The new bittersweet Barnes (2nd review)

If you set aside the history of the Barnes Foundation, perhaps the new building and its contents can be viewed objectively. But how can anyone disregard history when we're talking about a museum— which is, after all, a place for preservation of the history of art?

The new Parkway location is not near any subway or el stop, and parking is limited. Yes, to a small degree, it is more convenient than the Foundation's former home on Latches Lane in Merion. But is it too much to ask people to make some effort in pursuit of knowledge? Would any sane person want to move Monet's garden from Giverny to Paris?

How about moving Hearst's castle from San Simeon to Los Angeles because it is inconveniently located? San Simeon has no tourist amenities to speak of. Indeed, both Giverny and the Hearst castle are much farther from cities than the Barnes was in Merion.

A visitor can't help but be impressed with the enthusiasm of the Barnes Foundation staff. The opening reminded me of another opening a week earlier— at a new Wegman's supermarket. At that event, phalanxes of attendants (some brought in from other stores) stood in every aisle, welcoming customers to their store.

Wegman's has 48 aisles, while the Barnes has 24 display rooms. But you get the idea.

The welcoming speakers were effusive in their self-congratulatory assertions. It was obvious that all of them believed what they were saying. They honestly think they have fulfilled Albert Barnes's intent by making the collection "accessible to the masses." Black civic leaders, in particular, seem to believe that Barnes (a supporter of racial justice) would be happy to see his collection within the city limits and closer to black neighborhoods.

The "'inaccessible' myth

Perhaps so. But Albert Barnes wanted his art seen by invitation and/or by appointment. Barnes may have been egalitarian in some respects, but ultimately he was an elitist.

At the opening festivities I couldn't help wondering how many of those on the dais made a practice of visiting the collection in Barnes's Merion mansion. If they had, it's doubtful that they could have kept a straight face while asserting that it was inaccessible.

After the courts mandated longer exhibit hours in 1962, virtually anyone could see the collection with minimal effort. My family and I never had a problem getting in, over many years: I called in advance, made reservations and took my wife and kids as often as I wished. Our 40-minute drive to get to Merion was no great handicap.

But if we put the past behind us, how does the new place look? And how well is its art displayed?

Sterile foyer

The exterior is attractive, but the property is so small that we can't get much sense of a gradual approach. We pass nice shrubbery and a reflecting pool, and then we're there. Inside is a large, modernistic and sterile foyer, lacking any grass or topiary to remind us of the original Merion setting.

Once we enter the inner sanctum, however, things are virtually identical to Barnes's original. There are 24 galleries with identical measurements and with the same paintings and accouterments hung exactly as Barnes hung them. Inserted between some of galleries are additional small rooms for classes, conveniently located close to the artwork. And the lighting is brighter and more neutral of tone.

But what does color-neutrality mean? It would be most helpful if a museum could replicate the light temperature of Picasso's Paris studio, or of Leo and Gertrude Stein's salon, so we could view the paintings as the artists saw them.

It's amazing to see the Matisse blue-pink-black-and-white mural, The Dancers— which had been painted, on canvas, expressly for an archway over Dr. Barnes's windows— transferred perfectly to the new building. And it's impressive to see Matisse's great Joie de Vivre relocated from a stairway to an alcove on the second floor. Truth to tell, though, visitors trying to get close to that painting block the view for everyone else.

Eerily familiar

Everything else in the galleries looks exactly, eerily, the same as it did in the past decades and presumably before Barnes's unexpected death in an auto accident in 1951.

Just as Barnes planned, the paintings are juxtaposed with wrought-iron hinges as well as furniture and pottery that relate to each work of art and create an ensemble. For example, in front of a Renoir painting you'll see a colorful pot by the painter's son, Jean Renoir, who became famous as a filmmaker. And much space is devoted to primitive art from Asia and Africa.

The density of the collection is awesome. In one 12-foot by 14-foot room, for instance, 14 Matisses, 12 Picassos and a dozen other painters are ensconced.

I found myself impressed, all over again, with Barnes's prescience in buying so many paintings that others ridiculed. When Barnes exhibited some of them in 1923, critics called the artists "the unhappy victims of mental disease" and Soutine's work, in particular, "the creations of a diseased mind." A Dr. William Wadsworth described Barnes's collection as "immoral, destructive and dangerous" and sought court action "to suppress such works."

El Greco, too

Barnes deserves praise for assembling such a treasure, and also because his purchases encouraged other progressive artists of the period. Especially striking is the presence of earlier paintings, such as those by El Greco, which are on view because of Dr. Barnes's desire to link 20th Century artists to their predecessors. And American works can be found on the walls of every room.

The rooms are attractive; gardens with comfortable seating are just outside; and the ambience is as pleasant as it is inspiring. Albert Barnes and his legacy may never rest in peace here, but there's reason to hope that his formidable collection will.♦


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