Julius Rolshoven: the Duveneck Boys and the Taos Society of Artists

by Roy Bernardi

Julius Rolshoven (1858-1930) was an American painter whose professional trajectory connected European academic conventions with the artistic landscape of the American Southwest. Best known for his portraits, figure paintings, and later depictions of the American Southwest. Rolshoven held membership among the twelve founding artists of the Taos Society of Artists and created some of the finest depictions of New Mexico’s Pueblo communities.

Julius Rolshoven, The Indian Council, ca.1916. oil on sized burlap-laid canvas, 72 x 90-1/2 inches. Collection of the New Mexico Museum of Art, Santa Fe, New Mexico

Julius Rolshoven, The Indian Council, ca. 1916, oil on sized burlap-laid canvas, 72 x 90-1/2 inches. Collection of the New Mexico Museum of Art, Santa Fe, New Mexico

Julius Rolshoven was born in Detroit, Michigan, on October 28, 1858. His artistic training was unusually international for an American painter of his generation where he studied at Cooper Union in New York. Continued at the Düsseldorf Academy in Germany. Studied in Munich with Frank Duveneck (1848-1919), becoming one of the famous “Duveneck Boys” and later worked and studied in Paris at the Académie Julian. 

Rolshoven dedicated his existence to traversing primarily among three significant locations: Detroit, Michigan, his birthplace and formative residence; Florence, Italy, where he maintained a residence and undertook the restoration of a medieval estate known as Castello del Diavolo (“Devil’s Castle”), which was the formal residence of Lisa Gherardini (1479-1542), the muse for Leonardo Da Vinci (1452-1519) and his iconic painting, the Mona Lisa; and Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he established a residence and maintained a studio within the Palace of the Governors. 

(Left) Julius Rolshoven, Self Portrait, 1924. oil on canvas, 19-3/4 × 15-5/8 inches. Collection of the Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit, Michigan. (Right) Julius Rolshoven, Portrait of Frank Duveneck, ca. 1894, oil on canvas, 30 x 16 inches. Collection the National Academy of Design, New York, NY
(Left) Julius Rolshoven, Self Portrait, 1924, oil on canvas, 19-3/4 × 15-5/8 inches. Collection of the Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit, Michigan. (Right) Julius Rolshoven, Portrait of Frank Duveneck, ca. 1894, oil on canvas, 20 x 16 inches. Collection the National Academy of Design, New York, NY

During the 1870s, Munich had emerged as the foremost destination for American art students. In contrast to Paris, the Munich Academy  emphasized dynamic painting techniques, dramatic light, and rich earth colours. During the year 1878 in the city of Munich, Frank Duveneck, founded an independent atelier where instruction was notably casual and experiential. Students observed his painting methodology, subsequently implementing identical techniques in their own artistic work. The most prominent members of the Duveneck Boys cohort included John Henry Twachtman (1853-1902), John White Alexander (1856-1915), Otto Henry Bacher (1856-1909), Julius Rolshoven, Joseph DeCamp (1858-1923), Theodore Wendel (1859-1932), and Herman Wessel (1878-1969). Though frequently associated with this collective, William Merritt Chase (1849-1916) functioned primarily as a distinguished colleague and associate rather than a formal student, despite his artistic development occurring in parallel with Duveneck’s artistic circle. Rolshoven studied with Duveneck in Munich before accompanying the circle to Italy in 1879. He absorbed Duveneck’s vigorous handling of oil paint but gradually developed a more refined, cosmopolitan style while living in Florence and traveling throughout Europe. Rolshoven’s professional career exemplifies that the Duveneck Boys operated as independent practitioners rather than stylistic imitators, with each artist developing Duveneck’s foundational principles through their own distinctive artistic directions. Although “Duveneck Boys” was originally a nickname, the group is now recognized by art historians as one of the pivotal circles in nineteenth-century American painting. By means of their exhibitions, teaching endeavours, and professional accomplishments, they facilitated the transition of American artistic practice from rigid academic traditions toward increasingly liberated and emotionally resonant aesthetic approaches that ultimately gave rise to American Impressionism and early modern realism. They modernized American realism.

Julius Rolshoven, Reclining Nude, ca. 1878-1879, pastel on paper mounted to canvas, 26-1/2 x 34 inches. Created during the Duveneck Boys cohort days. Private Collection
Julius Rolshoven, Reclining Nude, ca. 1878-1879, pastel on paper mounted to canvas, 26-1/2 x 34 inches. Created during the Duveneck Boys cohort days. Private Collection

One work executed during Rolshoven’s formative years in Europe, Reclining Nude, ca. 1878–1879, pastel on paper, mounted on canvas is an accomplished academic figure study that reflects the rigorous training he received in Munich during his association with the circle of Frank Duveneck. The composition demonstrates Rolshoven’s exceptional command of draftsmanship and his sensitive handling of the pastel medium, employing subtle tonal transitions to model the figure with remarkable naturalism. The work belongs to the period when Rolshoven and his fellow American expatriates later known as the “Duveneck Boys” embraced the direct observation and painterly realism that distinguished the Munich School from the more polished academic traditions of Paris. Working with pastel, with its capacity for both painterly softness and precise linear definition, proved ideally suited to the study of the human figure, allowing Rolshoven to explore the effects of light across flesh while maintaining structural integrity. 

Julius Rolshoven, La Fiorentina “The Red Hat”, 1905, oil on canvas, 45 x 31-1/2 inches. Private Collection
Julius Rolshoven, La Fiorentina “The Red Hat”, 1905, oil on canvas, 45 x 31-1/2 inches. Private Collection
Julius Rolshoven, Donna Tosca, 1923. oil on canvas, 73-1/2 x 40 inches. Collection of the Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit, Michigan
Julius Rolshoven, Donna Tosca, 1923, oil on canvas, 73-1/2 x 40 inches. Collection of the Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit, Michigan

Rolshoven’s European career earned him accolades at major international expositions held in Paris, Munich, Berlin, Brussels, Florence, Buffalo, St. Louis, and Chicago preceding his eventual connection with the American Southwest. One of Julius Rolshoven’s most significant accomplishments was his unwavering dedication to maintaining classical academic painting methodologies during an era characterized by substantial artistic transformation. As Impressionism and contemporary artistic movements were fundamentally reshaping the artistic landscape, Rolshoven steadfastly upheld his commitment to representational art, rigorous compositional principles, and meticulous technical precision. His artistic works exemplify exceptional craftsmanship and demonstrate a sophisticated comprehension of the human form. 

