New York: Verso, 1996.

Hughes, Anthony. “Authority, Authenticity and Aura: Walter Benjamin and the Case of Michelangelo.” In Anthony Hughes and Erich Ranfft, eds. Sculpture and its Reproductions. London: Reaktion Books, 1997, pp. 29–45.

Suquet, Jean. Le Grand Verre: Visite guidée. Paris: I’Echoppe, 1992.

Cheney, Sheldon, and Martha Candler Cheney. Art and the Machine: An Account of Industrial Design in 20th- century America. New York: Whittlesey House, 1936.

Hulten, Pontus K.G. The Machine as Seen at the End of the Mechanical Age. New York: Museum of Modern Art; Greenwich: New York Graphic Society, 1968.

Crow, Thomas. Modern Art in the Common Culture. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996.

Karshan, Donald. “The End of the Cult of the Unique.” Art and Auction (March 1971), pp. 36–39, 48–49.

Danto, Arthur C. After the End of Art: Contemporary Art and the Pale of History. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997.

Joselit, David. Infinite Regress: Marcel Duchamp 1970–1947. Cambridge: MIT Press, 1998.

The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even: A Typographic Version by Richard Hamilton of Marcel Duchamp’s Green Box. Trans. George Heard Hamilton. New York: George Wittenborn, 1960.

Tomkins, Calvin. The Bride and the Bachelors: Five Masters of the Avant-Garde: Duchamp, Tinguely, Cage, Rauschenberg, Cunningham. New York: Viking Press, 1968. Tancock, John L. Multiples: The First Decade. Philadelphia: Philadelphia Museum of Art, March 5-April 4, 1971. Wilson, Richard Guy, Dianne H. Pilgrim, and Dickran Tashjian. The Machine Age in America 1918–1941. New York: The Brooklyn Museum; Harry N. Abrams, 1986. Wood, Beatrice. I Shock Myself: The Autobiography of Beatrice Wood. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1988.

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