Guggenheim Museum Archives Reel-To-Reel Collection Internationalness of American Painting with Thomas Hess, 1964

Guggenheim Museum Archives Reel-to-Reel collection Internationalness of American Painting with Thomas Hess, 1964

MALE 1 Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to this, the second lecture in our series of Sunday afternoon talks in connection with the fourth Guggenheim International Award. The topic of today’s lecture is The Internationalists of American Art. And at the risk of drastically misinterpreting what our speaker is going to say, I’d like to preface my introduction by remarking that, as all of you know or have heard, in the last 14 or 15 years the United States has taken some pride -- some justifiable pride, Americans like to think [01:00] -- in the fact that our painting, for the first time in our history as a nation, has had a distinct influence on the art of the world. In Europe, this point of view is not so generally accepted, of course, as it is in the United States.

One reason that many Americans are aware of this pride we take in our first influential art in the entire world is because, for the first time in history, in the history of art in this country, one of the most powerful, influential, and important art magazines has called attention consistently to the great advances and excitement of American painting. To a very large extent, credit for this belongs for our speaker [02:00] this afternoon, Mr. Thomas B. Hess, executive editor of the Art News. Mr. Hess? (applause)

THOMAS HESS Can you hear me? This seems to be working. I feel I should apologize somewhat for the talk I’m about to give. I’ve never been to a Guggenheim Museum lecture before, and I don’t really know what you’re expecting. My Sunday afternoons are usually devoted to minor vices. I like to read the art critic at the New York Times. [03:00] I always remember one Sunday he did a double-barreled review of Philip Guston and Jack Levine’s exhibitions. He said that Guston was a very fine painter, but he was too abstract, not enough life there, was too removed from the human turmoil. And he said that Levine was a very fine painter, too, but that Levine had too much life and too many obvious commitments, and there was too much politics.

So, I suggested that the solution here was the painters should simply switch their titles. A Jack Levine painting of police dogs and Negros in Birmingham could be called something like Untitled Abstraction Number 17, 1961, and a Guston non-figurative picture could be titled something like Stamp Out Municipal Corruption. But I do get the press releases [04:00] of the Guggenheim museum’s lectures, and that, for once, puts me in a situation comparable to Mr. [Canaday’s?]. That is, I know what the lectures are titled, but I’m not quite sure what they’re up to. There was a series of lectures lately called, I think, “The Afters.” After pop art, after abstract expressionism, after hard edge. The whole thing had a nice Louis XV ring to it. “After.”

Well, I’m afraid that mine is a more formal, old-fashioned paper, and I guess you could call it “After After” or “Post-post-pop.” Sounds like a breakfast food. The title that you were given was “The Internationalists of American Art.” Of course, I had to think that up before I wrote this lecture in order to make the press releases. I got it typed out now, [05:00] and I’ve come up with an even more confusing title, which is “The Localists of Internationality.” We all know what happened to international school of Paris painting sometime in between the years 1939 and 1944: it ceased to exist. We all know how it happened; the evidence is plainly there in literally thousands of pictures by hundreds of extremely gifted, intelligent artists.

Guggenheim Museum Archives Reel-to-Reel collection Internationalness of American Painting with Thomas Hess, 1964

Up to World War II, there had been a consistent, brilliant procession of at least a century long. Isms followed isms; masters succeeded masters. Realism, impressionism, pointillism, post- impressionism, intimism, fauvism, cubism, surrealism. It was a glorious chronicle, [06:00] with Courbet and Manet, Pissarro, Monet, Cezanne, Surat, Van Gogh, Lautrec, Bonar, Matisse, Picasso, Miro. The tradition of Paris-centered art could look back to Pusan in the seventeenth century and beyond him to Fouquet and even to the stained-glass windows of Chartres.

In the mid-1930s, there was no reason at all to believe that the situation could not last forever. New masters would come inevitably with the punctuality of sunshine at noon, and there was plenty of talent around the city. Even as the surrealist movement was beginning to fade into an increasingly exquisite diminuendo, connoisseurs were keeping their eyes peeled on such rookies as Fautrier, Bissiere, Hartung, [Helbe?], Bazaine, [Pineau?], [Bouguereau?], [Lorgieux?], [Lan?], and the others. And these, [07:00] shortly after the war, were joined by scores of such new names as Marchand, de Staël, [Boufface?], Soulages, Mathieu, Monestier, Lanskoy, [Sanchier?] and so forth and so forth. The roll of their names is practically endless.