Julius Rolshoven, Portrait of Charles Lyttelton, 8th Viscount Cobham, 1898, oil on canvas, 35-3/4 x 28 inches. Private Collection
Julius Rolshoven, Portrait of Charles Lyttelton, 8th Viscount Cobham, 1898, oil on canvas, 35-3/4 x 28 inches. Private Collection

Rolshoven distinguished himself particularly as a portrait artist, best known for his portraits of high-society figures in Europe, and Pueblo Indians in New Mexico producing compositions that successfully captured not merely the physical resemblance of his subjects but also their individual character and social position. His portrait compositions continue to be esteemed for their psychological sophistication and superior technical execution. By the close of the nineteenth century, Rolshoven had established himself as one of the foremost American expatriate painters working in Europe, attracting an elite clientele that included members of the aristocracy, diplomats, intellectuals, and prominent figures in European society. One such portrait of Charles Lyttelton, 8th Viscount Cobham, 1898, oil on canvas, is an outstanding example of Julius C. Rolshoven’s accomplished portraiture during the height of his international career. The present portrait reflects the sophistication and psychological sensitivity that distinguished his finest commissioned works. Charles George Lyttelton (1842–1922), who later succeeded as the 8th Viscount Cobham in 1898, belonged to one of Britain’s oldest and most distinguished noble families. Rather than relying solely upon the conventions of formal aristocratic portraiture, Rolshoven presents his sitter with a compelling sense of individuality and quiet authority. The composition balances dignity with naturalism, revealing both the social stature and personal character of the subject through restrained gesture, direct observation, and an understated elegance.

Julius Rolshoven, Nude with Fruit, circa 1895-1900, oil on canvas, 36 x 28-3/8 inches. Private Collection
Julius Rolshoven, Nude with Fruit, circa 1895-1900, oil on canvas, 36 x 28-3/8 inches. Private Collection
Julius Rolshoven, Woman Sewing in Sunlit Courtyard, Florence, ca. 1905-1910, oil on cradled wood panel, 25-1/2” x 31-/2 inches. Private Collection
Julius Rolshoven, Woman Sewing in Sunlit Courtyard, Florence, ca. 1905-1910, oil on cradled wood panel, 25-1/2” x 31-/2 inches. Private Collection

Upon the outbreak of World War I and its consequent disruption of European society, Rolshoven made his return to the United States. In 1916, he established his residence in Santa Fe, where he commenced his artistic endeavours depicting Pueblo ceremonial practices, portraiture of Native American subjects, and landscapes of New Mexico. His artistic output synthesized European academic realism with the vivid illumination and chromatic richness characteristic of the Southwestern region. While in Santa Fe Rolshoven befriended the original founding members of the Taos Society of Artists known as the “Taos Six” when it was established in July 1915; Joseph Henry Sharp (1859–1953), Eanger Irving Couse (1866–1936), Oscar E. Berninghaus (1874–1952), William Herbert “Buck” Dunton (1878–1936), Ernest L. Blumenschein (1874–1960) and Bert Geer Phillips (1868–1956), Later, the society expanded to include six additional active and associate members: Walter Ufer (1876–1936), Victor Higgins (1884–1949), Julius Rolshoven, E. Martin Hennings (1886–1956), Catharine C. Critcher (1868–1964) the Society’s only woman member, and Kenneth Miller Adams (1897–1966). Although Rolshoven joined after the six founders, he was already an internationally respected painter with decades of European experience.

Julius Rolshoven, Field of Poppies, 1887, oil on canvas, 33 x 54 inches. Private Collection
Julius Rolshoven, Field of Poppies, 1887, oil on canvas, 33 x 54 inches. Private Collection
Julius Rolshoven, Fiesta in Taos, 1917, pastel on paper, 19-7/8 x 13-7/8 inches. Collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC, New York
Julius Rolshoven, Fiesta in Taos, 1917, pastel on paper, 19-7/8 x 13-7/8 inches. Collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC, New York

Rolshoven differed from many Taos painters because of his extensive European background. His paintings are characterized by strong academic draftsmanship, rich, luminous colour, careful figure modelling classical composition, sensitive portrayals of Pueblo life and ceremony. A balance between realism and poetic atmosphere. Rather than emphasizing dramatic Western action scenes, he often focused on dignified portraits and ceremonial subjects. His works from this period, such as Fiesta in Taos, 1917, pastel on paper, combine academic realism with vibrant colour and careful observation of Southwestern life. He infused his works with emotion and harmony, inviting viewers to appreciate the beauty of both natural and human environments.

Julius Rolshoven, Florence, Tea Time, 1887, oil on canvas, 22-1/2 x 30 inches. Private Collection
Julius Rolshoven, Florence, Tea Time, 1887, oil on canvas, 22-1/2 x 30 inches. Private Collection

Julius Rolshoven an international academic painter occupies an important place in art history as a master of academic realism whose work reflects both European tradition and American ambition. His portraits, figure works, and genre paintings reveal exceptional technical skill, thoughtful composition, and enduring artistic sensitivity. Details evident in his composition Florence, Tea Time, 1887, oil on canvas, distinctly demonstrate his proficiency in depicting realistic imagery. Although his name may not be as familiar as those of some modern artists, his contributions continue to enrich our understanding of the artistic achievements of his era. As museums and historians increasingly revisit overlooked artists, Julius Rolshoven’s work stands as a lasting testament to the enduring value of classical craftsmanship, cultural exchange, and artistic excellence.

Finally, Rolshoven’s career demonstrates the international character of artistic production before globalization became a modern concept. His movement between Germany, Italy, and the United States reflects the circulation of ideas, techniques, and artistic identities that shaped Western art at the turn of the twentieth century. The year 2030 will commemorate Rolshoven’s centennial anniversary.

Rolshoven’s works are held by institutions including The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, NY; The Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit, Michigan; The Brooklyn Art Museum, Brooklyn, New York; The National Portrait Gallery – Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC; The Santa Fe Art Museum, Santa Fe, New Mexico; The El Paso Museum of Art, El Paso, Texas; The Newark Museum, Newark, New Jersey. 

