Marx of the Libido

CITY JOURNAL, Summer 2024

Marx of the Libido

The destructive influence of Wilhelm Reich, father of the sexual revolution


The sexual revolution has proved as historically significant as the French Revolution and the Russian Revolution, though many of its details—its battlefields, generals, soldiers, and casualties—remain largely unknown.

In “Annus Mirabilis,” English poet Philip Larkin regarded this new age with irony: “Sexual intercourse began / In nineteen sixty-three / (which was rather late for me) / Between the end of the ‘Chatterley’ ban / And the Beatles’ first LP.” More generally, it’s a revolution regarded as a liberation from a prudish, ill-informed culture. How fortunate we are, we’re told, to live in an era of sexual experimentation, where the only limit is our own inhibitions. Entire industries of sex educators, social scientists, and popular entertainers are available to assuage any doubts as to the revolution’s benign intentions and wondrous possibilities.

Yet this revolution has a history worth uncovering. A century ago, sexual politics began as an activated front of cultural Marxism. Sex education and sex consciousness were designed to liberate the libido from “bourgeois repression.” Taboos against philandering and divorce were suppressed; the nearly universal expectation to “settle down” and wed dissipated.

Statistically, the separation of sex from committed love and familial ties has correlated with alarming social shifts. According to the United Nations Population Division, between 1960 and 2020, the world’s fertility rate cratered from 5.0 to 2.4 births per woman. In Europe and North America, respectively, the rate fell to 1.2 and 1.6, well below the population replacement rate of 2.1 births. In the U.S., for those 1.6 births, the rate of children born out of wedlock has gone from 3 percent in 1965 to a stunning 40 percent today. For Hispanic and black women, respectively, the rates are now 52 percent and 69 percent.

As marriage rates plummeted, experts sought to guide younger generations into a progressive future of sexual self-actualization. “We really need to get over this love affair with the fetus,” said Joycelyn Elders, Bill Clinton’s surgeon general, who suggested that masturbation be taught in schools. More recently, Rachel (born Richard) Levine, Joe Biden’s assistant secretary of Health and Human Services, has called for tech firms to censor debate about the contemporary practice of gender-reassignment surgery, which leaves patients castrated and infertile. “The positive value of gender-affirming care for youth and adults is not in scientific or medical dispute,” Levine declared in 2022.

For the culture warriors, the results have been a kind of Malthusian triumph. For many others, an atomized, and now technologically commodified, sexual dynamic has brought despair, anger, and sociological desolation.

To succeed, progressivism must present itself as an inevitability—an irreversible march of history. Yet these ideas were choices, their success anything but inevitable. And the sexual revolution does, in fact, have an identifiable beginning, which can be traced to a Karl Marx of the libido, whose influence far exceeds his name recognition: Wilhelm Reich. A follower of Sigmund Freud, Reich matched the methods of psychoanalysis with the liberationist worldview of the Communist Left. In the 1920s, he coined the term “sexual revolution,” just as he wrote about the activation of sexual politics for revolutionary ends—what he called “sex-pol.” Though Reich’s thinking, even at its best, is of dubious value, and the man himself descended into madness, his ideas on rescuing “infantile and pubertal genital functioning” from the “ruinous sexual regulation of our society” have been incredibly influential. They lead directly to the gender politics and social disruptions of today.

Born into a striving Jewish family in Galicia, Austria-Hungary, in 1897, Reich became Freud’s star pupil and moved in the intellectual circles of Europe in the years before the start of World War II. He then escaped to New York, eventually decamping to the remote lake town of Rangeley, Maine. There, he and his followers established Orgonon, a research center on a 200-acre estate dedicated to sexual-energy experiments and the exploration of theories of “cloud control,” “invisible propulsion,” and “orgastic power.”

By the time he was convicted in 1956 for peddling false cures, Reich was viewed as a mad scientist holed up in his lair, supported only by a small circle of true believers. But it would be a mistake to regard his influential earlier work on sexuality with any less skepticism. Dubbed the “prophet of the better orgasm” and the “founder of a genital Utopia,” Reich led a life defined by charlatanism.

“Once in a thousand years, nay once in two thousand years, such a man comes upon this earth to change the destiny of the human race.” This is how Elsworth F. Baker described his mentor Reich after Reich died in his jail cell in 1957. Messianic, megalomaniacal, and mentally disturbed, Reich saw society as infected by a sexual plague that only he and his initiates could diagnose and cure. Reich’s loathing for man’s ordinary sensibilities, combined with his hatred for the society into which he was born and to which he would do much damage, establishes him as the guru of today’s sexual politics.

Reich’s personal sexual obsessions began early. As a young child, he spied on his maid as she had intercourse with her boyfriend. He then propositioned the maid to engage in sex play with him, as he recalls, lying on top of her and playing with her pubic hair. “Reich clearly attributed great importance to his relationship with this peasant girl,” writes his biographer Myron Sharaf. “He once said that by the time he was four there were no secrets for him about sex, and he related this clarity in part to his sexual play with his nursemaid.”

By his own proud admission, Reich was having sex daily at age 11 with the family cook. “She was the first to teach me the thrusting motion necessary for ejaculation, and at that time it had been an accident,” he wrote. “From then on I had intercourse almost every day for years—it was always in the afternoon, when my parents were napping.” At 15, he started attending the local brothel. “I was pure sensual lust; I had ceased to be—I was all penis! I bit, scratched, thrust, and the girl had quite a time with me! I thought I would have to crawl inside her.”

