Then to see a Peter Hujar image is to experience a rest. His record of the time was eventless, made in the intervals.
Fran Lebowitz once said, “Art made out of art is not art.” I beg to differ. One of the finest forms there is is the writing about art, at least for people like me who are perhaps so dull when it comes to the physical that they need art re-translated into the metaphysical. In other words: Art is best understood through others’ words. One writer who consistently affords me this is Sarah Nicole Prickett, and this piece on the photography of Peter Hujar is a prime example. The hundred and sixty pieces of Hujar’s work, displayed at The Morgan Library in New York from now through May—would I have seen how they convey, as Prickett phrased it, “a respect so sincere it looks like flattery”? For an artist as significant as he, it is fitting that many others’ words—twelve, in fact—comprise this piece. Fran Lebowitz’s aren’t any of them, though a photograph of her, included in it, tells its thousand words, and she will speak the rest herself this February 8.