A Legacy of Making: 29 Contemporary Artists Inspired by Their Italian Heritage

Hunterdon Art Museum, Clinton, New Jersey, September 27, 2026-January 10, 2027
Joanne Mattera, curatorial essay

We are the children and grandchildren of Italian immigrants. We are American by birth, culture, and education, but by heritage and home life we are Italian. We grew up navigating between identities in the languages we spoke, the foods we ate, the references we understood, and the often vastly different expectations each culture held for us (especially for women). This bifurcated identity was normal, simply the way it was. As in many Italian American families, there is room around the table for others. At the metaphorical table of A Legacy of Making, there are places for those born in Italy or elsewhere but living American lives here, and those whose parents or grandparents emigrated to countries other than the United States, such as Argentina, Australia, and Canada, where so many Italians established homes for themselves and their descendants. The artists in A Legacy of Making draw from the past—from the generations, the journey over, the, the traditions—translating ideas from the original Italian into contemporary art.

Wayne Montecalvo, Sophia, 2024, mixed media, foam, cardboard, wax, digital images, 30 x 22 x 2 inches
Wayne Montecalvo, Sophia, 2024, mixed media, foam, cardboard, wax, digital images, 30 x 22 x 2 inches

The Journey Over 

“We carry the history of our families and our cultures in our psyches as well as our genes,” says B. Amore. In her assemblage, Following the Thread IV: Concettina De Iorio, we see a photograph of Amore’s maternal grandmother, surrounded by the objects and artifacts of her life, telling a story of emigration, hardship, and a husband’s betrayal. The filo rosso—red thread—that runs through the work represents a Neapolitan tradition of departure. The person boarding ship carried a ball of yarn, while the person at the dock held fast to the loose end. As the ship pulled away, the ball unwound in an attenuated goodbye. Symbolically, of course, it connects the generations from one time and place to another.


The ocean figures prominently in the work of Angelica Bergamini. Her small watercolors and prints are poetic evocations of what she calls “the immense blue.” The Tuscan-born artist is thinking cosmically, but for many the blue is a reminder of the difficult voyage taken by our forebears. Karen Guancione, whose Neapolitan and Sicilian grandparents came to America by boat, is a maker of unique and limited-edition books. One of them, Il Mare is a leporello, an accordion book, that extends to view after view of the sea.

Timothy McDowell, Spaghetti Western, 2024, oil on panel, 48 x 48 inches
Timothy McDowell, Spaghetti Western, 2024, oil on panel, 48 x 48 inches

Maps are the foundation of the work of Diana González Gandolfi and Gianluca Bianchino. For Bianchino, who flew multiple times as a child between the Italy of his birth and the country where he would grow up to live and work, the aerial landscape viewed without borders reflects his interest in “geography, geology, and geopolitics.” González Gandolf was born Buenos Aires into an Italian family, whose patriarch, Gaetano Gandolfi, fought side by side with Garibaldi in Italy’s Wars of Independence. Her father moved the family for his diplomatic work from Argentina to Indonesia, to Colombia, and eventually to the United States. The artist’s monotypes literally map where she has been.

Italian and Italian American References 

John Avelluto and Claudia DeMonte draw from Southern Italian and Sicilian tropes to create art that embraces the very symbols that signify ethnicity. For Avelluto it is pasta and pastries fashioned with acrylic paint. Woven into the iconography is a familiar physical expression: thumb and fingers brought together in what Italians call la mano a borsa (hand purse), an outsize and familiar gesture whose meaning ranges from “What do you mean?” to “WTF!” depending on the force with which the gesture is made. DeMonte taps into Italian folklore with her Corno sculpture, embellished with symbolic elements from her life. The corno, or horn, usually worn as a talisman on a chain around the neck, is meant to ward off the mal’occhio, or Evil Eye, a curse leveled at you by someone who is angry with you or jealous of what you have. In the 21st-century this may seem laughable, but Southern Italians—those from Napoli and farther south—hold fast to their beliefs. Hey, a little protection can’t hurt, right?

Antonietta Grassi, Soft Edge (After Agnes), 2025, acrylic, ink and oil on linen, 50 x 46 inches

Antonietta Grassi, Soft Edge (After Agnes), 2025, acrylic, ink and oil on linen, 50 x 46 inches


Wayne Montecalvo, Timothy Mc Dowell, and Thomas Micchelli draw from Italian culture and politics. Montecalvo gives us Napoli’s most famous daughter, Sofia Costanza Brigida Villani Scicolone, known to the world as Sophia Loren, in an image from her heyday. The image appears to be part of an artifact wall replete with ethnic icons and decorative tiles, but look closer. These “artifacts” are thoroughly modern: digital images mounted on Styrofoam with a mix of materials, like cardboard and wax. McDowell‘s Spaghetti Western folds together food and film tropes. Despite his Scottish surname,  McDowell has had a lifetime of extended periods in Northern Italy among the members of his mother’s educated and accomplished family, the Macellari. Micchelli will tell you that the social fabric of his early life was more Italian than American, so it is not surprising that his powerful monochrome heads draw from an Italian sculptural tradition, albeit with contemporary sculptural materials: “No matter how widely I cast my net, I always find myself circling back to the Italians and the Italianate when I need to find my bearings.”

The Textile Tradition

Jennifer Cecere describes it: “Until a generation ago, everyone worked with their hands. Women, especially, knitted, crocheted, and embroidered, and girls learned by example. All of us had a connection to these traditions.” Cecere makes public art: large-scale renditions of lace in materials as diverse as ripstop nylon and brushed aluminum, which she has laser cut, bringing together the modesty of handwork with the ambition of the professional artist she is. Here she is represented by one enormous “doily.”

