By RICHARD B. WOODWARD

James Rosenquist's "F-111" is so familiar by now that memory has begun to smooth its shark-tooth edges and recall the Cold War period it exemplifies with nostalgic sighs. For some of us it's hard to recall a time when this wicked satire of the U.S. Military-Industrial-Consumer Complex was not around. A controversial hit when first exhibited almost half a century ago, the painting was quickly designated a Pop Art icon in textbooks. Students have been parsing its candy-colored tapestry of incongruous images on art-history quizzes for decades.

© 2012 James Rosenquist/Museum of Modern Art/James Rosenquist/VAGA

The Museum of Modern Art's installation restores this 86-foot-long, four-sided behemoth to the original arrangement intended by the artist.

What's jarring about its current installation at New York's Museum of Modern Art is that, until now, museums may never have done justice to the piece. That's reason enough to visit the fourth floor, where until July 30 the 86-foot-long behemoth can be seen as Mr. Rosenquist introduced the painting in 1965 at the Castelli Gallery in New York: a four-sided, wraparound mural for a space (23 feet by 22 feet) little bigger than a squash court.

This old/new arrangement alters the experience and perhaps even the meaning of the work. On previous occasions when I had stood in front of the 10-foot-high images—a turbocharged montage that splices together a U.S. fighter-bomber, a Firestone tire, a vanilla-frosted cake, a light bulb, a girl beneath a hair dryer, a nuclear-bomb explosion, a beach umbrella and a plate of spaghetti—the items were presented tautly stretched across one wall or at most two walls. Installed in this manner, viewable from far away, "F-111" could be digested as entertainment. Despite the threat of human extinction in the combustible ensemble, the work had the eye-catching appeal of a billboard along Sunset Boulevard for a disaster movie. (Mr. Rosenquist's sense of humor and spectacle is not unlike Stanley Kubrick and Terry Southern's in "Dr. Strangelove." Indeed, their black comedy about nuclear Armageddon was released in 1964, as the artist began work on his painting.)

In the current MoMA installation, however, the violence isn't so easily laughed off. Bent around the four walls of a tiny space, the piece now offers uncomfortably little area for the visitor to step back. The confinement is menacing. Being forced to look at the mural from a few feet away is like examining the X-rayed stomach contents of a giant anaconda, one that has slithered its way into your dining room and is flexing its coils. The aggressive, cynical maleness of the piece is almost overwhelming.

Mr. Rosenquist has said he made it in angry reaction to U.S. foreign policy in Vietnam, a claim that has never squared with the fetishistic rendering of the sleek, deadly instrument for which the work is named. Rather than an earnest work of protest, "F-111" has always seemed patriotic, an ironic salute to national might and knowhow. (After all, the atomic bomb was an American invention.)

The silhouette of an F-111, the most advanced jet aircraft of its day, runs the length of the work and is painted on 23 aluminum panels. This high-tech material supplies the undercarriage for the images and is in some ways inseparable from them. Our eyes are asked to run along the shiny metallic skin.

Pop Art is permeated by ambiguity toward the bounty of America's consumer society, and Mr. Rosenquist's attitude is no different. He just amped up his mixed emotions in a work of unprecedented size and complexity. (Its gigantism reflects his training in commercial art, painting billboards above Times Square during summers in the early 1950s.) As with Warhol, the visual language inserts images from magazine advertising and journalism into a re-edited commentary on the culture at large. David Salle and Barbara Kruger are but two artists who in the 1980s adapted these photo-mechanical techniques to make large paintings as combative as "F-111."

New Wave cinematic rhythms for images on this scale were unheard of in 1965. Read like a strip of film, they are connected by jump cuts instead of clear transitions. The central figure (and the only human) is a smiling blond girl, a figure lifted from a 1950s Saran Wrap ad. Wearing lipstick and with her hair in ribbons but inside a hair dryer, she's a child aspiring to sophistication beyond her years. The machine on her head is also a jet engine—cone-shaped, blasting heated air, made of reflective metal—and may be sucking her up with a force she is unaware of.

Knowingly or not, Mr. Rosenquist may have woven her into his design under the influence of the so-called Daisy television ad. Broadcast in 1964 only once, but analyzed widely while "F-111" was being constructed, that notorious attack by Lyndon B. Johnson's political team on Barry Goldwater as a dangerous extremist operated on a similar sneaky level to make its point.

