What does “genius” look like from a bird’s eye view? She sets the alarm for 4AM to finish the essay, to prepare the lecture, to capture the sprite muse. It stations itself at the same simple wooden desk she’s been writing on since she left home for college because it functions well, and there’s far too many other pressing matters to attend to. Like reading both volumes of the 700-page oral histories of artists long forgotten. Like consuming the most difficult theoretical texts because her graduate students need to know about them. Like combing Chelsea’s galleries on a Saturday to view the latest. Like archival research. Like explaining to the world the science of the materials that comprise an art object and the contexts that make it say something to viewers. Like remembering who owned the thing in 1967.
Genius takes a moment to say goodbye to a group of artworks that she’s gathered in a show from various places “because I’ll never see them together again.” It swims upstream. Every day. It remembers the details—the artists’ name, the date of her first solo show, the curator of the show, and the year she moved to Paris to study or to love. Or both. It knows what a toucan is. It gets animated in the presence of a painting that has only been seen in two dimensions on a page. It consumes a lot of books. It’s not on Facebook.
My heartfelt congratulations to Kellie Jones on winning the MacArthur Fellowship. Continue to teach and amaze us with your intelligence, commitment to excellence and enchanting grace. -Dr. Guy
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My heartfelt congratulations to Kellie Jones on winning the MacArthur Fellowship. Continue to teach and amaze us with your intelligence, commitment to excellence and enchanting grace. -Dr. Guy
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