But instead of emerging as a new cluster of schools and individuals, the artists of post-war Paris seem to stick and sink into the luxurious colors, elegant lines, and cleverly interlocked forms that a generation before had been the marks of Parisian excellence. Suddenly, as it were, strength was transformed into weakness; the nicely adjusted harmonies of blue and roses took on the deathly look of undertakers’ cosmetics. Virtuoso drawing, instead of defining, straggled forth.

All the guild mysteries of the painters’ cuisine -- the fine cookery [08:00] to the Gallic taste -- now combined to dish up flowing sauces and pastries that would never rise, no matter how thoroughly the dough was teased, the creams whipped, the crusts dusted and garnished. The old masters of modern art were still very much alive, but by 1945 they began to shine like ominous beacons on a coast littered with wrecks. The magnificent styles of the late Bonar or the late Matisse became unavailable, although many Paris artists tried eclectic combinations.

One would adjust Matisse’s brilliant colors to Picasso’s distorted anatomy is. Another tried to blend Bonar’s sensitized brush marks into structures derived from the primitivist aesthetics of Paul clay. But inevitably, due to a lack of what might be called aesthetic gravity, the parts fell apart. [09:00] International Paris painting degenerated in front of our eyes with a rapidity that was astonishing as it was horrifying, for, despite what the French themselves believe, nobody except a few cranky patriots took any pleasure from this debacle.

As I have indicated, we know what happened, and we know how it happened, but the important question, it seems to me, is why did it happen? And to my knowledge, this crucial issue remains strangely overlooked. Styles in schools do not die like simple flowers. Something has to intervene; something has to change; and a search for this unknown element is a primary responsibility of a critic who feels a greater need than merely to decode museum labels.

I put the question some 15 years ago to one of the artists I admire [10:00] the most, the Parisian Alberto Giacometti, mentioning at the same time that I felt the only good new painting was being done in New York. Giacometti said that this didn’t surprise him in the least, because, after all,

Guggenheim Museum Archives Reel-to-Reel collection Internationalness of American Painting with Thomas Hess, 1964 art has to gravitate to centers of political power. Now, this appeal to a politically centered culture, while it may make some sense in the fifteenth or the seventeenth centuries, hardly applies to modern art. French painting itself reached one of its most splendid climaxes during and after the defeat of 1870, and there was no concentration of artists in the great power centers of London and Berlin around 1900.

Another Paris painter who had himself served briefly as a private with the defeated armies of 1940 told me that the collapse of French painting was due to the general disillusionment, cynicism, and corruption of the whole nation. He said, [11:00] “We act as if things were the same as ever, but inside we remember the surrenders, the occupation, the collaborationists everywhere, the black markets.” But even if, for the sake of argument, one conceded this dismal picture of the European national character -- for these strictures would include Germany and Italy and Paris and Spain as well as France -- the question remains unanswered.

It cannot explain the contemporaneous vitality of Paris poetry, drama, the novel, and, more recently, architecture. If France was so sick after the liberation that it couldn’t become a place for artists, then how could it have made the stage for the plays of Genet, Beckett, Ionesco, Audiberti; or the poetry of Char, du Bouchet, Bonnefoy; the novels of Butor, Robbe-Grillet, Simon; to say nothing of the typically French and typically energetic post-war work of Camus, Sartre; the [temps modernes?] [12:00] team; the New Wave movies; the new looks in fashion; the new suspensions in the Citroen automobile; and in the star image of Brigitte Bardot. Even taken separately, such manifestations indicate life; together, they prove that France remains immensely rich and productive, not only as a land but as a vital national -- indeed, international - - spirit.

A third painter I asked to explain the demise of the Paris painting restricted his answer to the artist’s world itself, and he produced a half-hour rant against the whole art system. The dealers, he said, run everything with their bought critics. Artists are on their knees in front of the manipulators of the art market. Everybody is smug, he complained; they feel confidently superior and are happy to butter each other’s provincial backs. The art set-up, he concluded, is a cozy Paris racket. It disgusts him [13:00] and all his friends. Now, this artist’s view, because he is an American in Paris, should be suspect, even if most foreigners in France do become more royalist than the king.

