At the Barnes Foundation

Last Saturday I visited the Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia, pretty much Matisse and Cezanne heaven,¹ the brainchild of Alfred C. Barnes, the Argyrol king, who put together a stunning collection of Impressionist, Post-Impressionist, and early Modern art during the first half of the Twentieth Century. Current estimated street value of the paintings is in the neighborhood of $25 billion, although I suspect about half of that is in Renoirs, whom I could do without. “Fat, pink, happy people,” an angry artist friend explained to me once.

Argyrol, if you’re wondering, was a “mild silver protein” that was the first commercially available antiseptic that actually worked. The development of antibiotics after World War II eliminated Barnes’ natural monopoly, but, obviously, he had already made his pile.

Getting back to the paintings, if you know anything about Barnes, you know that he was a passionate iconoclast, with passionate ideas about how a fuller understanding of art could and would reshape humanity, which was the point of the Barnes Foundation, although Barnes made it difficult for humanity to actually see the paintings, which he arranged in elaborate settings, set off with examples of artisanal work, wrought iron hinges in particular, which were supposed to make the viewer think and understand. Admission was by invitation only. You asked Barnes if you could come visit. If Barnes thought you were too big for your britches, your request was declined. This happened to T.S. Eliot, among others.

The “new” Barnes, a typical contemporary art museum, located in downtown Philly, isn’t so cranky, but all of Barnes’ “profound,” original arrangements are preserved. Naturally, they tell us nothing.² But if Matisse or Cezanne mean anything to you, you have to go.