Helen Marden: ‘I paint because I have to’
Helen Marden's exhibition, 'The Grief Paintings', opens at Gagosian in New York almost a year after the death of her husband, Brice Marden. She opens up about finding her own artistic voice. Save to My Ocula
It has been almost a year since the death of Helen Marden's husband, the influential painter Brice Marden. She speaks with Anna Dickie about her life, finding her voice as an artist, and her upcoming exhibition, 'The Grief Paintings' at Gagosian, New York.
I call Marden at her light-drenched studio in the charming town of Tivoli, New York, from Aotearoa New Zealand. By coincidence, she has just started a book about James Cook, the British explorer who landed on New Zealand's shores in 1769.
Marden is something of an explorer, too. In the early 1960s, after finishing her BFA at Pennsylvania State University, she travelled extensively, including hitchhiking across Morocco, inspired by Mohamed Mrabet's stories of the country. Then, with Brice, whom she married in 1968, she built a life across continents, living nomadically between the United States, the island of Hydra in Greece, the Caribbean Island of Nevis and Marrakesh in Morocco.
Images of the Marden's homes reveal books stacked against walls, fanned out across coffee tables, and jostling for space in heaving bookcases. They sit alongside objects collected over a lifetime. Moroccan rugs, richly patterned furniture, artworks, and ceramics share space with souvenirs from the natural world. Seashells are scattered across mint-green benches, sculptural driftwood leans against plastered walls, and bunches of dried and fresh flowers sit alongside piles of lemons and tangerines. Dimitrios Antonitsis—an artist, curator, and close friend of the couple—describes Marden as having 'the eye of an archaeologist'.1
Marden's paintings are also infused with light, colour, and the soft and hard textures of nature. Although an abstractionist, she dismisses theoretical discussions, explaining that she is simply driven by an instinct to create—Minimalism, Modernism, and Greenbergian stoicism be damned.
Six of Marden's works are currently on view at the Mohamed VI Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Rabat, Morocco. They are included in an exhibition curated by Vito Schnabel, Travel Diaries, which also features the work of Brice, as well as paintings by close friends Francesco Clemente and Julian Schnabel. As Vito Schnabel writes in the exhibition text:
'They are New York artists, no matter where they came from. They rubbed shoulders with the likes of Bob Dylan, Ornette Coleman, Andy Warhol, Allen Ginsberg . . . These connections give birth to fruitful dialogue and an exploration of the boundless subversive and exploratory potential of art.'2
Confidently occupying an entire gallery within the Moroccan museum, Helen Marden's works comprise gestural, lyrical strokes, mostly in hot pink with occasional pools of blood-red, lemon yellow, and white, as well as swathes of liquid black. The resulting bright, biomorphic forms float against white backgrounds, their overlapping shapes interrupted by sinuous drips of paint and objects from nature applied to their surface—feathers, shells, twigs, and pieces of sea glass. One large painting, Flutter (2023), contains a form which calls to mind the wings of a bird or a moth, with shells adhered to its surface. There is a vibrating energy to this and the other works—a sense that, without the weight of the objects, they might take flight.
Marden's upcoming show at Gagosian, The Grief Paintings, will feature round intimate abstractions, approximately 50 centimetres in diameter, also characteristically vivid, with fluorescent pinks and hints of gold giving way to reds, almost-purples, soft whites, and cerulean. The works were begun in 2023, as the artist cared for her husband who was diagnosed with cancer in 2017, and completed over the months following his passing. She tells me she chose canvases of this size because she felt it was all she had the energy for. Yet, the paintings poured out of her. The same energy that emanates from the larger paintings on show in Morocco exists in these smaller works, too.
Objects from nature feature heavily in the works, with feathers and shells gathered in dense clusters or painted and placed in patterns. Created with resin, powdered pigment, and ink, the compositions often spill over the edges of their circular supports, extending beyond the canvas in delicate waves, with feathers also occasionally protruding. Marden tells me that she did not set out to paint grief, but for me, these works mirror the experience of it as something uncontainable, something that hits you in the chest when you think you have it shored up. Maybe they also hint at the crushing emotions of love and longing, which are necessary for grief to exist at all.
