Andy Warhol does not look like Gertrude Stein. She—short, round and drably clothed—is a far cry from him—drawn, angular and adorned in neon. And yet, as I stared at her portrait on Tuesday morning, all I could see was him. "Ten Portraits Reconsidered", now at the Contemporary Jewish Museum, reexamines Warhol’s (in)famous 1980 series, "Ten Portraits of Jews of the Twentieth Century", but it is really a portrait of the artist himself. From the color palette of the exhibition—lime-green and hot-pink walls—to the haunting Richard Avedon photo of Warhol by the door, the creator is every bit as present as his creations.



Andy Warhol, Gertrude Stein  from Ten Portraits of Jews of the Twentieth Century, 1980, synthetic polymer paint and silk-screen ink on canvas, 40 x 40 in. (101.6 x 101.6 cm )© 2008 Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts/ARS, New York/ Courtesy Ronald Feldman Fine Arts, New York/ www.feldmangallery.com

And that was the idea. “We wanted Warhol’s voice to be present everywhere,” says Richard Meyer, the guest curator, as he introduced the exhibition to the 20-odd media members present. We stood in the cavernous lobby of the new CJM (that day celebrating its four-month anniversary), dwarfed by the enormous geometric ceilings, as thin shafts of light mingled with elusive, prismatic rainbows. I picked up a bagel from the largely untouched spread by the coat check and turned back to Meyer.

The exhibition, Meyer says, began as a conversation with CJM director Connie Wolf, and the conversation transformed into an academic discussion (he comes from the ivory towers of USC). When Meyer presented the talk to Connie, she said “that’s great, Richard, but it’s not a talk. It’s an exhibition.” And so about five years later, the exhibition was ready, and I was forced to put down my freshly schmeared bagel and move toward the gallery.

The gallery echoes with Warhol’s voice. The artist’s quotations pepper the walls, his own flippant remarks contrasting with the authoritative mastery of the works, and his levity belying the idea that the series required an involved creative process. One glimpse of that process came in the form of the original list of possible Jewish subjects. A blown-up copy of the list covered one wall, written in two different pens (did the first one run out of ink, I wonder?), enumerating scores of famous Jews, as well as goys like Pulitzer and Steinbeck (duly marked as “N.J”s, Non-Jews). Further into the exhibition, the 10 chosen personalities emerged: Albert Einstein, Franz Kafka, George Gershwin, Martin Buber (“Who is Martin Buber?” a Warhol quote near the list reads), Gertrude Stein, Golda Meir, Louis Brandeis, the Marx Brothers, Sarah Bernhardt, and Sigmund Freud. 

 

Andy Warhol, Franz Kafka  from Ten Portraits of Jews of the Twentieth Century, 1980, synthetic polymer paint and silk-screen ink on canvas, 40 x 40 in. (101.6 x 101.6 cm) © 2008 Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts/ARS, New York/ Courtesy Ronald Feldman Fine Arts, New York/ www.feldmangallery.com 

In glass cases throughout the space are original reviews of the series and documents that figure as a central theme in the exhibit. The opinions of critics from 1980 illuminate how the meaning and perception of the series has changed over time. To sum up:  In 1980, most critics did not like it. Now, most do. The most often mentioned critique came from Hilton Kramer of the New York Times, who saw the series as crass and exploitative, calling it “vulgar” and declaring that “its contribution to art is nil.” Twenty-six years later, in 2006, Warhol’s portrait of Louis Brandeis was unveiled at Brandeis University, an act indicating the elevation of Warhol from pop fluff to great 20th-century thinker. The Brandeis example, which Meyer cited several times, offers a happy—although arguably predictable—ending to the series’ legacy. Pop trumps pretension.

Beyond the critical reception, thematic analyses, and preparatory work, of course, are the portraits themselves. They are in the center of the back wall, initially obscured by erected white panels, and revealed only in partial snippets until I snaked through the exhibit and came face-to-face with the pantheon. Because the arrangement of the portraits was unimportant, the CJM curators opted for a simple straight line, choosing, as they put it, “the most aesthetically effective order.” It begins with George Gershwin, who squints to his left toward his nine peers, and ends with Sarah Bernhardt, the portrait that Richard Meyer calls “the strongest.” I, for one, liked Kafka the best—a portrait of the author as a young man, with endearingly elfin ears and a mischievous triangle of yellow light slipping over his mouth, seemingly sealing his lips.  

Meyer told us that when some Warhol pieces found their way to art museums in Kazakhstan, the Khazakstani’s were puzzled. “Why are they sending us art that has no heart or soul?” they asked. Considering that question seriously, reflecting on the beautiful superficiality of Warhol’s works, Meyers concluded that they do, in fact, have heart and soul, just not in the ways we normally expect. Looking at Kafka’s slightly upturned lips and his smiling eyes, made devilish by the off-register silk-screened outline, I think I see what he means.

“Ten Portraits Reconsidered” runs through Jan. 25, 2009. Contemporary Jewish Museum, 736 Mission St., S.F., 415-655-7800, thecjm.org