Estate of Andrew Forge [1923 - 2002]
Andrew Forge
UNTITLED, 1999
Watercolor on paper
22 1/2 x 14 7/8 in.
57 x 38 cm
AF12659
Andrew Forge
UNTITLED, 1993
Watercolor on paper
23 1/8 x 15 1/2 in.
59 x 39 cm
AF12677
Andrew Forge
UNTITLED, n.d.
Watercolor on paper
30 1/8 x 22 1/2 in.
77 x 57 cm
AF12681
Fairfield Porter
UNTITLED
(LANDSCAPE), ca. 1960
Ink on paper
21 x 17 3/4 in.
53.34 x 45.09 cm
FP12063
Fairfield Porter
UNTITLED
(STREET SCENE NEW YORK), ca. 1960
Ink on paper
9 x 5 3/4 in.
22.86 x 14.61 cm
FP12064
Fairfield Porter
MALE NUDE IN BOOTS, about 1954
Pencil on paper
22 x 17 in.
56 x 43 cm
FP12767
Andrew Forge was born in Kent, England in 1923. He exhibited in the United States upon his arrival here in the 1970’s through his death in 2002. Forge served as dean of the Yale University School of Art and was a professor there for nearly two decades. His work can be found in numerous public collections, including the Corcoran Gallery of Art, Washington, DC; Yale University, New Haven, CT; Tate Gallery, London, England; and the Arts Council of Great Britain. He was the recipient of numerous awards: a John Simon Guggenheim Fellowship, 1980; The American Academy of Arts and Letters Painting Prize, 1990; and a Distinguished Teaching of Art Award, College Art Association, 1995.
Fairfield Porter was born in 1907 in Illinois, was educated at Harvard, and spent much of his life on Long Island and in Maine. He began showing with Tibor de Nagy in 1952 and continued showing there until 1970. Porter died in Southampton in 1975; his estate is represented by Hirschl & Adler Modern in New York. Upon Porter’s death, his widow, Anne Porter, donated approximately 250 of his works to The Parrish Art Museum in Southampton, which now holds the largest collection of Porter’s work.
Click below for full press release.
Andrew Forge Well, it’s a long story… As you know, since I started working with dots I’ve been very interested in the way in which the dot itself seems to invite different doings, in a sense. You want to look at them close, you want to see what the dots are doing when you got your nose stuck in them, then you want to stand back and see what they do at a distance… .
Painter David Carbone explores the affinities between painter and composer provoked by visiting Forge’s show at Betty Cuningham this summer (June 4 to August 14, 2015) and hearing Feldman’s Neither at New York City Opera several years earlier.
Walking into my favorite gallery can be like stepping into grandma’s kitchen when the oven’s on. Something’s cooking, I don’t know what it is, but chances are I’m going to like it. In New York, I depend on a dozen or so galleries for such comfort food. These are the galleries that know what I want before I want it.
The geographies vary—from Chelsea, to SoHo, to the Upper East Side—but the consistency of vision and the strength of personality keep these galleries on the tip of my tongue and in the front of my mind. From the rank novice to the seasoned expert, the secret of the gallery scene is to find places you like and to stick with them. What follows are three of my personal favorites.
Coming as I do from London, where the sidewalks are called “pavements” and are made of neatly joined, level flagstones, the roughly poured, broken, unpatterned concrete that one walks on in New York is always affecting. My sense of the whole city is colored by that thin, random seeming covering, a mere temporary shell thrown over the sand and mud which the ancient rocks that jut out of the grass in Central Park seem savagely to ignore. These fissured, pitted sidewalks are treacherous. I keep my eyes down. At the same time I am surrounded by buildings and an ever‐changing panorama of reflections. Clouds and sunlight are inverted below the skyline. Roads of light open between the buildings. I am in a state of constant tension between up and down. The juxtaposition throws up a wholly unfamiliar view of man’s works. And an unfamiliar view of myself. The city seems open, provisional, the luxurious and ramshackle upshot of certain freedoms which, in my European experience, are nothing but states of mind, or longing, and have no material presence – unless perhaps in childhood memories of treehouses, dammed streams, and improvised blockhouses under the kitchen table.