That Marden stayed true to herself in the face of her husband's global success and influence is extraordinary, although she did stop painting for several years after their two daughters were born—intimidated, she says, by the art world.
The artist's solo show, Agape/Αγάπη, at Gagosian in Athens last year, featured one particularly significant piece. Valley (c. 1980)—a beautiful abstract oil painting suggestive of a rugged, Grecian landscape hugging the ocean—was the first work Marden did in the summer she returned to painting. The contrast between this early piece and her recent canvases reveals that, while Brice's work developed in the art-world spotlight, her practice also continued to quietly and independently evolve, reflecting a steely resolve to find her own voice.
One of the first things Marden did when she returned to painting was to rewrite her name again and again in red. At the end of our call, when I ask her how she would sum up her approach to painting, she explains, 'It's my work. I love it. This is what I do.'
AD: Your upcoming exhibition with Gagosian features works made this past year under the title The Grief Paintings. When it opens, it will closely coincide with the one-year anniversary of Brice's death. Can you tell me about the works and the title?
HM: After Brice died, I was emotional, not even realising the depth of my grief. But I didn't plan to paint 'grief'. I suppose the works are a projection of my sorrow, but that wasn't intended. They just came out the way they did in a very unplanned, organic way.
I've been sad these last few days. I have been looking at early bright paintings from when Brice was at Yale. I have also been talking with my friends [artists] Terry Winters and Jane Kaplowitz—whose husband, [art historian] Robert Rosenblum, died in 2006—and we have discussed how grief comes in different stages. In the beginning, I felt okay because it hadn't hit me yet. I went to Greece after Brice died, and I had a show. I seem to be hit this week with a more profound grief.
‘In those days, Brice was the art heavyweight. And I had the kids. Finally, I thought, 'I don't care. I'm just going to work. If I can keep the kids breathing, I can work.’
I re-read Joan Didion's book, The Year of Magical Thinking [2005], which she wrote the first year after her husband died, about how you think in some magical way they are coming back. Well, they aren't. I do like being alone—I have always kind of been a loner—but now, in the early evenings, it's hard. Every evening, Brice and I would talk.
With my bigger canvases, I think a lot about what I'm going to do, and then I do it. The works in the upcoming show are small, round paintings because I didn't think I had the energy for anything bigger.
AD: Yet, the compositions of these paintings spill well beyond the confines of the canvas.
HM: I painted them on the floor with a plastic sheet underneath. I saw how the resin protruded, and it appealed to me. They are made with a mix of resin with powdered paint, shells and feathers.
AD: Where do the shells and feathers come from?
HM: It started with a dead bird outside my studio that flew into the window. And then I ordered feathers from all over the place. It was the same with the seashells. They started out with what I collected and then I wanted more, so we ordered them in.
AD: You mentioned talking with Brice in the evenings. Did you ever share your studio space?
HM: No! When we first got together, he said to me, 'I don't like to share.' I said, 'Great, I don't either.' We always had separate spaces.
He came up to my studio before he died, looked at my work and said, 'Half of them are good.' But he never came back to tell me which half. That made me laugh.
AD: If we go further back, before you met Brice, what was your childhood like?
HM: I grew up in Pennsylvania. My father was British. My mother was a scientist, and then switched to social work, focusing on child welfare. She helped people a lot and my father did too. I spent a lot of time in nature. I loved being out in the woods and dreaming.
‘Although an abstractionist, [Marden] dismisses theoretical discussions, explaining that she is simply driven by an instinct to create—Minimalism, Modernism, and Greenbergian stoicism be damned.’
AD: Nature is clearly important to you. I have seen pictures of your studio in Tivoli where you painted the works that will be shown at Gagosian. It looks full of light. Can you tell me about the space?
