Peggy Guggenheim led a rich and interesting life. Although, to her regret, her formal education did not extend beyond high school, she more than compensated for that deficiency by reading widely, traveling extensively, and immersing herself in a culture of writers and artists, many of whose careers she launched or significantly advanced. The list of her friends / acquaintances / husbands / lovers is formidable, including (to mention just a very few) Samuel Beckett, James Joyce, Man Ray, Marcel Duchamp, Henry Moore, Salvador Dalí, Yves Tanguy, Jackson Pollock, John Cage, and Max Ernst.Although Peggy's surname is generally associated with extraordinary wealth, her father's early death as a passenger on the Titanic yielded an inheritance that -- while substantial -- was considerably less than the fortunes amassed by other members of the Guggenheim family. Accordingly, her occasional complaints about not having money for certain expenses may have had some justification. Even so, she accumulated an astonishing personal collection of art works many of which eventually graced her splendid home, a Venetian palazzo that is now a museum. One photo shows her standing in front of a Picasso painting, above which hangs a Calder mobile, and below which is a table supporting a Giacometti sculpture.Despite owning and managing a couple of galleries at different times (one in London and one in New York City), Peggy Guggenheim did not view art collecting primarily as a commercial enterprise; toward the end of her book she complains that "the entire art movement had become an enormous business venture. Only a few persons really cared for paintings. The rest bought them from snobbishness or to avoid taxation. . . . Painters whose work I had sold with difficulty for six hundred dollars now received twelve thousand."Guggenheim's sexual attitudes were well ahead of their time, and marriage (her own or someone else's) constituted no impediment to consummation when mutual attraction was present. If the sixties had needed a role model, she could have provided it. In her book she names the names of paramours, and offers sometimes startling reflections ("I am furious when I think of all the men who have slept with me while thinking of other men who have slept with me before."). She is also candid while describing, quite unselfconsciously, episodes of physical abuse that she endured from several partners -- one sphere in which wealth evidently affords no differentiation from what ordinary people experience.Unfortunately, the life of this fascinating and multi-faceted woman deserves a much better account than she herself has written. Out of This Century, which is actually a combination of two originally-separate works, is a dutiful chronology, based apparently on diary entries, but the prose is one-dimensional and generally boring. Moreover, the book is padded with material that adds nothing of interest or substance. The following, not-atypical passage illustrates both deficiencies: "Here I gave a lot of dinner parties. I cooked the dinners myself with the help of Fanny, Mary's maid, who came to me daily. Nellie hated my home, she said there was no place to hang pictures. Nevertheless I managed to place all the smaller ones. The big ones had to remain in storage, where I could see then whenever I wanted."Lacking a capable editor, Out of This Century is perhaps best approached by perusing the index for interesting entries (of which there are many) and jumping right to those pages. That will catch the main themes while avoiding a lot of tedium.
This book is just too poorly written to warrant a higher rating. For someone who lived such an amazing life, living in USA, France, England and Italy and having associated with some amazing people like Ernst, Pollock, Rothko and Capote, you'd think she would have hired someone to write her memoir to give her life justice. She offers no detail, introspection, or reflection. It's a superficial account of what she did. Furthermore, there is no evidence she knew the first thing about art, its composition, or its elements. She lived her life wanting validation and she sought it by indulging artists. She says she couldn't deny these men she sponsored. I'd love to hear their account of how they took advantage of her insecurities. I did love that she called Chicago provincial. So true.
Do You like book Confessions Of An Art Addict (1997)?
As crazy and mad as Peggy herself must have been. The memoirs are a complete mess, but somehow still wonderfully endearing. The writing isn't much, however I did get a sense of Peggy, how she must have spoke and how she must have lived.Her life is enviable. Enough money to do as she pleased, swanning about Europe, London, New York - each time with a different lover or husband. Her life wasn't dull and I wished to sit in the cafes and galleries with her, talking until 4am about art and life and all her different men.At times a difficult read, bogged down in names and events and occasions (and SCENES! So many scenes!), but always charming and unique. Much like Peggy Guggenheim must have been.
—Alexandra Lagerwey
The introduction by Gore Vidal promises that Peggy Guggenheim is the fun, witty girl you want to share barbs with at an art party:"[S]he gave parties and collected pictures and people, there was--and is--something cool and impenetrable about her...She is a master of the one-liner that deflates some notion or trait of character or person."Sadly, her wit and sparkle doesn't seem to make it into this account of an earnest patron of the art of her own time. What one finds instead is a strong primary document that whets your appetite to find out more about her adventures in surrealism and modernism and how she came to cultivate artists like Jackson Pollock.
—Mandy
Peggy Guggenheim came from a privileged background, and at an early age acquired a small fortune (her father died in the sinking of the Titanic, though I can't say I remember him from the movie, har-har). Over time she used this (and more!) money to open a gallery in London in the Thirties. She had shows for a lot of big names (Cocteau, Arp) and even married one of them (Max Ernst). Through the help of all these big names in art, Guggenheim grew to understand and appreciate painting, particularly of the Surrealist and Cubist styles. She was one of those highly attractive and rich women of the time, knew all the right people, made all the right artistic and financial decisions, and had all the right kinds of affairs. So I wanted some juice here. I wanted the freaking pulp.Alas, Peggy's lips were relatively sealed. There's little gossip here. She talks at one point about Ernst's previous wife, Leonora Carrington, and how her relationship with Ernst behind Leonora's back probably-sort-of-likely contributed to Leonora's breakdown. She talks about a relationship with Samuel Beckett and some other dudes, but it was all pretty sanitized. Boo. Having just read Dorothea Tanning's Between Lives: An Artist and Her World, I knew Tanning came into the picture during Ernst's marriage to Guggenheim. Peggy does mention it in her own book, referring to the relationship she witnessed brewing between Ernst and Tanning: "This was destined to end our marriage."There are some photographic inserts, again in black and white, though more forgivable than Tanning's book considering hers was published in the 21st century while Guggenheim's book was published in 1960 and color printers were not quite all the rage they are today. In any case, a quick read, somewhat enjoyable. She wasn't an artist herself, but she could appreciate fine art, and that's commendable in and of itself.Plus, she was a dog-lover and was actually buried next to a plaque listing her lost dog-loves. That's pretty cool.
—El
