Gagosian Gallery, Beverly Hills
The stinking mess of garage-atelier-haybarn where they meet together, Calder and his pliers, buckets of paint, spools of steel wire, sheets of metal, blowtorches, the whole kit ‘n caboodle.
There you have the image at the one end. Elsewhere, along the railroad tracks of history to the outlet stores of the crescent mind, the glossy pages of books cribbed madly by grad students and undergrads.
We have taken the train, we have gotten off all right. Somewhere afar in the past distance or remote tense is the article of conscience freshly-manufactured, and somewhere else entirely are the racks of basement warehouses filled to the brimming espresso purveyor with coffee table books. Right here the conditions are propitious for a valuable invention.
Mondrian! Miró, even... and indeed, Calder!