But his remarks throw light on the facts of life as they concern some leading Paris artists, particularly those whom we are apt to admire the most. These men seem to agree implicitly with the Americans attack. They work almost entirely in exile from the local art scene and its social tangles. “I never see any other painters” is a typical statement from the midcentury Paris painter. I have heard it said many times, usually with rueful pride. But as indicated here, I believe, is that after a hundred years of revolutionary activity, most of Paris painters at some point in between 1939 and 1944 began to disappear [14:00] into their milieu. Working for instead of against the establishment, they became indistinguishable from it, and their sacrifice of a bit of individuality entailed the loss of art.

In this context, there is a dramatic contrast between Paris today and Paris painting from Corbier through Picasso. Vanguard Paris art used to be characterized by a rough, intransigent, often

Guggenheim Museum Archives Reel-to-Reel collection Internationalness of American Painting with Thomas Hess, 1964 overtly revolutionary attitude. The artist was not out to shock the bourgeoisie; he was apart from it and against it. The artist was a dedicated enemy of the people. He was against the government, its courts, and economics; he was against industrialism and capitalism. Usually, artists took positions with the political left. Indeed, the vanguard manifesto movement of the twentieth century is frequently modeled along the lines of the political activists’ [cell?].

[15:00] Sometimes artists side with the radical aristocratic right. One thinks of Degas’ anti- Dreyfus passion and the scandal it caused among his colleagues in this connection, or of Salvador Dali’s anarcho-royalism. Manet, old and famous, turned down the Legion of Honor; Picasso joined the Communist Party. Van Gogh’s republic of artists would be governed according to the rules of apostolic anarchy. The entire surrealist movement dedicated itself to the service of the revolution. A good symbol of the spirit of French modern painting could be Corbier giving a hearty tug on the rope that toppled the Napoleonic column in the Place Vendôme.

Even when Paris artists were nonpolitical, they withdrew in disgust and not from apathy or ignorance. [16:00] Renoir was not bored by French politicians; he avoided them because they and what they stood for nauseated them. This political-social orientation was as much a part of the painters’ oeuvre as it was of their biography. Almost as if in reaction to this attitude from its artists, capitalism -- as it developed first in France; later throughout the world -- evolved what has been called the vanguard audience. Unlike the mass public and the entrenched members of the power structure, the vanguard audience is sympathetically involved with artists and with their art but for its own ends.

In contrast to the artists, it is rooted in and owes allegiance to the existing politico-economic system. In the art world, it seeks a comfortable, colorful social milieu. [17:00] Costume balls and cocktail parties are goals for the vanguard audience, oriented to the artist rather than to his work. Friendship with a painter becomes a substitute for the content of his art; knowledge of anecdotes, gossip about painters’ foibles, glimpses of undressed rehearsals become the ersatz image of the subversive meaning in modern painting.

Along with its social drive, the vanguard audience moves along the rough lines indicated by its powerful instinct for acquisition. It subsidizes galleries; it buys paintings; and the profit motive is never very deeply buried in these transactions. The fast buck is as attractive as the big party. The only problem for the member of the vanguard audience is how to get inside and, once in on the know, how to keep swinging with it.

Because the vanguard audience is uninvolved with -- indeed, [18:00] is antagonistic to -- the content of modern painting, its only possibility for staying in the art world is to agitate for change. It can stay modern and superficial only if the face of modernity stays unfamiliar, particularly to one’s square, big business friends. Drained of content, the modern work of art has only one meaning: It is new. Thus, the vanguard audience keeps pressure on the artist to switch styles and manners, to produce new books, new shivers. The passport to the future needs almost daily revalidation.

Guggenheim Museum Archives Reel-to-Reel collection Internationalness of American Painting with Thomas Hess, 1964

The faster isms change, the better. The new is always cheaper in price; the profit motive reinforces an interior hysteria. The alienated publicity man or retailer [19:00] or stock exchange speculator wants an art that will echo and reinforce the rhythm of his own fluctuations between exuberance and satiation. In this sense, the vanguard audience can be compared to an army of white phagocytes, as these were illustrated in anatomy lessons in our child’s books of knowledge.