It, too, featured a fair-haired girl and a nuclear explosion. Standing in a field, she counts the petals she is pulling off a daisy. Suddenly an anonymous voice interrupts her and starts counting down to zero as the camera narrows to her eye. The screen then fills with a mushroom cloud. Created by media guru Tony Schwartz, the Daisy ad never mentions Mr. Goldwater. It ends with a written message: "Vote for President Johnson on Nov. 3. The stakes are too high for you to stay home."

As in advertising, the images within Mr. Rosenquist's panorama act on us subliminally, not logically. Other meanings that were elusive before are harder to ignore in cramped quarters. The spaghetti in tomato sauce, which dominates the right side of the mural, no longer seems merely to represent an unappetizing meal out of a can typical of the American diet in the 1950s and '60s. Viewed up close, the strands of pasta are alarmingly squirmy, like maggots or spilled human intestines.

MoMA has restored some of the shocking energy that "F-111" must have had in 1965. (Curiously, the dead spots in the work are also easier to detect; Mr. Rosenquist never quite figured out how to make it turn the corners at the Castelli Gallery.) It's still hard to accept the mural as an antiwar statement on a par with "Guernica," a comparison the artist vainly invites. Then again, he was addressing the escalating madness of Vietnam in the 1960s, not the destruction of a Spanish village in the 1930s. In retrospect, he may have created the first (and only?) psychedelic masterpiece.

—Mr. Woodward is an arts critic in New York.

A version of this article appeared Mar. 10, 2012, on page C13 in some U.S. editions of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: Destruction All Around.

• By KELLY CROW

In the early 1980s, German artist Gerhard Richter painted 24 views of flickering white candles, and not a single one sold. When one of those "Candle" canvases came up at Christie's in London this past fall, it sold for $16.5 million.

Agence France-Presse/Getty Images

A visitor at the blockbuster retrospective 'Gerhard Richter: Panorama' at Berlin's Neue Nationalgalerie; it will travel to Paris in June.

Few people can pinpoint the moment when an artist becomes iconic in the way of Pablo Picasso or Andy Warhol, but right now the art world is trying to anoint Mr. Richter. Last year, his works sold at auction for a total of $200 million, according to auction tracker Artnet—more than any other living artist and topping last year's auction totals for Claude Monet, Alberto Giacometti and Mark Rothko combined. At Mr. Richter's gallery in New York, the waiting list for one of his new works, which can sell for $3 million apiece, is several dozen names long.

In November at Sotheby's, London collector Lily Safra paid $20.8 million for Mr. Richter's 1997 eggplant-colored "Abstract Painting," an auction record for the artist. Other artists have sold individual works at higher prices—Jeff Koons, for example—but in terms of volume at auction, Mr. Richter currently tops the market.

The artist's ascent is being driven by market demands as much as curatorial merit: Auction houses and museums, eager for new masters to canonize, are showcasing Mr. Richter's works around the world at an ever-increasing clip. An influx of international collectors and dealers are also seizing the moment to buy or sell his pieces at a profit—including art-world tastemakers such as Russian industrialist Roman Abramovich, French luxury-goods executive Bernard Arnault, dealer Larry Gagosian, Taiwanese electronics mogul Pierre Chen and New York hedge-fund manager Steven Cohen.

   

 

Germany's Gerhard Richter's artworks sold at auction last year for a total of $176 million, more than any other living artist. Kelly Crow has a profile of Richter and his work on Lunch Break. Photo: Sotheby's

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German artist Gerhard Richter.

Mr. Richter's work is uniquely suited to the tastes of the current art market. Like Picasso, he paints in a number of different styles—from rainbow-hued abstracts to poignant family portraits—giving collectors plenty of choice. Like Warhol, he is prolific, which ensures a steady volume of his works in the marketplace—yet enough of his works are in museum collections that he has avoided a glut. And ever since the deaths last year of painters Cy Twombly and Lucian Freud, collectors searching for another senior statesman have started giving his work a closer look.

Collectors are paying a particular premium for Mr. Richter's larger abstracts from the late 1980s, which have all the visual impact of a work by Francis Bacon or Mr. Rothko, artists whose prices spiked before the recession. These abstracts are also immediately identifiable as being Mr. Richter's creations, making them easy status symbols. San Francisco dealer Anthony Meier says, "Collectors want an iconic work in a format that everyone recognizes. Monkey see, monkey do."

