Jonathan Lethem’s Cellophane Bricks: A Life in Visual Culture is not a conventional collection of writings about art. Lethem, known for his novels such as Dissident Gardens, Chronic City, Fortress of Solitude, Motherless Brooklyn, has also delved into art writing with a unique approach. He sees art through the lens of a fiction writer, imagining his way into different works to offer keys to new and abstract worlds.
Some essays in Cellophane Bricks are straightforward, while others read like poetic musings that connect to their subjects in mysterious ways. Lethem reflects on his experiences as a writer commissioned by artists, delving into the mystery of their artifacts without the need for direct description or explanation. Artists featured in Cellophane Bricks include Fred Tomaselli, Gregory Crewsdon, Richard Prince, Nan Goldin, and more.
ARTnews recently interviewed Lethem about his approach to art, his experiences growing up surrounded by art, and his unique perspective on the art world. This conversation has been edited for clarity and brevity.
Lethem discusses his transition from visual art to writing and how his critical writing style has evolved over time. He was drawn to writing imaginative stories about art rather than traditional criticism. His studio visits and interactions with artists inspired him to write unique stories that reflected his own thoughts and experiences, leading to a more deliberate focus on art writing.
Lethem’s writing about art has brought out surprising and personal revelations, as he tries to immerse himself in the minds of the artists he writes about. His pieces are a blend of his interpretations of an artist’s practice and his own introspections, creating a unique inter-subjective perspective on art.
The collaborative process with artists varies, from deep conversations with friends like Perry Hoberman and Fred Tomaselli to more distant encounters with artists like Nan Goldin. Each interaction influences Lethem’s writing, allowing him to create a personal and immersive connection to the art world. Somehow, I must establish a deep emotional connection that feels extraordinary to me in order to create a piece.
The Gregory Crewsdon piece was a significant project that involved references from various authors. Writing it felt like a professional step forward for me, as it was for a major publication. It was empowering to work on it, especially since Gregory and I had a shared history from our teenage years in Brooklyn.
Writing about Richard Prince’s work was another appropriation piece, similar to my essay „The Ecstasy of Influence.“ It was a playful way to introduce a collection of his writings and explore his provocative artistry.
My relationship with books has roots in my past as a sculptor and bookseller. I still find joy in arranging and caring for books, seeing them as installations that reflect a person’s mind. The physicality of books is important to me, much like collecting artworks.
Living with artworks, such as my father’s painting and a bronze piece by George Burk, has taught me about embodiment and the passing of time. These pieces are not just objects but representations of our expressive selves. Als das Kansas City Star in meinem Elternschlafzimmer war, als ich aufwuchs, bedeutete das, dass ich es auf die gleiche geheimnisvolle Weise studierte wie du indexierst: Was ist ein Elternteil? Was ist ein Schlafzimmer? Was machen sie dort, wenn ich nicht da bin? Was ist das Leben? Was bedeutet es, erwachsen zu sein?
Mein Vater lebt noch und malt, aber wenn er weg ist, werde ich immer noch das Kansas City Star als ein Stück von ihm haben, mit dem ich mehr als die Hälfte meiner Lebensjahre auf der Erde gelebt habe. Man kann nicht immer etwas aus einem Kunstwerk bekommen. Man nimmt es als selbstverständlich hin, oder es wird fast unsichtbar. Aber dann gibt es andere Zeiten, in denen es dich stoppt und dich wieder öffnet.
George Burk war ein Freund meines Vaters. Es gibt Bilder von diesem großen, stämmigen, bärtigen Typen namens George, der mich als Baby hält. Das ist auch ein Rätsel. Warum hat George es gemacht? Diese Frage habe ich als Kind nicht gestellt, aber ich habe sicher auf dieses Ding gestarrt und versucht, es herauszufinden. Ist George ägyptisch? Soll es beängstigend sein? Soll es sexy sein? Es ist ein sehr mysteriöses Stück, aber es war auch Teil unserer Küche. Dort hing es, als ich ein Kind war, und jetzt ist es in meinem Büro an der Universität. Meine Studenten könnten es anstarren und sich fragen: „Was meint er damit, dieses seltsame ägyptische Lippen-Ding in seinem Büro zu haben?“ Es ist ein Mysterium und ein Stück von George, das durch Zeit und Raum wandert und überall, wo es hingeht, die Interpretation verwirrt.