Reich’s sexual adventurism extended even to his parents. As a boy, he witnessed his mother having an affair. “The thought came to me to plunge into the room,” Reich recounted in his journal, “and to have intercourse with my mother with the threat that if she didn’t I would tell my father.” His father did find out (most likely thanks to Reich himself), and his mother subsequently committed suicide by poison. “Twice,” Reich continued, “I masturbated while consciously fantasizing about my mother.” Shortly before Reich turned 17, in 1914, his father took out a large insurance policy, stood outside by a frozen pond, and deliberately contracted a respiratory illness, leading to his death.

After serving in the Austrian army in World War I, Reich moved to Vienna to begin his professional education. He studied law briefly before switching to medical school at the University of Vienna. His obsession with human sexuality soon brought him into Freud’s orbit. “I have become convinced that sexuality is the center around which revolves the whole of social life as well as the inner life of the individual,” Reich wrote in his journal in 1919. At Freud’s recommendation—and without completing his formal training—Reich began seeing patients as a psychoanalyst and was admitted to the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society as a guest member in 1920. His first-year lab partner, Lia Laszky, described the young Reich as both “fascinating and abhorrent.”

Based on his own early sexual experiences, Reich believed that children possessed a pure, innate sexual drive that must be protected from suppression by family and society. “Between the ages of five and twelve,” he wrote, “psychic dams and reaction formations are constructed against culturally unacceptable partial drives [i.e., oral, anal/sadistic, and genital]; disgust counters anal eroticism, shame counters exhibition, and, in general, every morally pertinent concept begins here.”

In quick succession in the 1920s and 1930s, Reich produced a series of papers and books on childhood sexuality and the supposed fascistic origins of sexual repression. These works have had lasting influence not only on Western psychology but also on European and American elite culture. Their titles tell us much about Reich and his beliefs: “About a Case of Breaching the Incest Taboo” (1920); “Concerning Specific Forms of Masturbation” (1922); “The Role of Genitality in the Treatment of Neurosis” (1923); and “The Therapeutic Importance of Genital Libido” (1924).

Through his translator, Theodore P. Wolfe, Reich’s German books and essay collections of the 1930s entered English circulation in the 1940s as The Function of the Orgasm (1942), Character Analysis and The Sexual Revolution (both in 1945), The Mass Psychology of Fascism (1946), and Listen, Little Man! (1948), a harangue against so-called conventional wisdom.

Through his treatments, Reich often had his patients strip nude while forcefully pressing soft parts of their bodies, willfully violating a psychoanalytic taboo. He would also regularly dig his thumb or palm into a patient’s jaw, neck, or thigh until the patient cried, maintaining that such interventions were necessary to penetrate a person’s resistance to treatment.

Reich counseled his patients to see their innate inhibitions as an “armor” and a “plague” in need of eradication. “Mankind is biologically sick,” he wrote. “Man’s biopathic character structure is, as it were, the fossilization of the authoritarian process of history. It is the biophysical reproduction of mass suppression.” He argued that it was perfectly appropriate for children to witness their parents’ own sexual congress.

In his emphasis on what he called childhood “genitality,” he also stressed “the need for affirming childhood masturbation,” writes Sharaf. “Throughout his life, Reich put considerable emphasis on the distinction between affirming childhood sexuality and tolerating it. Toleration was insufficient to counteract a generally sex-negative culture.” Reich believed that social liberation was possible only through sexual enlightenment at youth. “The younger the boy or girl concerned was,” he once said, “the more quickly and more fully they swung around after listening to only a few clarifying sentences.”

As part of his efforts to disconnect sex from marriage and procreation, and linked to the liberation of adolescent sexuality, Reich became a zealous advocate for contraception and abortion—radical ideas even in psychiatric circles of the time. He regularly arranged abortions for his patients, and he pushed abortions on his many lovers, mistresses, wives, and patients, who were often one and the same. One of Reich’s young patient-girlfriends died after he pressured her to have an abortion. Her mother ended up dying from grief, as well.

In the early 1930s, the Communist Party tapped Reich to direct its German Association for Proletarian Sex-Politics (GAPSP). For Reich, the great obstructor of childhood sexuality was the family. In a series of proclamations, he advocated for dismantling the family in favor of collectivist child-rearing and reeducation, which he believed necessary for revolution. Contraception, abortion, and the destruction of marriage were central to this platform. As Reich wrote in the platform for the first Congress of GAPSP in Düsseldorf in 1931:

1. Free distribution of contraceptives to those who could not obtain them through normal channels; massive propaganda for birth control.

2. Abolition of laws against abortion. Provision for free abortions at public clinics; financial and medical safeguards for pregnant women and nursing mothers.

3. Abolition of any legal distinctions between the married and the unmarried. Freedom of divorce.

“The prevention of neuroses,” he maintained elsewhere, “begins by excluding from the education of the child his or her own parents who have proven themselves to be the most unqualified educators. The sexual education of the small child will be put instead into the hands of specially trained personnel who will be less biased.”

Reich believed that the continuation of the family paved the way to fascistic government. “At first the child has to submit to the structure of the authoritarian miniature state, the family; this makes it capable of later subordination of the general authoritarian system. The formation of the authoritarian structure takes place through the anchoring of sexual inhibition and sexual anxiety.” Philip Rieff’s 1966 book, The Triumph of the Therapeutic, which includes a sharp critique of Reich’s Freudo-Marxism, notes: “Sex education becomes the main weapon in an ideological war against the family; its aim is to divest the parents of their moral authority.”

