Crystal Bridges closing some galleries; art ‘takes a break' during expansion
BENTONVILLE, Ark. (KNWA/KFTA) — Attendees at the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art may not have access to certain galleries or pieces of art as the museum's expansion continues.
A news release from the museum said the Contemporary and Modern galleries are now inaccessible while Yayoi Kusama's Infinity Mirrored Room, as well as other works, are 'taking at rest'. The experience will reopen in 2026 with the expanded museum.
USA Today: Silver Dollar City nominated for 4 national awards
Crystal Bridges said almost every piece of art will be relocated as the museum expands by another 114,000 square feet.
The museum said it will begin issuing bi-weekly press briefs on the expansion and that visitors can go to the Crystal Bridges' expansion landing page for more information.
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From 1856 until the 1960s, schoolchildren in Sweden had to pass annual botanical examinations quite literally in the field. Each spring they roamed the meadows and forests to collect 50 to 150 specimens, then pressed, annotated and classified those plants in the tradition of that late great Swedish naturalist, Linnaeus. Hilma af Klint, born in 1862, was one such child. Long before she brought the art world to its knees in a posthumous 2018 retrospective that proved a female artist had made serious formal abstractions years before Kazimir Malevich and Wassily Kandinsky, af Klint was a schoolgirl in Stockholm, where, according to her report cards, she made only B's in the natural sciences but an A in 'Attention.' Fifty years passed. 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That choice makes sense when you see the herbal collection sheets from a different Swedish schoolchild of af Klint's generation, which the show's curator, Jodi Hauptman of the Modern, has displayed for context. They're the same size. In her midlife project, af Klint returned to the scale of grade school, and she arranged her compositions in the manner of plant pressing. (With the exception of a bird and some bugs, her hope to include animals and minerals in the project went unrealized.) Her early professional botanicals, also on display, reveal an important difference in technique. In those she outlined the plant parts in ink. This makes her barleys and thistles look instructional in the manner of an illustrated plant guide. (Several guides from af Klint's day are here.) But the later, more practiced herbals at the heart of this show are largely inkless, sketched in pencil at most. This creates an effect like sun on a living thing. Color and light. All very nice. But what keeps you looking is the evangelically mystical bottom half of these paintings. At the foot of each specimen af Klint has penciled and colored a small diagram explaining, hence this show's title, 'what stands behind the flowers.' In crisp geometries, line work and touches of metallic paint, the pictograms imagine the spiritual states and the motives that she believes emanate from these vegetal beings. Her corresponding notebook, under glass nearby, explains these diagrams in charmingly factual prose. To bird vetch, a creeping vine with hanging clusters of purple flowers, she gives a Fibonacci spiral in brown, gray and black, with colored arrows indicating an inward directional flow. Vetch, we learn, boasts a 'spiritual initiative that uplifts the organs of our soul and body.' European anemone, on the other hand — a flower she captures in both its limp and its fully opened states — gives 'ignorance.' Her symbol for it is a hexagram, the down triangle blue, the up one yellow. And so on for 119 species. Some very efficient exhibition design makes this secret taxonomy at the very least legible — with translations from her notebook in the wall text and magnifying glasses on hand for your scrutiny of the illustrations. (You will need them.) Fall paused the flowers. In January her mother died. By spring, 1920, af Klint resumed her atlas with apparent bleakness. The clammy campion, a fuchsia-colored flower with a sticky stem, stands for 'one-sidedness.' Purple lousewort: 'self-interest.' A sedge: 'gluttony.' A few creatures — an ant, a mosquito, a spider — get upside-down crosses in black, decorated by auras of blood red and gray. However it worked, this particular expression of her moral logic came at a fulcrum. Af Klint had formerly belonged to The Five, a quintet of mediums who held Biblically induced seances in order to transcribe voices from the beyond. In those sessions she scribbled automatically into sketchbooks, which she later transcribed — sometimes collaboratively — in now-famous canvases circa 1906-1908. In the MoMA show, which is almost a mini retrospective, several small solo af Klints from that period, from her 'US Series' (1908), reveal her fixation on the possibility that a numinous reality underpins our visible one. In this context, their shapes seem cordate and herbal, like petals. The same kind of search, though expressed in the harder geometries of quartered squares and Pac-Man-like forms, appears in a wall of her 'Atom Series' (1917) interpreting quantum physics. By her Munso era, she had directed that investigation back toward the visible. Divorced from The Five, she had discovered the Christian occultist Rudolf Steiner, the founder of Anthroposophy and the Waldorf Schools, who, in the old spirit of Protestant mystics dating back to Jakob Böhme, championed the private relationship to God's Word but also pined for the symbolism and mystery of Catholicism. In her Nature Series you can feel those conflicting desires. For one, she is aggressively obscure. Like a Latin mass, the Star of David yin-yang she gives to the pot marigold hides as much from us as it reveals. But at the same time, her herbals want to interpret God's work with the simplest, most public of all evidence. They prove she is a microcosmic thinker in the company of Francis Quarles's poetic 'Emblems,' Walt Whitman's 'every atom,' Joni Mitchell's 'We are stardust' — and an abstractionist, like Georgia O'Keeffe, who based her experiments upon strict observation of her emotional response to the seasons. The odd humility of these paintings makes all the more sense when we consider that this is an artist who had already reached the stratosphere of visual avant-garde. Recall John Cage, who after writing the headiest piece of nonmusic in history devoted himself to the study of mushrooms. Try for yourself: MoMA has planted several of these species out back in its sculpture garden. Better yet, take the train north to Fort Tryon Park, and study untried ones. At MoMA, a wall of bright and hasty energy paintings from 1922 wraps the show — wet-on-wet watercolors with only vague kinships to their herbal titles: 'Oak,' 'Pansy,' 'Birch.' After her years transcribing tendrils and anthers, they are sloppy and fun, like cannonball dives into the placid surface of a lake. They are also less interesting. But they are edgy in their way, and representative of the proto-New Age paintings she would make under the spell of Steiner's theories on color and comparative religion (she owned 120 titles by him) until her death in 1944. These days, galleries are full of the mystical vocabulary that af Klint did much to create: a whole easy-bake coven of painters quoting the Zodiac and Mother Earth in millennial hues that reproduce well onscreen. Like any pioneer, she paid that first tax of rejection. In 1926 she submitted her 'Nature Studies' and notebook to Steiner's headquarters in Switzerland, in the hope of publication. They declined. (MoMA acquired it in 2022.) But a Steiner librarian, writing to her in 1927, did express the consolation that her floral atlas might eventually be 'recognized for its value when the time came for it' and someone 'would have the means to make the work accessible to the public.' High time. Hilma af Klint: What Stands Behind the Flowers Through Sept. 27, Museum of Modern Art, 11 West 53rd Street, (212) 708-9400;