It is mobilized by the body politic to contain the infection of art. Like white blood cells, it surrounds the foreign element, engulfs it, dissolves it. The vanguard audience will buy an artist until it kills him, which may sound like a farfetched trope if we did not remember the poignant example of the suicide of Nicholas de Staël. Of course, there is no single reason for an act of self-destruction, especially in a man as complicated and as sensitively intelligent as was de Staël. There were many contributing factors, [20:00] but one of the main causes of his anguish, as he himself said, was the fact that he was selling pictures like hotcakes, and he was deeply uncertain about his work.

This is an extreme example. Most Paris artists accepted the comforts of the vanguard audience without sacrificing anything more important than the trifle which distinguishes a work of art from a bit of tasty decor. No wonder that artists like Balthus and Giacometti, who continue to produce major work, have opted out of the Paris art world. Dubuffet presents a particularly instructive case in this respect. He has built himself an artificial position that poses as anti-art, anti-bourgeoise, anti-intellectual, anti-system, within the system itself. He runs with the pack while being like a lone wolf.

He works for [21:00] and with the vanguard audience even as he denounces it in manifestos that are published in deluxe editions, in forwards to elaborate catalogs of bestselling exhibits, in private [demeures?] that end up in the public columns of influential magazines. He has shrewdly picked the role in Paris culture of the pet saboteur. This double loyalty colors Dubuffet’s work of the past 10 years with a vivid and not altogether unsuccessful sense of tension, but his earlier work when he was against the object of his attacks -- that is, when he chose to be an outsider from the Paris art world -- are far more profound and more moving.

No single cause can account for the collapse of a school as large, as heterogeneous, and as deeply rooted in tradition and convention as was the [22:00] International School of Paris. The predatory vanguard audience didn’t simply swallow it raw. There was another converging factor which, in a sense, made the art digestible: Paris itself changed. It had been the most modern city of the nineteenth and early twentieth century. Paris was the arena where a modern, cosmopolitan, radical, international art could act, because the city embodied the look, tempo, the very texture of the historical moment.

This is not so much a matter of architecture, technocracy, of traffic or mores. Rather, it is a combination of all these elements with the impalpable ones of character and that mixture of atmosphere and style that painters call light. Paris had it and then, seemingly as quickly as the painting itself changed, Paris lost it. The city of the mid-century [23:00] became New York. Tourists and immigrants from all over the world noticed this instantly. Europeans are apt to call

Guggenheim Museum Archives Reel-to-Reel collection Internationalness of American Painting with Thomas Hess, 1964

New York the city of the future, but that is merely a metaphorical way of saying that this is the city of now, the urban landscape of our time.

Looking back with the perspective of almost two decades, it seems inevitable that events should have conspired with dramatic haste to make New York the capital and center of a new cosmopolitan, international bundle of styles and a large interlocking community of artists. Waves of Paris artists in exile appeared on the scene during the war, an influence which I emphasize in a book on abstract painting in 1951 which today seems to be overestimated.

American artists were [high sophisticated?] to the historical possibilities of the moment. Kandinsky, Mondrian, Clay -- even Matisse, Bonar, [24:00] and Picasso -- were better known to New York artists than they were to their Parisian contemporaries, and the city itself, its corruption, speed, change, light; its aggressively hostile public that looked at art with the malevolence of Balzac’s capitalist guerrillas and Flaubert’s charlatan tycoons became, however improbably it might have seemed at the time, the only place for painting.

There may be some paradox in that last sentence. If modern art is, as I have indicated, international and cosmopolitan, made up of artists of many different origins, consisting of paintings and painters on the move, should it not by definition inhabit no one place, or even no place at all? But in order to exist, international art has to be somewhere. It must have location, even if it has no name, [25:00] and modern American styles of painting have been singularly successful until very recently in rejecting all nicknames and categorizing appellations. Art must have a centripetal focus, both in time and in geography. There must be a home, even if it is seldom visited.

Provincial art, on the other hand, nurtured in its own village or county from local beliefs and the regional picturesque, however valuable it may be in itself, actually exists in no place. It pertains to no time other than its own timeless realities. It rises and falls independently of the great historical movements. By being so precisely where it is, provincial art could be anywhere at any time.

For example, the most famous regional American painter of today is Andrew Wyeth, of Maine and Pennsylvania, who’s been active since around 1940. [26:00] But he could just as well has painted his incisive evocations of winter sun or bicycling adolescence in Greece or Finland in 1890. Minor details might differ -- a man might stand in an [acampus?] instead of in blueberry bushes -- but Wyeth’s concept is essentially outside history and independent of location.