Patricia Miranda installing Lamentation for a Reasoned History, 2023, donated hand-dyed lace, thread, dressmaker pins, paper clay, cast plaster; dimensions to fit the space
Patricia Miranda installing Lamentation for a Reasoned History, 2023, donated hand-dyed lace, thread, dressmaker pins, paper clay, cast plaster; dimensions to fit the space

Antonietta Grassi, Patricia Miranda. Chris Costan, and Lorenza Sannai draw from the tradition of handwork as well. Grassi, whose parents settled in Montreal at mid-century, learned from her mother, who was a garment worker. In A Legacy of Making, Grassi’s “weaving” is in fact a painting, the melding of culture with art training. Miranda takes handmade lace, dyes it red, and pieces it into room-size installations that pay homage to her grandmothers, Ermenegilda and Rebecca. Miranda began with the laces her grandmothers had made, but given the large scale of the works she soon ran out. Thus began donations of lace from family, friends, and other artists eager to support her project, which now brings together the work of many immigrant hands and histories. Costan, whose day job for some years was as the color designer for a ready-to-wear fashion company, gathers the threads and notions of dressmaking into her work. Sannai brings together embroidery and contemporary geometric abstraction, a suturing of genre and culture. She exhibits and curates both here and throughout Europe.

Len Bellinger, bignet, 2015-2018, oil and mixed mediums on canvas, 28 x 23 x 6 inches

Len Bellinger, bignet, 2015-2018, oil and mixed mediums on canvas, 28 x 23 x 6 inches



While neither is immersed in textiles, both Lucio Pozzi and Len Bellinger have referenced them in their paintings for A Legacy of Making. Pozzi, a dual citizen, has drawn from the humble rag rug—a tradition more American than Italian–for an eponymous series of paintings. Bellinger, known for dense and vigorous abstractions that integrate all manner of materials, has here referenced a fishing net. When you know that his mother’s side of the family comes from Positano, a fishing village in the time of his forebears, his painting, bignet, fits comfortably within a grouping that includes a brawny oversize doily, an ambitious lace installation, and paintings inspired by rag rugs and loom weaving.

Sculpture

The influence of grandparents has inspired sculptors D. Dominick Lombardi, Elisa D’Arrigo, and Laura Moriarty.  Lombardi learned to use the hammer, saw, and chisel as a boy at the elbow of his grandfather and father, both master carpenters. He employs those tools with a contemporary sensibility, but the Old Country skills remain. Lombardi cites “high and low” aesthetic influences, from Picasso at one end to comic books at the other. Another feature of his personal legacy is a waste-not-want-not mentality that reflects immigrant frugality and resourcefulness. D’Arrigo cites among her influences the wooden forms used by her Sicilian grandfather, a shoemaker. Indeed, the shoe shape turns up in Going Gray, one of the artist’s three glazed clay sculptures in this exhibition, while Moriarty acknowledges the “kitchen culture” of her grandmother, Anna Policella, with its process and improvisation. In this exhibition, Moriarty’s three wax sculptures reference the family unit, an essential feature of Italian and Italian American life.

D. Dominick Lombardi, Il Pagliaccio, 1990, carved found wood and bowling pin, found traffic sign, metal, 28 x 18 x 18 inches
D. Dominick Lombardi, Il Pagliaccio, 1990, carved found wood and bowling pin, found traffic sign, metal, 28 x 18 x 18 inches

The larger-than-life sculpture that beckons from the terrace of the museum is Talisman #4, a totemic marble and limestone piece by Don Porcaro, who says that an early-in-life visit to a relative’s stone yard sparked something in him. A college sculpture course ignited that spark. Cutting stone “felt right,” he says. “It fed a driving need to work with a material that speaks to tradition, and I knew that the tradition belonged to my culture.” 



Drawing from Nature

Gardening is evident in the work of Margaret Lanzetta, Denise Sfraga, Patti Russotti, and Brian Alterio. Lanzetta spent girlhood hours in her grandfather’s garden, drawing his plants and flowers and learning from him the dialect names for each. She maintains a garden at her studio in Long Island City—with some perennials transplanted from her grandfather’s own garden—finding in it inspiration for her paintings, in which she combines plant forms and the geometric patterns of many cultures. Sfraga will tell you that her grandfather’s Brooklyn apartment overlooked the lush and sprawling Green-Wood Cemetery and as a child she was captivated by the plants and flowers there. Her botanical abstractions, some in otherworldly hues, burst with germination and growth and the passage of seeds back to the earth.



Patti Russotti scans and photographs ferns, flowers, and fungi, the world of beauty in her yard. She is taken with the society of plant life, often combining her photographs with what she learned from the society inside her home: the women who taught her handwork when she was a girl. Her photographs, sometimes printed directly onto fabric, are often embellished with embroidery and hung from rods. Brian Alterio photographs nature in all its aspects, from the human form to landscape to plant life. His Garlic Scapes connects culturally and horticulturally to one of the most notable elements of Italian cuisine.

Elisa D’Arrigo, Going Gray, 2025, hand-built and glazed ceramic, 6 x 7 x 5 inches
Elisa D’Arrigo, Going Gray, 2025, hand-built and glazed ceramic, 6 x 7 x 5 inches

John Monti has come to see the connection between his Italian American identity and the emotion of Italian Baroque, which is laden with floral motifs. You need only to think of the gorgeous excess of Neapolitan churches to understand the aesthetic. Monti considers himself a “cultural Catholic,” drawing inspiration from ornamentation rather than religion or ritual. His floor installation of lily-like forms, Tipped, may suggest to you, as it does to me, the poetic denouement of a garden at the end of the season.

Luci Callipari-Marcuzzo, Vita (Life) and Eredità (Heritage), 2018, embroidered linen; 5 inches diameter and 5 x 7 inches, respectively


Luci Callipari-Marcuzzo, Vita (Life) and Eredità (Heritage), 2018, embroidered linen; 5 inches diameter and 5 x 7 inches, respectively



Conversations 

Here the legacy of making is more reciprocal. In a series of recent embroideries on linen napkins, Milisa Galazzi stitched an eight-panel narrative that recalls a childhood conversation with her grandmother. “Good girls should always be sewing,” said Grammy. “Ugh” responded the young artist at the end of a frustrating exchange. But nonna prevailed. Much of Galazzi’s work as a mature artist involves stitching. Luci Callipari-Marcuzzo’s embroidered doilies are the physical dialog between mother and daughter. In the Sixties, the artist’s mother, Anna Callipari, newly arrived to Australia, embroidered some linens for family use. Half a century later, Callipari-Marcuzzo added words to the well-worn linens: Vita (Life) and Eredità (Heritage). Says the artist, “The threads, my own and my mother’s, link us to Calabria and North West Victoria, reinstating the chain of tradition passed from mother to daughter.” Serena Bocchino’s lyrical poured painting is accompanied by several paintings on transparent panels, a reference to her grandmother’s textile work, a skill the Roman nonna took with her from Italy and put to use here.

