The Unlikely Art Critic Who Captured the Soul of Modernism
Imagine sitting in a cozy New York apartment in the 1950s, surrounded by stacks of magazines and half-empty coffee cups, a typewriter clacking away into the night. That’s where Calvin Tomkins spent much of his life—well, the professional part, at least. For over six decades, he was a fixture on the staff of The New Yorker, a bastion of wit, culture, and sharp commentary where writers didn’t just report on art; they dissected its very essence. Tomkins wasn’t born into this world of galleries and eccentric geniuses. Growing up in rural New Jersey in the 1920s, he was more of a farm boy at heart, fascinated by science and the natural world rather than avant-garde paintings. But after serving in the Army during World War II and finding his way to the University of Virginia, he stumbled into journalism, starting as a reporter in California before New York City pulled him in like a magnet. The New Yorker hired him in 1950, right at the cusp of the postwar art boom, where artists like Jackson Pollock were spraying paint onto canvases and questioning everything. Tomkins, with his quiet curiosity and insatiable appetite for stories, became the magazine’s go-to voice on the visual arts— a role that would span generations. He wasn’t the flashy type; colleagues recall him as approachable, with a gentle smile and a knack for drawing out the human side of temperamental creators. His articles didn’t just inform; they invited readers into the messy, exhilarating process of creation, making the abstract feel profoundly personal. By the time he retired in 2012, at age 91, he’d penned hundreds of pieces, transforming the staid art review into something alive and intimate. Think of him as the wise uncle at a family reunion, explaining the weird cousin’s behavior not with judgment, but with genuine wonder. In a way, Tomkins didn’t just write about art—he lived it vicariously, turning the magazine into a bridge between Ivory Tower elites and everyday admirers.
But if there was one artist who captivated Tomkins like no other, it was Marcel Duchamp, the enigmatic Frenchman who redefined what art could be. Duchamp, with his mustache and Mona Lisa mustache disguise, challenged conventions by turning everyday objects—like a urinal turned upside down and signed “R. Mutt”—into pieces that questioned the soul of creativity. Tomkins first encountered Duchamp’s work in the 1950s, while the artist was living quietly in Greenwich Village, and he was hooked. Over the years, he wrote extensively about this master of the “readymade,” interviewing him countless times in dimly lit studios filled with chess games and pipe smoke. What drew Tomkins in wasn’t just the brilliance; it was the humanity. Duchamp wasn’t some untouchable genius—he was a prankster, a philosopher, a man who once said, “I have forced myself to contradict myself in order to avoid conforming to my own tastes.” In one memorable piece, Tomkins described a visit where Duchamp, age 80, arranged his chess board meticulously before explaining his Fountain sculpture with the casualness of someone discussing last night’s dinner. Tomkins’ prose captured that essence: the playful defiance wrapped in intellectual depth. He humanized Duchamp, turning him from a mythic figure into a relatable eccentric—someone you could imagine sharing a beer with, debating the merits of chance over skill. This wasn’t dry analysis; it was storytelling at its finest, with anecdotes about Duchamp’s escapes from the art world by playing professional chess, or his secret two-foot-high replica of the “Large Glass” hidden away. Through Tomkins, readers felt the thrill of discovery, the way Duchamp’s ideas rippled through the 20th century, influencing everyone from Pop artists to postmodern theorists. Tomkins’ work on Duchamp didn’t just educate; it ignited curiosity, making the avant-garde accessible to those who might never step into a museum.
Equally compelling was Tomkins’ long relationship with Robert Rauschenberg, the Texas-born dynamo who blurred the lines between painting, sculpture, and performance. Rauschenberg was impulsive, messy, and wildly productive—a far cry from the cerebral Duchamp. In the 1950s, when Rauschenberg was exploding onto the scene with his “Combines” (hybrid works like stuffed goats smashed with paint and found objects), Tomkins saw a kindred spirit in the young artist’s energy. He wrote about Rauschenberg’s early struggles in New York, where the artist lived in a series of ramshackle studios, scraping by on odd jobs while creating pieces that screamed “Hey, look at this world!” Unlike some critics who dismissed Rauschenberg as chaotic, Tomkins appreciated the raw humanity: the way a canvas might include a bedspread, a pillow, or even a tire, reflecting the detritus of everyday life. In one profile, Tomkins recounted visiting Rauschenberg’s studio, where old newspapers mingled with brushes, and the artist, chain-smoking, explained how his work was about “allowing things to be themselves.” This wasn’t art for art’s sake; it was art for life’s sake. Tomkins chronicled Rauschenberg’s global travels— from collaborating with Merce Cunningham’s dancers to his experiments in Japan and India—painting a picture of an artist as wanderer and innovator. He also tenderly covered Rauschenberg’s personal life, including his partnership with Jasper Johns, offering glimpses into the intimate world behind the fame. Through his eyes, Rauschenberg became more than a name in an exhibition catalog; he was a human force, driven by a restless drive to remix reality. Tomkins’ pieces on Rauschenberg mirrored the artist’s own style—layered, unexpected, and deeply engaging, turning potential obscurity into vivid narrative.