Through Germany’s Communist networks in the late 1920s and early 1930s, Reich spread his radical philosophies to a large audience. He distributed thousands of his “sex-pol” pamphlets through the Communist Party and other radical left-wing organizations, while training a cadre of “youth leaders” to promote his sexual agenda. He lamented that there was “still no law for the protection of newborn infants against the parents’ inability to bring up children or against the parents’ neurotic influences.” He believed that “every physician, teacher or social worker who will have to deal with children must show proof that he or she . . . is sex-economically healthy and that he has acquired an exact knowledge of infantile and adolescent sexuality. That is, training in sex-economy must be obligatory for physicians and teachers.”

As Reich relocated from one European country to another in the 1930s, his role as a political instigator and the leader of a school of psychosexual treatment attained ever wider reach. In Norway, one volunteer for his experiments was a young Willy Brandt, who went on to become chancellor of West Germany 30 years later.

As Reich’s influence expanded, his radical views transcended Communism and psychiatry. His fellow psychoanalysts increasingly viewed him as a psychopath because of his advocacy of adolescent sexuality. In 1934, one colleague diagnosed him as suffering from an “insidious psychotic process.”

Communist leaders also began viewing Reich as too extreme. After Reich published The Sexual Struggle of Youth in 1932, he found himself excluded from the Communist Party and deemed a “counterrevolutionary” who “discredited Marxism.” In a bit of dry Communist wit, party leaders concluded that “there were no orgasm disturbances among the proletariat, only among the bourgeoisie.” In 1939, settled in Norway but politically and professionally under increasing threat, Reich took up an invitation from his American acolytes to teach and practice in the United States, where he soon found a new audience.

In a more moderate postwar culture, Reich carefully updated his terminology, having learned well how to conceal his intentions: “Communist” and “socialist” became “progressive.” “Class consciousness” became “work consciousness” and “social responsibility.” Here his writing and fieldwork started to influence a new group of writers and educators, including Alexander Lowen, Fritz Perls, Paul Goodman, Saul Bellow, Norman Mailer, and William S. Burroughs. Goodman lauded the translations of The Sexual Revolution and Character Analysis in Dwight Macdonald’s magazine Politics. Bellow was even in therapy with one of Reich’s students. His novels The Adventures of Augie March and Henderson the Rain King were tied to Reich’s work, in particular.

In American psychology, Reich’s belief in a “muscular armor” influenced Lowen’s bioenergetics, Perls’s Gestalt therapy, and Arthur Janov’s primal therapy. His metaphors of a man in the trap of his own armor “pervaded the therapeutic ambiance of the 1970s,” writes Sharaf. “His work should be connected with the broad sweep of our century’s progressive educational development, a development he both influenced and reflected.”

An obsession with childhood sexuality infused Reich’s work, which dwelled on the “orgasm reflex” in breastfeeding infants. Once in America, Reich established an “infant research center” so that he could study the so-called sexual freezing process from birth. He even directed that the bulk of his estate should be given to the Wilhelm Reich Infant Trust for “the care of infants everywhere.” The organization, based out of the Reich compound in Rangeley, Maine, still functions as a nonprofit today.

Orgonon, Reich’s post-war headquarters in Rangley, Maine.

Revolutionary theory is always based on a belief in invisible forces that need to be identified and redirected. This belief is held as an article of faith, and evidence to the contrary cannot shake it. Marxism has its commodity fetish and its faith in hidden power relations. Critical race theory believes in systemic yet concealed racial dynamics. The more sinister these forces are, the more complicit in them you must be if you are not actively working to counter them.

So it was for Reich and his harnessing of mankind’s sexual energy. He believed that the human orgasm represented not just a biological phenomenon but also the transformation of bioelectrical energy that could be measured, channeled, and even weaponized. Reich called this power “orgone” and dedicated Orgonon, his estate in Rangeley, to its research. He wrote to Albert Einstein to share his discovery of this invisible sexual force. The physicist agreed to meet Reich in Princeton. Einstein, however, quickly saw through Reich’s experiments, which involved attaching electrodes to subjects’ tongues and nipples as they masturbated. He ignored Reich’s subsequent letters.

Reich also commissioned the construction of special upright chests, called “orgone accumulators,” in which to enclose a patient and focus their orgone energy in treatment (the orgone box promised to cure cancer, among other ills). Reich was specific in their construction: alternating layers of Celotex, sheet iron, glass wool, and steel wool lined with a metal wall. As his practice spread, he sold and leased these boxes out, with the profits kicking up to Orgonon.

Reich saw orgone as the hidden power of the universe. He believed that UFOs traveled by orgone propulsion. He also maintained that the U.S. government was secretly aware of orgone’s energy potential and that the Air Force was sending flights over Orgonon to protect him and his work.

For all his extreme theories and practices, it was the orgone box, particularly its sale and rental across state lines, that put Reich on a collision course with the authorities—here, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration. In May 1947, a freelance writer, Mildred Edie Brady, wrote an exposé, “The Strange Case of Wilhelm Reich,” for The New Republic. Reich and his followers denounced the article’s damning portrayal—Brady and The New Republic were Stalinist agents, they maintained. The story nevertheless contained more than mere half-truths:

Orgone, named after the sexual orgasm, is, according to Reich, a cosmic energy. It is, in fact, the cosmic energy. Reich has not only discovered it; he has seen it, demonstrated it and named a town—Orgonon, Maine—after it. Here he builds accumulators of it which are rented out to patients, who presumably derive “orgastic potency” from it.