In Somma, In Conclusion

We are Italian and American. We are artists, and we embrace both of the cultures that nurtured us. But we are not “Italian American artists.” Even those of us who are fully immersed in our immigrant Italianità see it filtered through art training and our involvement in a contemporary art mainstream that is ever more international. The duality that merges into the single identity of artist is shared by our colleagues throughout the Italian diaspora. However, like the filo rosso that connected the departing Italian from the one who remained on shore, a legacy of making—both concept and exhibition—joins us inextricably to the country our progenitors left behind. They shared with us the skills they brought over. I know they would be proud of us, although they surely would be surprised at how we have put those skills to use. 



Joanne Mattera is a widely exhibited painter who also writes and curates. She is the author of Italianità: Contemporary Art Inspired by the Italian Immigrant Experience (Well Fed Artist Press, 2023), which grew into a series of exhibitions titled A Legacy of Making, the fifth of which took place at the Hunterdon Art Museum in Clinton, New Jersey. You can learn more at www.italianita-art.com. Special thanks to Hunterdon director Jeanne Brasile for the invitation to exhibit A Legacy of Making there.

Abandoned on Point Dume in Malibu

by Steve Rockwell

Eleven miles out of Binghamton, New York, the timing belt on our Volkswagen Passat snapped. Occurring as it did going downhill, the moment was strangely peaceful with the car still moving – engine silent, the clang of the pistons hitting the engine block now subsided. I’m not a car person, so I would have appreciated knowing that the 1990 VW Passat uses an interference engine design. Meaning: a snapped timing belt will cause catastrophic internal engine damage. What were the VW engineers in Emden, Germany thinking!

Rodman Edward Serling, born December 25, 1924, in Syracuse, New York, growing up mainly in Binghamton, New York
Rodman Edward Serling, born December 25, 1924, in Syracuse, New York, growing up mainly in Binghamton, New York

Well, the consequence of all this was getting to know the Rod Serling of his hometown a touch deeper. Booking a motel in the Carousel Capital of the World turned into a roulette of Name the Appropriate Twilight Zone Episode. A Serling biography from a nine-year-ago-reading came to life – Rod Serling: The Dreams and Nightmares of Life in the Twilight Zone: A Biography by Joel Engel, a Contemporary Books publication, Chicago, 1989. The book was a summer read on the Granary Lake shoreline at our family “camp” in Blind River in 1990.

The Spring/Summer edition of dArt International magazine, covering the LA International Invitational
The Spring/Summer 1999 edition of dArt International magazine, covering the LA International Invitational

Sandy and I had been returning from the release of the Summer 1999 edition of dArt International magazine at the Limelight Club in New York City. It had been a party and and a show, LL Gallery being the Limelight show venue. The Making Connections exhibition was curated by Leeza Ahmedy and Robert Curcio with works by critics, artists, and galleries featured in dArt, as well as regular LL Gallery exhibitors. Present at the event was legendary publisher of Avalanche magazine, Willoughby Sharp.

Willoughby Sharp, Avalanche #1, Fall 1970, cover photograph of Joseph Beuys by Shunk-Kender and János Kender
Willoughby Sharp, Avalanche #1, Fall 1970, cover photograph of Joseph Beuys by Shunk-Kender and János Kender

Sharp had championed Earth Art. With the release of his 1968 documentary, Earth, a fresh perception on art had been put forth: it might be something that couldn’t be bought, sold, and hung on the walls. His meeting Liza Béar led to the 1970 publication of Avalanche – not just a magazine about conceptual art, but an alternative exhibition space in print. Sharp was now at the center of the “painting is dead” movement. Avalanche #1 contributors included: Carl Andre, Jan Dibbets, Richard Long, Robert Morris, Joseph Beuys, Michael Heizer, Dennis Oppenheim, and Robert Smithson. The Beuys section was a Portrait by Shunk-Kender, while Sharp contributed Body Works. To the art world, the critical mass of these new artists’ bodies of work turned into a global tidal wave.

Willloughby Sharp & Friend at Limelight Club dArt International release and exhibition. Photo by Steve Rockwell
Willloughby Sharp & Friend at the 1999 Limelight Club dArt International release and exhibition. Photo by Steve Rockwell

In my 1970 group studio on Queen Street West in Toronto, I felt the acute “chill” of painting in its then state of rigor mortis. My effort, in the studio exhibition that year, was to concentrate and compress all experience, the visible included, into simple elements of dot, dash, and line. Framed as time increments and events, their attendant visual imagery might float freely as association. My present writing about these events merely accomplishes the “unpacking” of compressed material. While I had trashed the work from that year, their retrieval was made relatively easy. Like letters of the alphabet, it was no more difficult than reciting A,B,C. Repainting a dot or line just packages the “word” in a new context.

Steve Rockwell, New York Trash on Point Dume, (Malibu Jetsam), 1995, acrylic on canvas with wood and masonite frame, 52 x 48 inches. The painted work is a double-frame record of the "abandonment," a work within a work
Steve Rockwell, New York Trash on Point Dume, (Malibu Jetsam), 1995, acrylic on canvas with wood and masonite frame, 52 x 48 inches. The painted work is a double-frame record of the “abandonment,” a work within a work

In 1994, I carried out The Abandoned Paintings project. Seven 24 x 20 inch canvases were left at considered locations in Los Angeles, New York, and the Algarve, Portugal. The Malibu “abandonment” as written into my account, read, “New York street trash became the basis of my next abandoned painting. After Griffith Observatory, the four of us drove to Point Dume in Malibu. It took us a while to get to the beach because a film crew had taken over the parking lot.”

Steve Rockwell, The Abandoned Paintings, 1995, limited handmade book work. Leaving the painting (left), Malibu Discovery (right)
Steve Rockwell, The Abandoned Paintings, 1995, limited handmade book work. Leaving the painting (left), Malibu Discovery (right)

“I took the painting out of the trunk and we walked to the rocky edge of the point near the water. The wind was strong. I tried wedging it into the rocks. It kept blowing over. Tracy suggested a spot further from the water. I pressed the painting into the side of the point and took pictures. We started down the beach.”