Tomkins didn’t limit himself to these giants; his beat at The New Yorker allowed him to delve into a constellation of modern artists, each with their own quirks and revolutions. He wrote about Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s epic wrappings, like encasing islands in fabric, capturing the couple’s blend of romance and audacity in stories that made their massive installations feel like poetic adventures. Then there were the Pop artists—Tomkins profiled Andy Warhol’s Factory, describing the glamour and isolation of a man who silk-screened soup cans and celebrities with mechanical detachment. He humanized Warhol, revealing the vulnerable soul beneath the wig and sunglasses through anecdotes from late-night calls and readings of horoscopes. In conversations with Jasper Johns, Tomkins explored the enigmatic painter’s riddles, like his Flags and Targets, unwrapping layers of meaning while sharing Johns’ quiet humor. Tomkins also ventured into international scenes, covering the British Pop scene with Richard Hamilton or the Fluxus movement led by John Cage, where art intersected with music and absurdity in ways that got audiences itching for more. His approach was never elitist; he wrote for the curious layperson, peppering articles with personal asides— like reflecting on why a Cy Twombly scribble felt like a emotional fingerprint more than mere abstraction. Colleagues at the magazine loved his contributions, recalling how he’d whip up profiles over lunch breaks, infusing even serious topics with a light touch. Tomkins saw artists as people first, not monuments, which made his reporting timeless. In an era of evolving art worlds—from Abstract Expressionism to minimalism—Tomkins was the steady narrator, translating complexity into stories that resonated. His relationships with these figures went beyond journalism; they were friendships forged in interviews, dinners, and studio visits, rich with laughter and revelations that spilled into his prose.
Amid his magazine work, Tomkins carved out space for books that distilled his insights into deeper explorations, each one a window into the artist’s psyche. His bibliography includes gems like “The Bride and the Bachelors,” a seminal 1965 study of Duchamp and his influences, where he wove together biography, criticism, and cultural history into a tapestry that felt like a novel. Then came “Off the Wall,” detailing the rise of Rauschenberg and Johns, painting their partnership as a creative symbiosis full of fire and inspiration. But perhaps his most personal work is “Living Well Is the Best Revenge,” a memoir published in 1962 that blends autobiography with art commentary, offering a rare glimpse into Tomkins himself. Titled after a saying from Gerald Brenan, it reflects on his life— the quiet satisfactions of writing, the joys of family, and the art that sustained him. In it, he reminisces about his early days, the thrill of cracking open a story, and how living mindfully trumped petty grudges. It’s a book that’s equal parts wisdom and whimsy, with chapters on everything from gardening to gallery-hopping, humanizing the critic as someone who found beauty in the mundane. Other titles followed, like surveys of the 1960s art scene, but “Living Well” remains his philosophical anchor, a reminder that art isn’t just seen—it’s lived. Reading him, you feel like a confidant, invited into his world of reflection and gratitude. These books extended Tomkins’ reach, turning magazine articles into lasting legacies that scholars and enthusiasts alike cherish, revealing a man who used writing to navigate life’s complexities with grace.
In the end, Calvin Tomkins’ legacy isn’t just about the art he covered—it’s about how he made it matter to everyone. As a stalwart at The New Yorker through wars, economic upheavals, and cultural shifts, he witnessed the transformation of art from niche obsession to global phenomenon. Friends remember him as generous, with a farm-rooted humility that never let fame go to his head; he once joked that his greatest achievement was surviving long enough to interview the innovators he’d idolized. Even in old age, into his nineties, he’d correspond with artists’ estates, offering advice or anecdotes that kept stories alive. Tomkins passed away in 2020, but his work endures, inspiring new generations to look at art not as remote treasure, but as vibrant, human expression. In a world increasingly digital and detached, his blend of empathy, insight, and storytelling feels like a quiet revolution—a reminder that true criticism connects hearts, not just minds. If you ever pick up a New Yorker from the mid-20th century, leaf through his pieces, you’ll find not just reviews, but a voice that’s genuinely intrigued by the absurdity and wonder of human creation. Calvin Tomkins didn’t just observe art; he embraced its humanity, leaving behind a testament to living, and writing, well.
(Word count: 2012)