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Mr. Richter, 80 years old, isn't a household name in the U.S. yet, but he's revered in Europe. Born in Dresden, he fled the former East Germany months before the Berlin Wall went up. He has spent the past six decades experimenting with ways to refresh traditional painting categories like the still life. He's best known for haunting family portraits that evoke smudged newspaper clippings—a wry response to Pop that won him a pre-eminent spot among Europe's postwar painters. He also uses an oversized squeegee the size of a car bumper to create layered abstracts. That he flits between several painting styles, rather than sticking to one signature look, has always confounded some audiences, yet the toggling is actually his calling card, the painter as polymath.

A blockbuster retrospective, "Gerhard Richter: Panorama," has been crisscrossing the art capitals of Europe, having just traveled from London's Tate Modern to Berlin's Neue Nationalgalerie, where it will show through May 13. So far, the show has drawn large crowds; it heads to Paris's Centre Pompidou in June.

For his part, Mr. Richter seems a reluctant commodity. At a time when superstar artists typically have a different dealer for every continent, he funnels nearly all his new works through New York dealer Marian Goodman. Both are soft-spoken and rarely attend high-profile auctions. The pair has declined lucrative licensing deals and private commissions. For years, their combined efforts have helped his price levels retain an air of integrity. Ms. Goodman, speaking on behalf of the artist, who declined to be interviewed himself, said, "He has an honest market."

Ol auf Holz Museum Ludwig, Koln;ln/Privatsammlung © Gerhard Richter 2012

Mr. Richter has created more than 3,000 paintings, but nearly 40% of them (including 'Betty,' pictured here) are in museum collections, which has prevented a market glut.

Not everyone is ready to bet on Mr. Richter. Jose Mugrabi and David Nahmad, major dealers in Warhol and Picasso, respectively, said they don't think Mr. Richter has enough heft to compete with the market presence of those modern masters. Mr. Mugrabi said Mr. Richter's art is more fashionable now than it used to be, but not more important.

Trends in contemporary art, as in fashion, can also change quickly, so it's unclear whether Mr. Richter's prices will keep climbing or drop again over the long run. In the late 1980s, prices for Frank Stella's geometric paintings rose quickly to nearly $4 million before reaching a plateau in 1989 that he hasn't matched at auction since. Mr. Rothko's abstract paintings also soared to $72.8 million during the market's last peak in 2007, but nothing by him has sold for half as much in the past couple of years. Art adviser Nicolai Frahm says he's counseling his collector clients to hold off seeking Mr. Richter's works "until his prices equalize."

Sotheby's

Russian industrialist Roman Abramovich is among the influential collectors who have helped to make Mr. Richter's market. Mr. Abramovich paid $15.1 million for Mr. Richter's 1990 'Abstract Painting' at Sotheby's.

Robert Storr, dean of the Yale School of Art, said he thinks such lofty comparisons to Picasso and Warhol will hold up, though. "Richter doesn't want to be the next king, but he has taken painting farther than just about anyone else," he said.

Richter's Rise

Mr. Richter works out of a pair of pristine studios in Cologne, including one attached by a garden path to the home he shares with his third wife, Sabine, and their young son, Moritz. Mr. Richter suffered a stroke a few years ago, but he remains fit and moves easily, his face framed by a jaunty pair of translucent eyeglasses.

The son of a Dresden schoolteacher, Mr. Richter grew up in communist East Germany, steeped in the academic rigors of Soviet Realism. Some of his first jobs included painting murals of cheery workers for the state. In 1959, he saw Western contemporary art for the first time at an exhibition called Documenta in the German town of Kassel; afterward, he told friends he would have to rethink what he knew about art after seeing Jackson Pollock's drippy splatters and Lucio Fontana's punctured canvases.

Sotheby's

Part of Mr. Richter's appeal to collectors: He paints in a wide range of styles, from colorful abstracts to hazy portraits. His 'Sailors' sold for $13.2 million at Sotheby's.

Two years later, he and his wife, Ema, enlisted a friend to sneak them by car into West Berlin so he could study art without political constraint. The couple moved to Düsseldorf, and by the end of the summer the Berlin Wall had gone up. He never saw his parents again.

Over the next decade, the artist grappled with occasional homesickness—and the legacy of his country's role in the war—by painting portraits of his relatives that looked like black-and-white photographs, only hazy. The subjects included his "Aunt Marianne," who was exterminated by the Nazis because she was mentally ill, and his "Uncle Rudi," a Nazi soldier who died fighting in the war.

