Henri Matisse, Olga Merson, 1911, Museum of Fine Arts Houston
It seems that I only read Peter Schjeldahl once a year. Or maybe he only strikes a chord once a year. Or maybe I am so distracted I only remember what I read once a year.
In any case, in the 26 July New Yorker he reviews the Matisse show at MOMA. It's a good review but this is the best sentence: "I'm just in a mood- enhanced now, by the thought of the inexplicable inchoately thrilling arc of black paint that slashes Matisse's "Portrait of Olga Merson" (1911) from chin to left thigh- to insist on a hierarchy of sensations that favor the experience of being tripped cleanly out of ourselves and into wondering glee."
How great is that? " trip us out of ourselves and into wondering glee."
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