There is a specter haunting higher arts education today, and its name is rationalism. There are goblins, too: theory-driven art, lack of clarity in terminology and intention, hidden agendas in critiques, “de-skilling,” the manufacturing of young art stars, among others. James Elkins certainly has plenty of company¹ in which to raise doubts about the teaching of visual art. Allies include art historians and artists of stature, many of whom also teach. Dave Hickey, not a visual artist, but a professor of English literature, art criticism and theory,writes: “In the present moment, artists are better off training themselves at home and acquiring the benefits of a good liberal arts or art historical education.” But Judith Russi Kirshner observes: “Creativity flourishes when there is a critical mass of diverse individuals working side by side, often in an urban setting.” Could this apply, perhaps, either inside or outside an art school environment? “In art school, a student is likely to become a better artist sooner,” said Jack Tworkov, teaching in the 1950s at Yale. ² “Ultimately, the artist must transcend his teacher,” was the advice of Isamu Noguchi.³

This handsome catalogue documents arecent exhibition of works by Milton Glaser, held at Piero della Francesco’s birthplace and coinciding with a show of Piero’s own work in Arezzo. A selection of Glaser’s well-known posters, silkscreens and lithographs was on view, along with two marvelous colored pencil artists’ portraits: De Chirico, seated in a characteristic metaphysical piazza, and Klimt, against a backdrop of nudes and flat decoration. But the heart of the event was a series of Piero-inspired watercolors, which Glaser has been making since 1989. Glaser has admired the early Italian Renaissance painters since his Fulbright year abroad, 1951–52, when he studied in Bologna under Giorgio Morandi. His approach to the quattrocento master evinces both humility and creative autonomy: “The world does not need bad copies of Piero’s work, and so the solution was to treat Piero as if he were nature itself.” Rather than revisiting entire compositions, Glaser isolates motifs and rearranges the elements, building on his half-century of experience as one of the world’s leading graphic designers.

Piero della Francesco, The Queen of Sheba’s Adoration of the Holy Wood (detail), Arezzo

Take, for example, his variations on Piero’s iconic twin portraits, Frederico da Montefeltro and Battista Sforza. In several watercolors, the two are reunited in a single frame: back-to-back, Janus-style; facing each other and brought close together so their distinctive profiles jigsaw the sky behind them into interesting negative space; overlapping, facing the same way. In each case, Glaser has darkened Federico’s complexion to make a stronger contrast with Battista’s ivory skin. In the catalogue essay, “A Century-Old Passion: Piero della Francesca in America,” Luciano Cheles quotes the painter Joseph Stella on the remarkable profile of the Duchess of Urbino, “ its holy-wafer whiteness set into the blue background with diamond-like precision.” In one version, Glaser reduces Federico to mottled areas of brown, black and red, divided across four sheets. In another, a pair of portraits in soft grey-browns blurs the features of Duke and Duchess. Or Battista is shown alone, in vibrant pale greens and yellows, or under a blue-green aquatic veil, for a symbolist look. Glaser even inserts the face of Christ, from Piero’s The Resurrection, between Federico and Battista. A suite based on that face of Christ has the spontaneous intensity of Veronica’s miraculous veil, especially the way the artist works it out of wet-into-wet brown wash. Another detail from The Resurrection, the head of a sleeping soldier, yields two fine but different images. In one, a strong profile in brown wash is set off by the white saucer of the hat; in the other, the image is sketched out in a psychedelic rainbow of pastels.