Rudolf Zwirner, one of the artist's earliest dealers, was impressed when he saw the work in 1962; few German artists were addressing such disquieting topics. For years after the war, wealthy American collectors who were championing Jasper Johns and Andy Warhol considered German art "taboo," Mr. Zwirner said, so he and other dealers cultivated collectors for Mr. Richter nearby. Their prices rarely topped $1,000. "I sold Richters to my physician, my neighbors, my brother—anybody I could convince," he said. To this day, it's not unusual for bourgeois families in the region to own dozens of works by the artist; one collector in Munich owns 70 works. By the time Mr. Richter was invited to represent Germany in the 1972 Venice Biennale, his pool of countrymen collectors was deep.

Christie's

Mr. Richter's 1982 'Candle' painting sold in October at Christie's for $16.5 million.

In the years that followed, Mr. Richter churned through several different series—like those candles—which didn't sell as well as the angst-ridden paintings of his German contemporaries like Anselm Kiefer and Georg Baselitz. But in the mid-1980s, he began making brightly colored abstracts, and collectors pounced. San Francisco collectors Donald and Doris Fisher, who founded the Gap retail chain, bought several of these works.

The real turning point for Mr. Richter came in 1995 when New York's Museum of Modern Art paid $3 million for a suite of 15 grisaille paintings called "Oct. 18, 1977." The artist painted this cycle in 1988 as a response to the arrest, trial and grisly death in 1977 of a group of young German anarchists-turned-terrorists. Mr. Storr, the Yale dean who then served as the museum's senior curator of painting and sculpture, began planning a major survey of Mr. Richter's work for the museum.

As soon as word leaked about the museum show, Mr. Zwirner said his phone started ringing with American collectors seeking Richters. A year later, in 1996, Sotheby's in London put a Richter on the cover of one of its sale catalogs. Back in Germany, longtime collectors started getting letters from auction houses: Did they care to sell a Richter?

MoMA's long-awaited survey opened six years later, in 2001, and suddenly series that had seemed random when they debuted, like his "Candle" works, seemed relevant, said Sotheby's specialist Cheyenne Westphal. Three months after the exhibit opened, the auction house sold his "Three Candles" for $5.3 million.

Courtesy of the artist and Marian Goodman Gallery, New York/Paris

Mr. Richter with his longtime dealer, Marian Goodman

Two years after that, a lawyer and collector based in Zurich named Joe Hage began gathering auction prices and exhibit details about the works in Mr. Richter's oeuvre. He started a website, gerhard-richter.com, and began posting the results online.

For newer, Internet-savvy collectors, Mr. Hage's site has proved popular because of all that its tallying has revealed. Mr. Richter has created 3,000 paintings—fewer than Warhol's 8,000 silk-screens but considerably more than Salvador Dalí's 1,200 works. He's also heavily traded, with more than 200 of his works turning up at auction every year, which provides buyers with a regular stream of price points to analyze. Museums own roughly 38% of his works, though, including half of his most coveted works, those large squeegee abstracts.

By 2006, an influx of newly wealthy collectors began competing hard for contemporary art, spiking values for dozens of artists including Mr. Richter. Sotheby's began shipping its top Richters to Hong Kong so potential bidders there could see his works. In May 2006, a bidder at Berlin's Villa Griesbach auction house paid $1 million for Mr. Richter's 1971 portrait of "Mao." The following summer, the same painting came up for bid at Christie's in London and sold for $2.5 million.

Then came the snowball: In February 2008, the artist's eldest daughter, Betty, sold her 1983 "Candle" for $15.8 million, triple the high estimate, at Sotheby's. Three months later, Mr. Abramovich dropped $15.1 million for Mr. Richter's green-gray "Abstract Painting" from 1990. It was only priced to sell for up to $7 million. With that, collectors recalibrated Mr. Richter's high bar to $15 million or more.

© Gerhard Richter, Courtesy The Israel Museum, Jerusalem

Mr. Richter's 1997 'Abstract Painting,' which Lily Safra bought for $20.8 million at Sotheby's.

During the recession that followed, potential sellers of Mr. Richter's masterworks largely sat on the sidelines, but by late 2010, as the market perked up again, a fresh set of collectors began embellishing their collections with Richters. That November, Sotheby's got $13.2 million for his 1966 "Sailors," a work that spent years in the New Museum Weserburg in Bremen. The buyers were Houston hedge-fund manager John Arnold and his wife, Laura.