“A man in his sixties passed us walking to the end of the beach. We followed him with binoculars. He noticed the painting and approached it cautiously. Then he grabbed the top of it and began to read the note on the back. We saw him pack it up and walk toward us. Bob asked him if he found the painting at the end of the beach. He said, yes. ‘What are you going to do with it?’ Bob asked. ‘I’m going to keep it. The artist said I could have it.'”

The Statue of Liberty reveal in the original Planet of the Apes (1968) was filmed at Point Dume/Westward Beach in Malibu, California
The Statue of Liberty reveal in the original Planet of the Apes (1968) was filmed at Point Dume/Westward Beach in Malibu, California

The Point Dume, Malibu location has been a choice spot for filmmakers over the years. The Statue of Liberty reveal in the original Planet of the Apes (1968) was filmed there, not in New York. For Planet of the Apes, Rod Serling wrote the first three major drafts of the screenplay, working from Pierre Boulle’s novel. The finished movie substantially altered his conception, but retained his central idea of the ruined Earth and the shocking Statue of Liberty revelation. The film suddenly becomes a parable about humanity destroying itself. When Taylor, the Charlton Heston character realizes that his space flight had returned him to a future earth, he cries out, “Oh my God, I’m back. I’m home!. I’ve been home all the time. You really did it. You maniacs!”

That final frontal image was a matte painting by Emil Kosa Jr., composited with the real cliffs and beach
That final frontal image was a matte painting by Emil Kosa Jr., composited with the real cliffs and beach

Not unlike the pressing of my New York Trash painting into the side of the point, that final frontal image was a matte painting by Emil Kosa Jr., composited with the real cliffs and beach, and super-imposed on the tip of Point Dume. The physical miniature/partial replica was used for the high-angle shots looking down through the crown. The high-angle shot looks down through the Statue’s crown toward the two characters on the beach, Taylor (Charlton Heston) and Nova. A 70-foot scaffold was erected at the cove, with a scale replica of the upper portion of the statue positioned in front of the camera.

Planet of the Apes Behind-the-Scenes Stills from the collection of Mark Talbot Butler
Planet of the Apes, Behind-the-Scenes Stills from the collection of Mark Talbot-Butler

Our Malibu tale ends with a white 1993 Ford Bronco XLT owned by Al “A.C.” Cowlings. I had been riveted with the other 95 million viewers who had watched the O.J. Simpson Bronco chase live on television on June 17, 1994. Two and a half months earlier we had left the Point Dume “abandonment” scene, while they were still filming the Frogmen TV pilot. To my “Did you see O.J.?” question, Bob had answered, “Oh, yeah, he was there.” The actual chase Bronco is now preserved at the Alcatraz East Crime Museum in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

The Heart of Juliet Jones & Four Trees on Brant Street

by Steve Rockwell

I threw away my work from the fall 1970 group exhibition at 567 Queen Street West in Toronto. After ten years in apartment storage, it was a quick toss into the bin outside. The nineteen cardboard and paper works, variously touched up with ink and pencil, had been glued onto hand-sawed wood frames, and bundled with twine into roughly a 2 x 3 x 4 foot package.

A sample strip: The Heart of Juliet Jones by Stan Drake from 1967 for King Features Syndicate
A sample strip: The Heart of Juliet Jones by Stan Drake from 1967 for King Features Syndicate

The show concept had been simple: reading the morning paper, while having a cup of coffee. Three sets of five collages used Toronto Daily Star’s weather forecasts, The Heart of Juliet Jones comic strips, and cards with a cup of coffee image (a CBC Radio promo, as I recall). The four trees on nearby Brant Street? All had been sublimated through applications of pencil and ink to paper. Seen now in retrospect, they may be traced to the experiences of a five-year-old adjusting to his move from Espoo, Finland to Gothenburg, Sweden. Then, open countryside had suddenly flipped into the restrictive, urban confinement of a hotel. The deposit of a stream of sensory material edging on trauma, compacted over time into an expressive resource.

The second floor suite of our Gothenburg hotel overlooked a cobblestone courtyard. Having spent hours at the window, I can say conclusively that nothing much happened in it. Our rooms were white, vividly so. Here, a discovery with cascading repercussions took place. The scratch of a coin on the window sill could produce a rich pewter line, almost black. To keep me from defacing the hotel room, my mother came up with a solution. Butter wrappers from the market, when wiped, turned to instant art paper vellum. A pencil tracing of Tarzan in profile from a Borden milk ad in a Gothenberg newspaper was my first stab at art. By eleven, I had a respectable comics collection with Tarzan as my main title.

My copy of Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Copyright 1912, Flamingo Edition 1972
My copy of Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Copyright 1912, Flamingo Edition 1972

Within a month we were living in a Gothenburg suburb apartment, not far from a farm. On one occasion, I witnessed a curious spectacle. Invisible to me, but the focus of a group of men in agitated conversation, was something on the ground. I had to have a closer look. What I glimpsed, after poking my head into the circle, was horrific but mesmerizing. Two enormous snakes were writhing on the ground with their heads having been crushed by rocks. The sight had the unfortunate result of infecting the memory of my wiggly hotel window sill markings, innocent as they had been. When we moved to a farm on the Norwegian border, I had enough encounters with the Scandinavian adder to consider the place infested.

The Scandinavian adder, Vipera berus (also called the European/common adder), is the only venomous snake native to Scandinavia.
The Scandinavian adder, Vipera berus (also called the European/common adder), is the only venomous snake native to Scandinavia.

I could understand how experiences like these might seep into the cultural imagination across generations. The Vikings carved serpent imagery into the heads and tails of their long boats, their aim – to magnify the terror in their opponent during an attack.

Laocoön Group, Marco Dente's engraving, c. 1515, early visual record of the sculpture as it looked after the 1506 excavation, before later restorations—most notably, Laocoön is shown with the right arm missing
Laocoön Group, Marco Dente’s engraving, c. 1515, early visual record of the sculpture as it looked after the 1506 excavation, before later restorations—most notably, Laocoön is shown with the right arm missing

The discovery of the Laocoön and His Sons sculpture on January 14, 1506 in the vineyard of Felice de Fredis was explosive. Pope Julius II purchased it almost immediately, having it moved from its Esquiline Hill site to the Vatican across the Tiber. It energized the High Renaissance masters in its dynamism, anatomical detail, and psychological impact. The ancient masterpiece depicts a Trojan priest and his children being strangled by writhing sea serpents.

