by Jon Lackman | 11 February 2012 | Modern
I belatedly note the sad passing of Dorothea Tanning, 101. There’s little I can add at this point to all that’s been said, though I knew her briefly, when in 2004 I fact-checked Jane Kramer’s New Yorker profile of the artist. Tanning’s aversion to phones and email necessitated that I twice trek to her apartment and once to her studio. Kramer instructed me to bring her champagne, noting her fondness for a late-afternoon swig, and I was never to refer to her as a “woman artist.” Tanning’s apartment brimmed with art and curios. My jaw dropped before a Duchamp rotorelief. She excitedly instructed me to set it in motion, “not something you get to do at MoMA!” she exclaimed. My inner conservator shuddered, but her commands were difficult to resist. Most everyone around her seemed to fear her utterly. I think she appreciated that I didn’t much. Not that I’m particularly brave; I just had no choice but to ask her my questions, and if one got me ejected, well then that would be that. None did, though silence often descended, and it persisted until I moved on. I’d say, “If you don’t respond, I’ll take that as a yes.” More silence. How much of that profile she actually agreed with, I’ll never know. She treasured mystery, in life and art, and that I appreciated.