HM: I love the nature here. I don't go to New York very much; I'm now a country bumpkin. This was Brice's studio for a while. When he stopped coming up here because he was working in his other studio, I moved up. It has a whole wall of glass windows on one side, so I get the western light. Right now, the light is streaming in. Last year, I was talking to Edwina von Gal, who is a landscape designer, and I asked her what I should do with the lawns. She said to stop mowing them, so I did. Now, when the wind blows, I can watch all the grass move. It's beautiful.
AD: Do you ever paint at night?
HM: No, never. Sometimes, when I am travelling, I might do watercolours at night. But no, I'm a day painter. To paint at night would not be me, psychologically.
AD: Can you tell me about the watercolours?
HM: They are my drawings. I just do them when I feel like it. I'm going out to Pennsylvania for a week, and I will take my watercolours with me. I just love working. I'm glad I have passion. I love being up here, in my studio. I love being alone and working.
AD: You have other homes and studios. How did you come to live between Greece, the West Indies, and Morocco?
HM: I was trying to explain that recently to a woman I was sitting across from at a dinner at MoMA in New York. She asked me why we had all these different houses, and I said, 'Well, first, I'm old, and we bought these houses over a long period of time. Second, it was because Brice had to work. He never wanted to go on a vacation. He would start drawing 20 minutes after we had unpacked. So, it is not as impractical as it sounds, because Brice needed and wanted to work everywhere.'
We bought our first house in Greece in the 1970s. It was the first year Brice made any money and it cost around 18,000 USD. We paid 9,000 USD with his first pay cheque, and then paid off the rest the following year.
He would draw on the little terrace under the grapevines, with all the juices dripping down. We started buying our homes as soon as we had any money, and we continued like that.
‘I just love working. I'm glad I have passion. I love being up here, in my studio. I love being alone and working.’
AD: Your love of travel had an influence on Brice and his painting. I am thinking of his 'Cold Mountain' series, for example, which he started working on in the mid-1980s after you travelled to Asia. Could I suggest Brice might not have been the painter he was without you?
HM: No, Brice would have got there anyway. I have just been looking at paintings he did in the early 1960s when he was still at Yale, and Brice was already Brice. His practice evolved, of course—I'm thinking of the calligraphic work he made after we went to Thailand. But we went to Greece when we were young. He loved the olive trees and the colours, and then he painted the 'Grove Group' [1972–73]. So, yes, I took him to places that had an impact, but he was ready to change, ready to add something else, to do something else.
He worked everywhere and, although it was me who made the arrangements for us to travel, he loved it. In the last few years of his life, we visited Morocco and Greece. He wanted to see them again. Even last July, when he was not well, we went out to Pennsylvania because he wanted to see Eagles Mere again.
AD: When did you meet Brice?
HM: I was a waitress for four or five months in New York, and I met him at the bar. He followed me around and then I quit and moved to Woodstock for the summer. The next fall I saw him again and he asked me to meet him, and there you go.
AD: Before you met Brice, you went to Morocco for a period, after completing your BFA at Pennsylvania State University in 1963. I understand you travelled there after reading Paul Bowles' translations of stories by Mohamed Mrabet. Did you spend time with Bowles?
HM: Yes, Brice and I went to visit Bowles in Tangier with our friend, the poet Rene Ricard. This was before Bowles had his resurgence after the movie based on his novel The Sheltering Sky [1949] was released in 1990. We went to see him when our daughters were little, and I returned later by myself.
It was Bowles' translations that I enjoyed. I love the stories of Mohamed Mrabet, which were told to Bowles and he translated into writing. I got in contact with Mrabet a few years ago. I have some of his ink drawings. I hope they might be shown at some point. I went to Morocco because of his stories, but his drawings are kind of magical.
AD: You read a lot—photographs of your studios and houses show piles of books. What are you reading now?