There is a written record of Michelangelo Bounarroti’s presence at the Laocoön unearthing. Papal architect Giuliano da Sangallo had grabbed Michelangelo and hurried him to the excavation site the moment the vineyard find was announced. At thirty years of age, he had already completed the David the previous year, and was a celebrated sculptor. The Laocoön‘s twisted, muscular forms are reflected in his Dying Slave sculpture and the treatment of Christ in the Sistine Chapel’s Last Judgment. Marco Dente’s engraving is an early record of the sculpture as it looked after the 1506 excavation, still missing its right arm.

The weather forecast part of my exhibition had involved taking the stairs to the roof of our studio building and surveying the visible horizon that day. With a light pencil scribble, I would transcribe the sky onto a legal size paper from top to bottom filling it. Subsequently, at my desk on the second floor, a brush dipped in blue-black ink would act as a seismograph needle, further interpreting the pencil hatches into a slow deliberate downward stroke from top to bottom through the center of the page. This way a studio workweek from Monday to Friday might be compressed into five lines.

Henri Matisse, Stations of the Cross (1948–1951) in the Chapel of the Rosary (Chapelle du Rosaire) at Vence, France. It is a single large black-and-white ceramic mural containing all 14 Stations, rather than the stations being distributed around the chapel.
Henri Matisse, Stations of the Cross (1948–1951) in the Chapel of the Rosary (Chapelle du Rosaire) at Vence, France. It is a single large black-and-white ceramic mural containing all 14 Stations, rather than the stations being distributed around the chapel

I had been directly inspired by Henri Matisse’s Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence (Chapel of the Rosary). Designing every element of the space, from the architecture to the priest’s vestments, the artist declared the project the ultimate culmination of his life. Line elements from Matisse’s Stations of the Cross had a particular impact. While my first window sill scratches in Gothenburg hotel room were made in 1951, the year Matisse completed his life work, in 1970 as a 25-year-old fumbling about nineteen years later, my attention was rather fixed to the future than my own distant past.

Rome and Gothenburg are connected historically. Gothenburg in English means literally “Fortress of the Goths.” While the city itself was only founded in 1621 by King Gustavus Adolphus, its naming is symbolic of the area from which the Goths began their migration, first to what is now Poland, then making their way to Spain as Visigoths and to Rome as Ostrogoths, sacking the city, and instigating the collapse of its infrastructure. It took the Laocoön and His Sons sculpture a thousand years to be buried in soil, but it seems that someone from Goth-land may have thrown the first spadeful.

It had been Laocoön that struck the Trojan Horse with a spear, angering the gods, and Athena in particular. Giant sea serpents were sent to silence him, the two sons just collateral damage. The effect of the tragedy on the Trojans was to deem the horse sacred, a mistake that sealed their doom. Once the horse was dragged within the walls of the city, the Greeks poured out, and the rest is history. It’s not as if Laocoön hadn’t warned them, “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”

The Viking Age officially began on June 8, 793 at Lindisfarne (Holy Island), off the coast of Northumberland, England. These wooden sea serpents, out of which warriors poured, had been perfected in their mobile marine efficiency. While there had been pirate raids before, Christian Europe viewed this new Viking threat as a punishment from God – and these invaders had arrived bearing no gifts.

Steve Rockwell, 4 Trees on Brandt Street, 2026, Plaque Honouring Patricia Aquino: for making sure we grow as tall and healthy as the mightiest tree. Since 1970, one tree has recently been removed. Where it grew is now a plaque for Patricia Aquino
Steve Rockwell, 4 Trees on Brant Street, 2026, Plaque Honoring Patricia Aquino: for making sure we grow as tall and healthy as the mightiest tree. One tree has recently been removed during the St. Andrew Playground Park’s modernization

The four trees on Brant Street were planted a hundred years ago. Originally, the spot had been a public market dating to 1837, then transformed into Toronto’s first public playground in 1909. As part of a massive modernization project recently, DTAH landscape architects turned St. Andrew’s Playground Park into an award-winning, neighborhood green space. When I made the trees a subject of my work in 1970, they would already have been 44 years old. The most northern one, however, became a casualty of the park’s recent upgrade. In its place is a plaque honoring “Patricia Aquino: for making sure we grow as tall and healthy as the mightiest tree.”

The building at 80 King Street West was the Toronto Star's headquarters from 1929 until 1971. The 22-storey Art Deco tower was designed by Chapman and Oxley. Joe Shuster used the Toronto Star Building as an early visual model for the Daily Planet building in Superman, though he had already moved to Cleveland by then
The building at 80 King Street West was the Toronto Star’s headquarters from 1929 until 1971. The 22-storey Art Deco tower was designed by Chapman and Oxley. Joe Shuster used the Toronto Star Building as an early visual model for the Daily Planet building in Superman, though he was already in Cleveland by then

Just a year or so before the four trees were planted on Brant Street, Joe, a nine-year-old newsboy began hawking newspapers for the Toronto Daily Star on downtown street corners. Living in Kensington Market at Oxford and Augusta, he had to get the papers from the Star Building downtown. If he walked down Augusta, he would have passed the playground after Augusta jogs on Brant, then turning left on Adelaide. Joe’s father Julius ran a small tailor shop in the Garment District, a lucrative area for Joe to unload his stacks of papers, as factory workers, fabric merchants, and laborers poured into the streets at the end of the day. The effort would not suffice. Continued financial struggles of Joe’s family necessitated a move to Cleveland, Ohio in May 1924.

The first Superman comic is Action Comics #1, on the newsstands April 18, 1938. The original print run was roughly 200,000 copies. A 100 to 150 copies exist today. In April 2024, a pristine copy sold for $6.00 million USD
The first Superman comic is Action Comics #1, on the newsstands April 18, 1938. The original print run was roughly 200,000 copies. A 100 to 150 copies exist today. In April 2024, a pristine copy sold for $6.00 million USD

While Joe’s meeting and friendship with Jerry Siegel in high school proved life-altering, money problems would persist, but there would be a celebration. On April 18, 1938, Superman Action Comics #1 was on the newsstands. After shopping their concept to numerous newspaper syndicates, the comics team of Jerry Siegel writer, and Joe Shuster artist had scored! Joe, the newsboy, had grown tall, but the duo’s brainchild, Superman, would cast a shadow greater than the mightiest tree, having given birth to the superhero genre.

