MoMA Mixtape: The Monochrome Musings of Johanna Fateman

Julius Eastman’s “The Holy Presence of Joan of Arc” + Louise Nevelson’s Sky Cathedral

I started on the fourth floor (1940s–1970s) and, overwhelmed by the options, decided to narrow my focus and give my mixtape a theme. I chose only art that is (pretty much) black and white. And as I write this later, looking at my photos and scrolling Instagram, I learn that it’s Louise Nevelson’s birthday. On this rainy first day of fall, the modernist titan would be turning 123. So, I’ll start with Sky Cathedral, from 1958, a towering monument dipped in Stygian matte paint.

I remember reading that Nevelson had an epiphany as a child. Gazing at a statue of Saint Joan (the artist was Jewish), Nevelson knew that she would become a sculptor. With this in mind, I’m listening to Julius Eastman’s typically miraculous composition “The Holy Presence of Joan of Arc,” from 1981. It’s an experimental tempest written for 10 cellos, anchored by a taunting Patti Smith motif. I think it works. I usually pause only briefly before a Nevelson, taking in its wild topography as a whole, the awesome sum of its parts. Eastman’s piece, around 20 minutes long, could be a score for looking closely and methodically instead, into the dozens of dark boxes—each one its own world of activity—stacked to form the scrap-wood expanse.

Lana Del Ray’s “A&W” + J. & J. Kohn’s Child’s cradle (model 1573)

When I used to come to MoMA with my grandparents—they called it “the Modern”—my grandmother would gasp, standing in front of an artwork, and ask, “Can you imagine?” As a child, I took this as an instruction. I would picture myself making the sculpture, living inside the painting, or wearing the dress. I could hear her stock phrase of wonderment when I saw the black bentwood Child’s cradle (model 1573), from c. 1895, by Viennese furniture makers J. & J. Kohn. Art Nouveau goes hard here. I can absolutely imagine myself, all dressed up, in postpartum despair, rocking a baby in this gorgeously dangerous vessel that conjures mourning, Maleficent, and Hector Guimard’s Paris Métro entrances. The contemporary soundtrack for such moody glamor, dark nostalgia, and bleak white femininity is of course Lana Del Ray—“A&W,” perhaps.

Alice Coltrane’s “Journey in Satchidananda” + Wangechi Mutu’s MamaRay

I ended my visit in the Sculpture Garden, where another mother—Wangechi Mutu’s bronze MamaRay, from 2020—is in residence. Part human, part manta ray, inspired by East African mythological sea creatures, she waits beyond Franz West’s melting orange hoops. She is truly breathtaking with her 12-foot wingspan. I was looking for her but she nevertheless took me by surprise. The sculpture is enormous, but not tall; you can’t really spot it from a distance. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and my choice of music was instant. It felt obvious, destined. Alice Coltrane’s 1971 “Journey in Satchidananda,” featuring Pharoah Sanders, is amphibious, metamorphic, and magical. Coltrane’s first harp glissando gives me the chills. And the recording’s long fade is a perfect end for a mixtape.