The article caught the attention of an FDA field officer, who believed that a “very able individual fortified to a considerable degree by men of science” was perpetrating a “fraud of the first magnitude.” In 1953, the FDA issued a 27-page complaint against Reich. Physician Frank Krusen of the Mayo Clinic wrote to the FDA: “It was very difficult for me to bring myself to take the time to prepare this report because of the fact that this quackery is of such a fantastic nature that it hardly seems worthwhile to refute the ridiculous claims of its proponents.”

Reich responded by firing up his orgone “cloudbuster”—an artillery-like contraption of tubes and pipes resembling a prop from a cheap science-fiction film—and threatening to inundate the country with rain. “Consequences of this action are all your responsibility and that of Federal Judge Clifford of Portland, Maine,” he shot back in a telegram to the U.S. Weather Bureau. “We are flooding the East as you are drying out the Southwest. You do not play with serious natural-scientific research.”

When the FDA ruled against him, his boxes were ordered destroyed. So were his books and journals that made mention of orgone. Over multiple raids, the federal government rounded up and burned Reich’s materials. Later, having been found in contempt of court for violating an injunction against shipping orgone boxes across state lines, Reich was sent to a federal penitentiary. An evaluating physician there determined that he was exhibiting “paranoia manifested by delusions of grandiosity and persecution.”

In 1957, Reich died of heart failure in prison while awaiting trial. His silencing and death fueled his martyrdom in progressive circles. In the ensuing decades, Roger Straus Jr. of Farrar, Straus and Giroux saw to it that all of Reich’s writings were reissued. The publisher has released about two dozen works by Reich between 1960 and today. According to the Wilhelm Reich Infant Trust, his books are now available in 21 languages.

Reich’s beliefs—in particular, his theories on the “unarmored life” of the “children of the future” and the “affirmation of childhood and adolescent genitality”—have spread far and wide, even as we no longer recognize their source.

One of Reich’s remaining orgone energy accumulators or “orgone box.”

Beat writer Burroughs never forgot. He wrote about “All the Accumulators I Have Owned” and the “spontaneous orgasm” he achieved, “no hands, in an orgone accumulator built in an orange grove in Pharr, Texas.” The editor Dwight Macdonald promoted Reich through his influential magazines, as well as through nude cocktail parties and orgies. In 1964, Time observed, “Dr. Wilhelm Reich may have been a prophet. For now it sometimes seems that all America is one big orgone box.” Writing in the Guardian, Christopher Turner noted: “The hipster—stoked up with marijuana, existentialism and Reich . . . was the prototype of the countercultural figure that emerged in the 1960s.” Yet with today’s model of orgone box, he continued,

it is no longer necessary to sit in cramped quarters for a specific time. Improved and enlarged to encompass the continent, the big machine works on its subjects continuously, day and night. From innumerable screens and stages, posters and pages, it flashes larger-than-life-size images of sex. From countless racks and shelves, it pushes the books that a few years ago were considered pornography. From myriad loudspeakers, it broadcasts the words and rhythms of pop-music erotica. And constantly, over the intellectual Muzak, comes the message that sex will save you. Libido makes you free.

Reich’s sexual revolution has been so total, and so totalizing in its demands, that it now wages its desperate battles over a scorched landscape. With diminishing marriage rates across the developed world, sex has turned inward, to pornography and onanism. Popular culture has become, as Turner observed, one big orgone box, isolating society from the genuinely fulfilling connections of faithfulness and family. The Summer of Love launched a culture of self-love, the culmination of Reichian liberation.

In Sex-Pol: Essays, 1929–1934, Reich wrote in “Politicizing the Sexual Problem of Youth”:

This future order cannot and will not be other than, as Lenin put it, a full love-life yielding joy and strength. Little as we can say about the details of such a life, it is nevertheless certain that in the Communist society the sexual needs of human beings will once more come into their own. . . . Evidence that socialism alone can bring about sexual liberation is on our side. Therefore under capitalism we must use all our energies to convince the oppressed masses of this truth, too, and mobilize them for a merciless struggle against everything that impedes such liberation.

Reich’s later-life obsessions were not exceptions to his earlier sexual radicalism but rather manifestations of the same delusion. The failures of his experiments and popular opposition to his ideas only reconfirmed his faith in the genius of his beliefs—of the need, for example, to liberate the children of the future from the “emotional plague” of civilization. Like the hidden forces he identified in The Mass Psychology of Fascism, Reich fell prey to his own grandiosity.

“There is a sinister anti-intellectualism about Reich’s theory of the origin of repression,” Rieff observed in The Triumph of the Therapeutic. As the Left has carried on his sexual revolution, its adherents have fallen for their own forms of deluded psychology. Cloud-busting and orgone boxes have given way to “gender-affirming” surgeries and the sidelining of parents from the care and protection of their own children. Reich’s Freudo-Marxism explains why sex education in schools, especially when performed against the will of parents, has taken on a maniacal urgency.

“We may be physically destroyed tomorrow,” Reich observed to his presiding judge as he awaited trial, but “we shall live in human memory as long as this planet is afloat in the endless Cosmic Energy Ocean, as the Fathers of the cosmic, technological age.” Our present challenge is to confront this fantastical quackery before it breaks what remains of the bonds of love and family.

The map & the territory

THE NEW CRITERION, September 2024

The map & the territory

On the life & work of Joe Zucker.