The city is necessary for the continuity of Western art, as we have noticed since [Jacqueau?]. Its indifference, its size, its particularized anonymity provide the medium through which the discourse essential to a developing art can be maintained, and this discourse might take the form of a 10-year conversation in a favorite cafeteria or a visit to a studio or a glance in the gallery. One might note here in passing that Willem de Kooning, whose pictures have for more than 20 years epitomized the grandeur and profundity of the New York school, has referred [27:00] to the scene as no environment.

Guggenheim Museum Archives Reel-to-Reel collection Internationalness of American Painting with Thomas Hess, 1964

Post-war Paris changed itself, by choice or chance, into a gamut-like capital. Perhaps the French word would be [cousseau?]. When a group of young American painters working in Paris on the GI bill around 1948 to ’52 discovered that there was no Left Bank life, no jazz version of La Vie de Bohème, they proceeded to create one for themselves from scratch. The French were aghast. They visited the studio parties, eavesdropped on the cafe jabber, goggled at the beards and blue jeans, and flatly announced that this life doesn’t exist anymore. It was a work of pure creative imagination, and as much as anything, the young GIs emphasized how deeply Paris had changed.

The content of New York school painting, like the content of its ancestral school of Paris art, [28:00] was and continues to be revolutionary, subversive, radically antagonistic to the establishment and to practically everything that the powers that be stand for and do. As in Paris painting, this attitude almost never takes the form of an overt political subject matter. Indeed, in our period of liquidated ideologies, nothing has been liquidated quite so thoroughly as politically ideological art. The fascist or communist social realists, after all, compromised even more dramatically with their patrons and relinquished more of their individuality than the postwar Paris artists ever did to their [deeters?], critics, and collectors.

New York painting is subversive in its exaltation of the artist, in the sweeping nature of its claims to all-inclusiveness and to exclusivity. It sets its private standards above those of the community and of history. One of the most remarkable and creative [29:00] accomplishments of New York painting has been its renewal and defiance of the past. With its radical assumption that anything can become art and that the artist can do anything, it proceeded to drag the past right up into the present. Willem de Kooning has called this “inventing the harpsichord.”

Schwitters’ Merz collages reassembled for entirely new purposes based on complete completely different concepts by Rauschenberg or by Stankiewicz. [Lye-Rivers?] could reinvent Delacroix. Barnett Newman could insist that his stripes and color columns have nothing at all to do with the formalist aesthetic of the constructivists but refer only to their own aspirations to sublimity. Robert Motherwell could redraw Picassos happy-go-lucky pigeon into his own private, exclusive introspective Motherwell bird. The past was worshiped as it was being defied, and the synthesis of this dialectical process [30:00] gave to the tradition of Western painting one of its most remarkable and its most desperately won continuities.

The artist’s work, implanted in the city reacted, violently with and against it. The style and atmosphere or light of New York informs the gestures of Pollock, de Kooning, Kline, Rothko, Gottlieb, Vicente, Newman, Guston, Still, Hoffman, Reinhardt, Tworkov, [Poussey?], Motherwell, and the many other artists of this school. Their influence, of course, has been enormous, international, and transmitted at the speed of the jet planes which carry productions across the oceans.

But, as so many international surveys of the state of world arts since 1950 have demonstrated -- and I include the one currently on show above our heads -- international New York school painting cannot be exported. [31:00] Its effects are fatal when they are adapted without their relevant assumptions and understanding of location. The action attack, when used for itself alone, becomes just a different kind of icing on the same old cake. Abstract expressionism cannot be put to the service of the vanguard audience craving for the new without a total loss of

Guggenheim Museum Archives Reel-to-Reel collection Internationalness of American Painting with Thomas Hess, 1964 content. The style cannot be extrapolated from an intuition of its place and history. It has to be lived in New York; its ethical requirements have to be met.

Up to this point, this paper could have been written 10 years ago. The situation has changed since 1954, but largely, in degree and ways, it could have been predicted from the elements that were then at hand. What could not have been foreseen are the events of the past few years. [32:00] A very few of the originating artists have become financially successful, as might have been expected, but the untimely deaths of Jackson Pollock and Franz Kline were shocking, tragic surprises.