Names, Places, and Spaces

by Steve Rockwell

Atlas Film Studios in Morocco is the largest film studio in the world by land area, spanning over 322,000 square feet. Morocco has a thriving movie industry, and Atlas Film Studios is at its center. Variations on the image of Atlas bearing the world on his shoulders has proliferated over the centuries. Its depiction has stuck with me for as long as I can remember, Atlas having graced the cover of a Finnish encyclopedia called, Pikku Jattilainen (The Little Giant), a book that we owned.

The 1944 Pikku Jättiläinen cover has the distinctive image of a kneeling figure carrying the globe on his back, with PIKKU JÄTTILÄINEN printed above it. It was edited by Yrjö Karilas and published by WSOY (Werner Söderström)
The 1944 Pikku Jättiläinen cover has the distinctive image of a kneeling figure carrying the globe on his back, with PIKKU JÄTTILÄINEN printed above it. It was edited by Yrjö Karilas and published by WSOY (Werner Söderström)

The circle of my five-year-old world was tiny. I knew just three of its four quarters. To the north behind our house was a community center with an outdoor stage that put on a production of Hansel and Gretel. Across the road on the south side was a house with a coffee grinder, clearly visible through its kitchen window. Downhill to the road east lay the city – just a bicycle ride to the Helsinki Police Department for my father.

The road westward, however, was ripe for discovery, and its opportunity arose with a convenient distraction. On this particular day, my mother was hosting a hen party. A discrete slip, followed by a quick walk, for what seemed like forever, took me to a crossroads. When the evergreen horizon of teeth began morphing into silhouetted scarecrows, I knew it was journey’s end. Returning somewhat winded, I was pleased with my mother’s steamy chicory coffee – milky with a side of “korppu” (coffee bread rusk). With a dunk and rotation of the crisp around the rim of the cup came a sense of completion and satisfaction – an adventure private to myself. The background chatter and laughter of the hen party supplied its soundtrack.

Martin Scorsese’s Kundun (1997) was substantially produced and filmed at Atlas Corporation Studios in Ouarzazate, Morocco
Martin Scorsese’s Kundun (1997) was substantially produced and filmed at Atlas Corporation Studios in Ouarzazate, Morocco

Shooting for Scorsese’s Kundun began at Atlas Corporation Studios on August 26, 1996, finishing on December 20. The Atlas Mountains and desert landscape stood in for the Tibetan “Roof of the World.” Other Moroccan locations were used, but Atlas Studios was the main base. Still there, are the massive Tibetan palace sets and gates that were built for the biopic by Dante Ferretti, a production designer known for constructing historical worlds that are as much psychological spaces. He created a Tibetan world within Morocco.

Kundun screenwriter, Melissa Mathison, not only based it on the life of the 14th Dalai Lama, but cooperated with him and members of his family during its development. A crucial scene has a 19-year-old Dalai Lama travelling to Beijing in 1954-55 to meet with Mao Tse-Tung. Written into the script is his recollection of their exchange word for word: “Your attitude is good, you know. I understand you well. But you need to learn this: religion is poison. It undermines the race and it retards the progress of the people. Tibet has been poisoned by religion.”

Martin Scorsese’s Kundun (1997), Dalai Lama at 19 meeting with Mao Tse-Tung
Martin Scorsese’s Kundun (1997), Dalai Lama at 19 meeting with Mao Tse-Tung

Mao’s phrase “religion is poison” becomes the hinge of the entire film. What follows is the destruction of Tibetan religious culture, the violence, and the Dalai Lama’s ultimate flight into exile. The young Dalai Lama had arrived optimistic and hopeful, even having considered reconciling some Marxist ideas with Buddhism, but the meeting was a train wreck.

The Atlas of Greek mythology, a second-generation Titan, had unparalleled physical strength. He was the battlefield commander for the older generation of Titan gods, who ultimately failed in their rebellion against Zeus and the Olympians. His punishment was harsh and highly visible, Zeus condemning him to stand at the western edge of the world to hold up the celestial sphere on his shoulders for all eternity. Geographically, his shoulders would have covered what is now the Atlas Mountain Range. While contemporaries render him holding up the world, in Greek antiquity it was the sky that he held up.

Tibetan Buddhists at Canadian Cultural Centre during Dalai Lama's visit on October 31, 2007 in Toronto. Photo by Beatrice Egolf
Tibetan Buddhists at its Canadian Cultural Centre during Dalai Lama’s visit on October 31, 2007 in Toronto. Photo by Beatrice Egolf

Titan Road is a street in west-end Toronto. On Wednesday, October 31, 2007, the 14th Dalai Lama visited the Tibetan-Canadian Cultural Centre which had just opened there. He blessed the facility and greeted hundreds of people, with crowds reportedly lining up around the block for hours. I can attest to that since I was there. The printing company that employed me was at 30 Titan Road, the Dalai Lama’s visit taking place at number 40, just next door.

All morning, that day Tibetan monks made their way by foot, single file, down the street eventually encircling the Titan Road buildings at 30 and 40. We listened to continuous reports on the radio as the car with the Dalai Lama progressed to its destination here. When he did arrive, I felt that I needed to witness the event, like many others. It seemed odd to have been close enough to the Dalai Lama to have shaken his hand and said hello, had I wished to.

Dalai Lama at Tibetan-Canadian Cultural Centre during his visit on October 31, 2007 in Toronto. Photo by Beatrice Egolf
Dalai Lama at Tibetan-Canadian Cultural Centre during his visit on October 31, 2007 in Toronto. Photo by Beatrice Egolf

More significantly, as I reflect now, is the Dalai Lama’s stopping by the entrance of our building on Titan, less than 30 feet from the carpentry shop that had fabricated my Meditations on Space panels. (The current occupant at 30 Titan Rd., Unit #1 is MedPure, a medical supply facility). The book work was printed December, 1996. Shooting for Scorsese’s Kundun at Atlas Corporation Studios in Morocco finished on December 20, 1996. My own construction, painting, and publication had synchronized with Ferretti’s set design and Scorsese’s filming of Kundun to the same month and year.