The art world never knew what to make of Joe Zucker, a painter who died in May at the age of eighty-two. Just as pirates became a recurring theme in his work, Zucker took a piratical stance on art history. He refashioned the flotsam and jetsam of pictorial space to raise his own Jolly Roger over the scurvy dogs of modernism in a way that fit nobody’s story of art but his own.

Like Augie March, Zucker was “an American, Chicago born.” Growing up Jewish on the city’s South Side, he spent his childhood at the museum of the Art Institute. His father was a scrap-metal dealer. His mother, a nurse, deposited him at the museum starting at an early age to avoid the ethnic warfare of the streets. Here he absorbed an aesthetic education that was democratic and particularly American, one that flattened chronology and place—a “Veronese one day, a de Kooning the next, Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles,” he said. Back home, through an affinity for literature and narrative, he further mixed high and low—Willa Cather with Studs Terkel, Herman Melville with N. C. Wyeth’s illustrations for Treasure Island.

Chuck Close, Joe Zucker, 1969, Gelatin silver print, Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City.

After a stint at Miami University of Ohio, where he played basketball, Zucker returned to Chicago. He enrolled at the School of the Art Institute, earning his undergraduate and graduate degrees. He joked that here he learned to draw a skeleton riding a bicycle from memory. As with much of Zucker’s artistic identity, this was fact and fiction mixed in a medium of dry wit. The tall tale reflects the degree of technical training he received without any particular sense for what to do with it, especially since he said he never wanted to be the next jock from the School of Paris flexing a Picasso brush. “My real love is being an artist and making art,” he once said. “Not advancing the myth of modernism.”

As he stared at his canvas, an early moment of doubt became Zucker’s first artistic breakthrough. Uncertain what to paint, he set about depicting the painting itself—in particular, the warp and weft of the canvas’s weave. His subsequent abstractions of interwoven rectangles brought to mind the rigors of Piet Mondrian but also the basket weaves of brightly colored plastic lawn chairs, which were then a ubiquitous feature of demotic Americana. Zucker’s interest in vernacular, in the elevation of craft and domesticity against the backdrop of high art, in grids and recursive rules, and in the conflation of process and product, were already apparent and continued throughout his career. His circular logic could be confounding, but Zucker flavored such Möbius strips like salt-water taffy—palatable, mysterious, and (as his last name might suggest) sweet.

After teaching at the Minneapolis School of Art, Zucker moved to New York in 1968. He soon fell in with Klaus Kertess and the iconoclastic artists he was showing at his Bykert Gallery, who included Lynda Benglis, Dorothea Rockburne, Barry Le Va, and Brice Marden. Among them was Chuck Close, who became Zucker’s loft neighbor on Prince Street and drinking buddy as they taught together at the School of Visual Arts. In one of his early portraits, Close depicted Zucker in horn-rimmed glasses and shirt and tie, with his hair slicked back in a way that resembled an overtaxed insurance salesman. A study for this work is now in the collection of the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art.

Joe Zucker, Amy Hewes, 1976, Acrylic, cotton & rhoplex on canvas, Mary Boone Gallery, New York.

“Joe Zucker has consistently for over four decades been one of America’s most innovative artists,” Close wrote for Bomb magazine in 2007.

His paintings are personal, quirky, idiosyncratic, and often puzzling. His style is rooted in processes, some simple, others remarkably complex. . . . Pouring, squeezing and manipulating paint, he fashions paintings so personal it would be impossible to imagine anyone else having made them. This is the definition of personal invention.

Close went on to say of Zucker that there was “no greater influence on the way I think about painting, and no person who played a more important role in the formative period of my work and changed my mind about how paintings can and should be made.”

A decade later, when I assembled an exhibition of Zucker’s depictions of the sea for the National Arts Club, Close wheeled into the opening. As I plied him with martinis, he explained how he and Zucker together learned to develop processes to complicate and “de-skill” their means of representation. “This is something you and I have spent a lot of time doing, removing the taboo of talent,” Zucker said in response to Close in that 2007 interview. Here was a problem, I concluded, only for those specimens for whom pictorial talent comes too easily.

As might any artist who chooses to start his career by painting the materials of a painting, Zucker next set about working up an index for his oeuvre-to-be. The 100-Foot-Long Piece (1968–69) is the first work he made in New York. In the 2020 monograph on Zucker published by Thames & Hudson, Terry R. Myers wrote how the work was “like a catalogue of available merchandise (as he called it, ‘the Sears catalogue’),” one that “retains many of the material characteristics of life in the suburban Midwest.” Made up of rectangular strips in a range of styles, some abstract, others representational, created through a wide array of processes, the mixed-media work can resemble a row of linoleum patterns or wallpaper swatches. Faux fabrics are intermixed with a depiction of Billy the Kid. An illustration of the Charioteer of Delphi is featured alongside cones of mathematical plotting-paper sticking out from the picture plane. “One area was wood-burned,” Close approvingly remarked. “When was the last time you saw a work of art by a serious artist that was made with a wood-burning kit?” A young secretary at Kertess’s gallery dubbed the work “tossed salad.” That secretary, Mary Boone, went on to become a mega-gallerist of the 1980s and even represented Zucker for a period in the 2000s. “It was as if all my styles I made at once, rather than the more usual linear development of style,” Zucker remarked. “I made enough styles to last a lifetime.”

Joe Zucker, Paying Off Old Debts, 1975, Acrylic, cotton & rhoplex on canvas, Mary Boone Gallery, New York.