The New York school has developed with force and consistency, and its younger artists, the overlooked second generation, and a group of brilliant new sculptors are meeting the same hostility and public scorn that greeted their elders on their initial appearance. A vanguard audience has come into being, and it performs its allotted parasitic role. It patronizes while attempting to muffle and contain the subversive content of abstract expressionism.

It seeks to dissolve the artist’s despair and exultation in the bland motions of friendly acceptance. I have heard a collector explain a Newman painting that was hanging in the living room with the words, “Oh, Barney? He’s really a swell guy. He came to dinner here last month.” [33:00] Her implications for prestige and for reassurance need no further comment.

The high-pressure demand for novelty from the American vanguard audience and the atmosphere it creates, the frivolity without wit, of shallow seriousness has added a certain adrenaline smell of the art world. In an article published last June, I called this the “phony crisis.” It is a syndrome of false dilemmas and foolish questions like “What comes after pop art?” or “Isn’t So-and-so repeating himself?” or “Where can you get a good picture for $350, like you used to be able to get Charlie Egan’s?” or “Who are you betting on next year?” or “Who are your young artists?” or “Is it true the painterly painting is out?”

The only damage that the phony crisis has done is to mask from the artist the real nature of his own part in the continuing crisis of modern art and modern life, which are the life and death [34:00] problems of identity, continuity, possibility, and existence. Current proliferation of styles in New York painting has not come from the coaxing of the vanguard audience.

The school was wildly heterogeneous from the beginning and included in its community such disparate idioms as the crashing black-and-white insignia of Franz Kline; Rothko’s throbbing edges of color; Newman’s stripe that thinks like a man; de Kooning’s Woman, with their allusions to Billboard images and to the studio environment; Vicente’s collages of painted paper arranged according to an idea that separates somewhere in between space and painting, the space of painting and the space of collage.

Reinhardt’s eye-twisting monochromes; Motherwell’s big, banal declaration of Je t’aime, which by now banality begins to turn into something else that has intimations of universality. [35:00] Pop art; hard-edge painting; optical abstractions; Neo-Dada assemblages and constructions; the dramatics of happenings and environments. All come into being and direct lineal descent from the assumptions of the New York school.

Guggenheim Museum Archives Reel-to-Reel collection Internationalness of American Painting with Thomas Hess, 1964

The other changes that one notes at first might seem minor. There is the breaking down of the aesthetic distance, of the crystalline barrier that separates the work of art from the spectator. Anti-style had been a New York slogan from the beginning, but it was included in the hardboiled, aristocratic, intellectual attitude. Something new appears within art of programmatic ingratiation, with cuddling the audience in the name of anti-art. Certain Neo-Dada constructions, for instance, invite the viewer to play with them, to join in the fun. They charm the spectator, beguile and tease them. Art tends to become a courtship dance between buyer and [36:00] seller.

In some of the abstractions that rely on drastic optical effects -- colors flashing on and off; lines appearing and disappearing; after-images milling around like a crowd dispersed into the streets -- the action of the painting takes place mainly in the eye of the beholder. A new kind of naturalism, based on our retinal structure, is evolving, in which the artist relies on the audience to complete his work. And in some pop art acceptance of the environment is changed into a campy game about it.

The vulgar, instead of being taken for granted, admired, and transformed, becomes a cult object or new fetish or inside joke. A simper is heard behind some of these works that go all out to seem daring and risky. A final portent is the emergence of the art critic who wants to be a force in sales and of the art dealer who wants [37:00] to create styles and the blending of the two into one lumpen entrepreneur.

New York art exists in a delicate balance between location and dislocation, continuity and revolution. Emphasis on the other side of the equation can annul it. It won’t take anything so big as a world war to ruin the New York school, and the fact that at least two generations of artists are now at work in masterful solitude can be of as little help to the younger artists as Picasso was to the lost generations of the Parisians. The phony crisis can merge into the real one, just as two forest fires can join and together destroy a mountain. Part of our commitment to modern art and of our adherence to the radical solutions found in New York is the knowledge that art itself can cease to exist. [38:00] (applause)

END OF AUDIO FILE 9009177_01a-Internationalness-of-American-Painting.mp3

Internationalness of American Painting / Thomas Hess, 1964/2/16. Reel-to-Reel collection. A0004. Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum Archives, New York