HM: Now that I'm older, I don't read as fast, but I still love to read. I love being alone at night with my dogs and reading. I just started a book about James Cook.
AD: You stopped painting for a period. Why did you stop?
HM: I was intimidated by all those guys in New York and the art world. Then I was in the Whitney Biennial years and years ago, and a critic said, 'Well, she's no Brice Marden.' And I thought, 'Fuck, anyone knows that!' He would never get away with saying something like that today. But, well, he said it. Fuck that!
AD: Does that comment still make your blood boil?
HM: It did. Robert [Rosenblum] defended me. In those days, Brice was the art heavyweight. And I had the kids. Finally, I thought, 'I don't care. I'm just going to work. If I can keep the kids breathing, I can work.'
AD: I understand it was a group of women who encouraged you to continue painting.
HM: Yes, Elizabeth Murray and Jennifer Bartlett had a big influence on me. And Kiki Smith up here in the country. We see each other a lot and we are friends.
AD: There was a beautiful painting in your last show in Greece titled Valley. Can you tell me about it?
HM: That was the first painting I did when I started making art again. It is of Hydra, looking over the hills. I am pleased I started painting again. I was ready. We were in Greece and the girls were three and four, and I rented a little place around the corner from our house and I'd go there every afternoon and start painting. It was bubbling out of me. I had to paint again. It was imperative. I wasn't scared anymore of the New York art world.
AD: It must have been a great feeling not to be intimidated anymore. It must have been hard to carve out your own voice?
HM: Yes, it was. Now I think it's easier for women to be given more respect—at least on the surface—but back then it was very overpowering, and maybe I should have been stronger. I finally was, but it took a while.
AD: You mentioned talking with Brice in the evenings? Did you speak about each other's art?
HM: He asked me to look at his paintings as he was working on them. We didn't really speak about my work. When he was working on a new group of paintings, he would want me to look at them and to hear what I had to say. I would tell him, 'Don't ruin them. Stop.' We laughed about that.
AD: You currently have a show in Rabat, Morocco, titled Travel Diaries, which is organised by Vito Schnabel. Can you tell me about it?
HM: It was Vito's idea to put Brice, me, Francesco Clemente, and his dad [Julian Schnabel] together. Vito came and picked what he wanted to include. The director and curator of the museum— Abdelaziz El Idrissi and Salima El Aissaoui—are great. I saw the museum when it first opened ten years ago, and it has really upped its game.
I was just there for the opening, and then I stayed in Marrakech for three weeks. The Clementes came and stayed with me. It was fun. The whole thing was just a wonderful experience. I really enjoyed talking with people, especially the Moroccan women artists.
I want to go back to Morocco in September, after I leave Greece, to see the show and speak with Salima again. I also would like to see the National Museum of Jewellery in Rabat.
AD: I have one more question for you. When Brice was asked why he painted, he said, 'I paint because it's my work, because I believe it's the best way that I can pass my time as a human being. I paint for myself, I paint for my wife, and I paint for anybody that's willing to look at it.'3 I wondered what your response is to the same question. How would you sum up why you paint?
HM: That's a beautiful quote from Brice. I paint because of all those reasons too. I love it. It's my work. This is what I do. I can't do anything else. I don't want to do anything else. This is what I am going to do until I die. I feel lucky. —[O]
Helen Marden: The Grief Paintings is on view at Gagosian's Park & 75 Gallery space on the Upper East Side, New York City, from 24 July until 14 September 2024.
1 Anna Godbersen, "Whether it's Upstate, the island of Nevis or the Greek Islands, Helen Marden keeps the doors open." Upstate Diary, May 2022.
2 Vito Schnabel, Travel Diaries, New York, April 2024.
3 As quoted in William Grimes, "Brice Marden, Who Rejuvenated Painting in the 1960s, Dies at 84." The New York Times, 10 August 2023. Originally said to documentarian Edgar B. Howard in 1976.
Main image: Helen and Brice Marden (2006). Photo: Jenny Rogers.
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