Writing an introductory essay for the 2020 monograph, John Elderfield noted that Zucker may have developed up to eighty different series through his career: “Having many sides is integral to his self-presentation as artist.” The 100-Foot-Long Piece featured a preview of the one that became his most consequential: his cotton-ball paintings. Zucker developed these works using Rhoplex, an acrylic binder developed in the 1950s by the Rohm and Haas chemical company for use in cement and spackle with an “exceptional pigment-binding capacity.” By dipping cotton balls in Rhoplex, which he then hand-tinted and adhered to canvas, Zucker devised a method of painting that resembled a pixelated screen, one that could convey a recognizable image.

At first Zucker used this labor-intensive process to draw a connection to Byzantine mosaics. Woman with Halo and Scepter (from Five Mosaics) (1972), which referenced the art of Ravenna, is now in the collection of the Art Institute. Five Amphoras (1972) is at the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth. From a distance, the works read as recognizable images. Up close, the brightly colored cotton balls resemble piles of tufted carpet. “It took months to roll up the pieces of paint,” Zucker said of his process, “and then all of the paintings were finished in a minute.”

Zucker then looked to the history of cotton and the role of labor in its cultivation and trade. Drawing on photographs of riverboat freight from the American South, Zucker loaded his imagery with historical import at a time when few contemporary artists dared look beyond the clean surfaces of minimalism or the safety of pop aesthetics. Rendered in grisaille, reflecting old photographic source material, subjects such as the riverboat in Amy Hewes (1976), in the collection of the Hessel Museum of Art at Bard College, and the laborer in Paying Off Old Debts (1975), in the collection of the Art Institute of Chicago, convey a haunting presence, as if the history of American slavery were reaching out through the very cotton of the works.

By the time I first came across Zucker’s work, some twenty years ago, he had long since moved to East Hampton, Long Island, where he established a home and studio in the 1980s with his wife, Britta Le Va. Here he coached high-school basketball as a volunteer for the championship Bridgehampton team with players far removed from the area’s multimillion-dollar summer residences. (His efforts were featured in the 2017 documentary Killer Bees, produced by Shaquille O’Neal, about the team as it defended its state title.)

Joe Zucker, Russian Empire, 2012, Watercolor & gypsum on plywood, Mary Boone Gallery, New York.

Zucker was ahead of his time in his use of unorthodox materials and techniques, not to mention his resurfacing of fraught historical subject matter. Yet the Neo-Expressionists and the “Pictures Generation” of the 1970s and 1980s had little use for his involved and at times confusing work. Nevertheless he continued to develop new series, drawing on everything from pegboards and squeegees to the history of Joseph Smith, sometimes combining all three.

The work centered on shipping, marine life, and piracy could be his most satisfying. A 2008 exhibition at Nyehaus Gallery called “Plunder,” which featured rolls of canvas cut through with cannonballs, was particularly successful. For Zucker, the map was the territory. Allegory and allusion mixed with the concrete. “The ghostly spectre of the slaver Trinidad rises among the wrecks and reefs of Madagascar on a moonlit night during July of 1834,” he scrawled across a drawing from 1978, which I first saw at
Nolan/Eckman Gallery. On a diagrammatic image called Axe Lake (Legend) (1994), Zucker included a key that listed the fishing spots and mills along with his vodka martinis and gibsons.

Water served as a recurring theme in Zucker’s churned processes. He saw a connection between the surface of the painting and the “machinery depicted in the painting—objects that stir water, such as planes, windmills, ships, wheels.” It helped that Zucker was himself an accomplished fisherman—skills he developed through weeks-long expeditions to Minnesota and as the captain of a fishing boat he docked in Montauk harbor called The Rodfather. Following a few occasions when I paid studio visits to East Hampton, we motored out to the reefs off Montauk. Zucker knew just the right time and place to put down line for striped bass as he named the fish he caught. “Nancy Pelosi” was his keeper. I called mine “Mahmoud A. Bass.”

In East Hampton, Zucker developed several series that hearkened back to the warp-and-weft grids. I am unsure if one series involving mops dipped in paint, arranged on the wall as if woven together, has ever been fully executed. Another series, of gypsum board hand-scored and water-colored into tight grids resembling tesserae, recalled those earlier Rhoplex mosaics. He titled the 2013 exhibition of this series at Mary Boone “Empire Descending a Staircase.”

Joe Zucker, Robocrate Flagship #2 (1955–1960), 2004, Watercolor, ink & graphite on paper, David Nolan Gallery, New York.

Zucker’s final series was inspired by stories of the Pale of Settlement by Sholem Aleichem, which he read during the 2020 covid shutdowns. Made of cast-off studio trash, such as cardboard, towels, and rubber mats, the austere monochrome paintings of shtetl houses and abstracted snowmen, depicted in a chilling, white landscape, felt like a fresh airing of sublimated forces and materials. In the summer of 2022, I paid my final studio visit to see this work. Zucker by then had already suffered a series of health setbacks, including the consequences of a traffic accident and metabolic encephalopathy. As I slept on a cot in his spider-filled studio, I could hear Zucker in the other room narrating his own demise.

“There’s a surprise to his work,” the critic and poet John Yau explained as I sat down for an interview with him and Zucker in 2016. “The humor is very generous. If anything he’s self-mocking. He’s mocking the idea of being an artist, but in a kind of generous way.” In much of Zucker’s work, as in my final moments with him, you never know whether to laugh or cry.

Summer lights

THE NEW CRITERION, June 2024

Summer Lights

On “Klimt Landscapes” at Neue Galerie, “Wayne Thiebaud: Summer Days” at Acquavella Galleries & “Paul Resika: Ode to the Moon” at Bookstein Projects, New York.

