Sonata 1964

Curator: Alexander Calder's "Sonata" from 1964, rendered in ink and paint on paper. I find its playful geometry strangely calming. What's your take? Editor: It makes me think of musical notation gone wonderfully wild! Like notes dancing off the staff and turning into little colorful suns. Curator: That’s interesting because it reminds me that, throughout Calder’s career, particularly post-World War II, he became quite the international figure, his works seen as beacons of American optimism and dynamism, promoted as symbols of cultural diplomacy. Editor: Well, if diplomacy looks like primary colors having a party, I'm all for it. Those bars of black ink... are they rivers of thought or just delightful chaos? It teeters on the edge of something ordered, but joyfully messy. Curator: And it is deceptively simple, isn't it? Look at the way he’s balanced the composition, the push and pull between the organic, dripping forms and the perfect circles. A deliberate tension there. Editor: Deliberate? Perhaps. Or maybe Calder just knew how to let the ink do its own thing, a collaboration with chance, like jazz improvisation. There’s a certain freedom in surrendering to the moment like that. Curator: It makes me wonder about the role of chance in the work of Abstract Expressionists generally—how much was consciously shaped, how much simply occurred? And of course how that factored into public perceptions. Editor: I'm not so sure about 'simply occurred'. It takes a real artist to make randomness look this good. The whole thing almost hums with life. Curator: So, "Sonata"—a harmonious composition, whether deliberate or improvised? Editor: Absolutely! And maybe a bit mischievous, a visual symphony with a wink. I think I'll leave here humming Calder’s colorful tune. Curator: A refreshing outlook. I see now that the role of art should be also bringing happiness to those seeing it.