The World of Steinberg

(8 of 8)

Steinberg, on the other hand, dismisses (or refuses to pin down) the idea of such a transition. What marks the difference between his work and that of the easel painter, in his view, has always been more a question of medium than of aesthetic fullness. "I think of myself as being a professional. My strength comes out of doing work which is liked for itself, and is successful by itself, even though it is not always perfectly accessible. I have never depended on art historians or the benedictions of museums and critics. That came later. Besides, I like work to be on the page. I never like to sell the object. I enjoy selling the rights of reproduction. In that way I consider myself to be doing the work of a poet who prints the words but keeps the manuscript. I kept most of my original drawings. I believe every artist in the world would like to sell only the rights of reproduction. Except for the ones who make giant paintings—they are very happy to get rid of them. And sculptors: there is nothing more tragic than the unsuccessful sculptor, faced constantly by his large, reproachful objects. Comment s 'en débarrasser!" His recognition is, Steinberg admits, "one of the biggest satisfactions of my life." His way of living is set, and is likely comfortably to remain so. Steinberg divides his time between a book-lined duplex in Manhattan's Upper East Side, sprinkled with his own objects and hung with a collection of drawings by American artist friends (de Kooning, Arshile Gorky), and a modest studio on Long Island. In the country, his wooden constructions: tables scattered with whittled books, made-up pens, artificial pencils. A disciplined man with many friends and no discoverable enemies, he enjoys what he calls "the Kabuki theater of the night" — the rituals of sociability and long dinner conversations. His extracurricular passion (apart from cats) is baseball, which he regards not only as "an allegorical play about America" but as a metaphor of ideal conduct. "At night," he says, "I often identify myself with the pitcher who pitches a perfect game. Before falling asleep I strike out a side, then in the next inning I initiate a triple play, then I go ahead at bat and hit a homer. All these fantasies, based on the true glory of base ball! And why? Because a major league player has to be special; he must have a certain lyrical quickness and luck that belong more to the poetic than to the athletic part of life. Baseball is nearer to art because of the expert solitude of the player."

That solitude is threatened by the Whitney exhibition, and Steinberg views the glare of attention with a carefully nurtured indifference. "I would like," he says opaquely, "to retrospect the retrospective." But the crowds that arrive to inspect the Inspector will, one may predict, come to laugh and stay to think; for this show sets before us one of the most intriguing and complex intellects in art today.

−Robert Hughes