A distinguishing feature of modern art has been its pursuit of light. Of course, all of visual art is concerned with light. What modernism did was dispense with the controlled light of the salon in search of bolder and brighter sensations. Modern painters looked to reflect not merely a sense of sight but also the feeling of radiance. So they explored direct light and, in particular, summer light, chasing the sun into the countryside with their trunks of painting equipment in tow.

Gustav Klimt (1862–1918) was one of those painters whose compositional innovations were charged by the summer sun. A recent survey at Neue Galerie titled “Klimt Landscapes” looked not only to the verdant visions he captured in the Austrian towns alongside the Attersee between 1900 and 1916, but also to the lush creative landscape that unfurled around him in photography, jewelry, and fashion.1

Gustav Klimt, Judith and the Head of Holofernes, 1901, Oil & gold on canvas, Österreichische Galerie Belvedere, Vienna.

Today Klimt is most renowned for his “golden style.” His bejeweled portraits reached their apotheosis in such works at Judith and the Head of Holofernes (1901), also known as Judith I, and The Kiss (1908–09), both in the Österreichische Galerie Belvedere, Vienna. His Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I (1907), the “lady in gold” restituted from Vienna to the subject’s Jewish heirs, now forms the heart of Neue’s permanent collection. In these works, Klimt, the son of a gold engraver, combined the decadence of precious metal with a sense for mosaic-like composition, taking inspiration from the shadowless Byzantine iconography in Ravenna’s Basilica of San Vitale.

Yet Klimt was more than an iconographer. He looked to move beyond these studied, labor-intensive portraits even as he relied on them to provide income for his large domestic payroll (he fathered at least six children with three mistresses while supporting multiple members of his extended family, including his widowed sister-in-law, Emilie “Midi” Flöge, a fashion designer and his muse). Klimt found relief in the Salzkammergut region of Upper Austria, north of Salzburg. Each summer, after 1900, he traveled there from Vienna to paint along the lake towns of the Attersee.

Gustav Klimt, The Park, 1909, Oil on canvas, Museum of Modern Art, New York.

Organized by Janis Staggs, Neue’s director of curatorial and manager of publications, “Klimt Landscapes” took a welcome, wide-angle view of these creative sojourns. The exhibition brought together such masterpieces as The Park (1909, Museum of Modern Art, New York), Kammer Castle on the Attersee I (Castle in the Lake) (1908, National Gallery Prague), and Forester’s House in Weissenbach II (Garden) (1914, Neue Galerie). The survey assembled works dating back to Klimt’s academic training and continuing on through his many experiments with optics, providing along the way several examples of jewelry by Josef Hoffmann and Koloman Moser together with many photographic portraits of Klimt’s own projections of summer leisure.

Trained at the Vienna School of Arts and Crafts of the Imperial Royal Austrian Museum of Art and Industry, known today as the Museum of Applied Arts Vienna, Klimt proved to be a precocious academic talent. The exhibition began with his figure studies of 1880 and his Two Girls with Oleander (ca. 1890–92, Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford), an astonishing vision of glowing Pre-Raphaelite women plucking flowers beside an egg-and-dart frieze.

Gustav Klimt, Two Girls with Oleander, ca. 1890–92, Oil on canvas, Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford.

Seeing Klimt’s command of painterly illusion makes his modernist compression, developed just a few years later, all the more remarkable. A founding member of the Vienna Secession in 1897, he joined fellow academic painters to look beyond the style of the salon. Yet for all of its innovative surface application, Klimt’s subsequent golden style owed much to academic structure. Beneath the ornament, his shimmering portraits were essentially salon paintings. Part academic, part modern, these works were dismissed by the devotees of either camp. Klimt remained largely absent, for example, from the French-focused timeline of New York’s Museum of Modern Art. As such distinctions have diminished over time, however, the hybrid nature of these works has only made them more compelling. Today his Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I has become known as “Austria’s Mona Lisa” and attracts commensurate crowds and Hollywood fanfare, serving as the focus of the 2015 biographical drama Woman in Gold.

The relief provided by the Attersee owed in part to the fact that Klimt had received little academic training in landscape painting, which was considered a lower genre than history painting and portraiture. This lack of schooling left Klimt free to experiment with the Stimmungsimpressionismus, or “atmospheric impressions,” that he felt during his Sommerfrische, “summer holidays.” Unlike his studied portraits, Klimt painted his landscapes without preparatory sketches. The unidealized composition of this “vacation work” helps underscore the leisure of their creation. Klimt viewed his landscape painting as a segment of his daily therapy. A letter from August 1902 outlines his summer workout routine:

Early in the morning, about 6 . . . I get up—if the weather’s good I go to the nearby wood—I’m painting a small beech wood there (if the sun’s shining) . . . that takes me to 8, then comes breakfast, then a swim in the lake, carefully of course—then I paint a little, perhaps a view of the lake by sunlight, or if the weather’s dull a landscape from my window—sometimes I drop this morning painting and study my Japanese books . . . Then comes midday, after lunch I sleep a little or read, and before or after tea another swim . . . After tea I’m painting again . . . . Every now and then I fit a bit of rowing into the day’s program in order to limber up.

A proponent of the Gesamtkunstwerk, Klimt saw himself as a piece of that “total work of art.” In the summer he dressed the part by dispensing with the cummerbund and donning a blue, caftan-style painter’s smock. (Early Christmas shoppers, take note: Neue’s gift shop features an “exact replica” of this full length indigo linen smock with “hand-embroidered white epaulets and front pocket.”) Klimt appears in repeated photographs around the Attersee in this getup, walking on docks and strolling on trails, even as the figures around him didn’t always get the caftan memo, appearing in more standard summer outfits.

Beech Forest in Autumn, 1898. Photo: Hugo Henneberg, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin.

One revelation of this survey was the extent to which photography influenced and shaped Klimt’s own artistic landscape. “It would be difficult to overestimate the sizable impact of photography on Klimt’s development as a landscape painter,” writes Staggs in the exhibition’s catalogue. The Austrian Camera Club of Amateur Photographers, later known as the Vienna Camera Club, was established in 1887. Klimt surrounded himself with photographers such as Moriz Nähr, Heinrich Böhler, and Emma Bacher-Teschner, and he regularly posed as their subject. Klimt developed his own unusual, square landscape format largely under the influence of their often-square images. He also used telescopes and photographic aids to help compose his paintings, flattening his landscapes and even drawing on the patterns of photographic emulsion. Just compare Hugo Henneberg’s photograph Birch Forest in Autumn (1898, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin) with Klimt’s Beech Forest I of circa 1902 (Galerie Neue Meister, Dresden), or Heinrich Kuehn’s Meadow with Trees (1897, Photoinstitut Bonartes, Vienna) with Klimt’s Pear Tree (Pear Trees) (1903, Harvard Art Museums). Klimt painted his landscapes in the style of this early photography.

Gustav Klimt, Beech Forest I, 1902, Oil on canvas, Galerie Neue Meister, Dresden.

The remarkable set of Autochrome Lumière color photographs that Friedrich G. “Fritz” Walker took of Emilie Flöge and Klimt, in the garden of Villa Paulick in September of 1913, then brought the exhibition full circle. Early photography, in particular color photography, was especially light-intensive and relied on the same summer sun as did Klimt. Here in colorful costumes he and Flöge appear as both subjects and objects—flattened into their own lush landscapes in these photographic “drawings with light.” From “lady in gold,” we end with artists in green.

The advent of summer can be particularly sweet when it comes with a helping of Wayne Thiebaud (1920–2021). The late grand-manner painter of American Century marginalia remains on view at Acquavella Galleries through mid-June with an exhibition that focuses on his warmest creations. “Wayne Thiebaud: Summer Days” gathers works from over six decades of the artist’s career, ranging from his bathers, beaches, and balls to his cola, confections, and cones.2

Wayne Thiebaud, Untitled (Six Soda Pop Bottles), ca. 1985, Watercolor on paper, Collection of Matt and Maria Bult.

Painted with a sugary impasto, this masterly work can seem fresh and ready to melt in the summer sun. Thiebaud was the American Giorgio Morandi for his uncanny ability to transform paint into the subjects he depicted. In part this is due to the halation effects along his edges, as shadows are broken into lines and fields of blue and red that become delicate frosting for his forms, as seen in such works as Strawberry Cone (1969) and Two Tulip Sundaes (2010) and even such portraits as Betty Jean (ca. 1965). Thiebaud was particularly attuned to the textures of his media. His thirst-quenching Untitled (Six Soda Pop Bottles) (ca. 1985) would only work as a watercolor on paper. His Cheese Display (1969) feels milky-smooth, while his Beach Gathering (2000–15) appears encrusted with sand. Due to this innate sense for intimism, I find his portraits and still lifes work better than his landscapes. Thiebaud was at his best when subject and painting could melt into one.

The paintings in “Paul Resika: Ode to the Moon,” on view last month at Bookstein Projects, spanned a remarkable eighty years.3 A suite of bold new work, of celestial bodies pared down to brushstroke, color, and form, all painted in Resika’s ninety-fifth year, was connected to Moonlight, a small landscape executed in 1943–44, when the artist was just sixteen years old. Beyond the official show, the gallery’s office also featured an extra work from the artist’s collection: Panorama of the Hudson (The Mermaid and the Factory) (1948), a wild composition of bridges, train tracks, and the ghost-like rollercoaster of the long-departed Palisades Amusement Park—painted at a time when the teenage artist could catch a ferry there just across town from his Central
Harlem studio.

Paul Resika, Moonlight, 1943–44, Oil on canvas, Bookstein Projects, New York.

The brightness and compositions may have varied, but everywhere a minimum of line defined depth in what were otherwise blind, blinding, and turbulent sights. Illuminated across time, the full assembly revealed a consistency of vision and a connected sense for the bare essentials. Revisiting the illusion of light in paint, Resika in his latest work has doubled down on the experimental quality of what can be done with a minimum of means. In several canvases, a simple dash, placed just right, becomes a horizon line reflecting the luminous spheres above. These orbs, all of slightly different values, meanwhile appear to fill the canvases with various shades of glowing color. “Marcel Breuer told me never to paint a green picture,” Resika explained to me when I ran into him at the gallery. So he did just that. This painter, who has been bucking convention for eighty years, remains a guiding light for the daring possibilities of oil on canvas.

Paul Resika, End of the Day #12, Oil on canvas, 2023, Bookstein Projects, New York.

  1. “Klimt Landscapes” was on view at Neue Galerie, New York, from February 15 through May 6, 2024. 

  2. “Wayne Thiebaud: Summer Days” opened at Acquavella Galleries, New York, on April 26 and remains on view through June 14, 2024. 

  3. “Paul Resika: Ode to the Moon” was on view at Bookstein Projects, New York, from April 18 through May 31, 2024.