A pivotal sale four months ago sealed the deal. At Sotheby's in New York, London collectors Marc and Victoria Sursock offered up eight Richter abstracts; all sold for well over their asking prices, including the abstract that went to Ms. Safra for $20.8 million. Last month in London, collectors came back for more: Christie's got $15.5 million for a green Richter abstract, while Sotheby's sold a creamy abstract to a former Zurich nightclub owner, Carl Hirschmann, for $4.8 million.

Mr. Richter has told friends he thinks his recent auction records are "absurd." But for his longtime collectors, they're paying dividends.

A few years ago, as Berlin endocrinologist Thomas Olbricht was constructing a five-story museum to showcase his art collection, he realized he was running low on cash. So he sold a blue-orange Richter abstract. Mr. Olbricht had paid about $287,000 for it in 1996; Christie's sold it for him in 2008 for $14.8 million.

Today, the museum, called the Me Collectors Room, rises from a narrow street in Berlin's bustling Mitte neighborhood. "I still wish I'd been able to keep that painting," Mr. Olbricht said. "Today, it would be worth $20 million."

Write to Kelly Crow at kelly.crow@wsj.com

A version of this article appeared Mar. 9, 2012, on page D1 in some U.S. editions of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: The Top-Selling Living Artist.

Still, it remains the New York art fair whose edge most deserves to be called cutting, the one where you stand to learn the most about promising new art, albeit of a rather attenuated, hermetic sort. With around 40 participants, it is also the most pleasantly manageable of all the city fairs. It is arrayed, as before, on an open plan, with little in the way of formal booths or even aisles, on the three upper floors of a building once owned by the Dia Center for the Arts on West 22nd Street. The airy, white-cube architecture of the interior, so redolent of artistic seriousness, continues to be a boon. I can never quite decide if the Independent is intimate or just clubby, but in this it is probably an apt reflection of the art world: basically, it is both.

As usual, nearly two-thirds of the participating galleries are from elsewhere and — also as usual — they are responsible for the bulk of the new information. Over all, the artists tend to be young and fairly obscure.

An exception, at the Paris gallery GB Agency, is the American Conceptual artist Mac Adams, now nearly 70. His “Blackmail,” a noirish 1976 installation of a violently disturbed dinner for three, suggests a very physical argument, if not an actual crime. Clues are abundant; not for nothing was Mr. Adams’s brand of Conceptualism called Story Art or seen as a precursor to Cindy Sherman’s “Untitled Film Stills.” Another exception to the general youthfulness, at Susanne Zander, are the tenderly lascivious drawings of scantily clad women by Miroslav Tichy (1926-2011), the Czech outsider artist known for surreptitiously photographing his subjects, using homemade cameras.

Among the new participants, the Third Line, a gallery from Dubai, is introducing the work of Monir Shahroudy Farmanfarmaian, an 87-year-old Iranian artist whose handsome glass and mirror mosaics are grounded in Islamic interpretations of numbers and geometry. Another newcomer is Labor, a gallery from Mexico City that is featuring Pedro Reyes’s “Surplus Reality,” a double narrative that presents, in storyboardlike form, a photo-novella about the struggle for land reform in Brazil and also recounts the censoring of that work when it was displayed there.

If this year’s Independent has a prevailing look, it centers on stylishly abject variations on Post-Minimalist abstraction, played out in lots of small, often appealing, if rather mute, sculptures and several spare installations that are frequently by women largely unknown and unshown in New York.

On the third floor, at Sprüth Magers, Thea Djordjadze has assembled a meditation on blue in the form of a huge piece of smooth synthetic carpet that climbs from floor to wall and is flanked by several scrappy sculptures, including Plexiglas volumes that echo the hue in atmospheric terms. At Meyer Riegger, a young Czech artist, Eva Kotatkova, takes a darker turn, painting a corner black and festooning it with shelves displaying altered vintage books, cutout collages and paper sculptures.

This result, titled “Re-education Machine,” conjures a compartmentalized, overanalyzed, possibly totalitarian environment where young minds are assiduously molded. Ms. Kotatkova joins a tradition of deft image recycling that begins with Hannah Höch and continues to the Polish artist Goshka Macuga. At Freymond-Guth, Tanja Roscic, also Czech, commands a wall with a diamond grid that frames contrasting colors and textures and several very robust collages.

At Andrew Kreps, a raftlike hanging sculpture by Andrea Bowers draws the eye; it is colorful, almost decorative, so it takes a minute, and a look at the label, to realize that it is a functioning tree-sitting apparatus, outfitted with buckets, bottles and a hammock and ready to be hoisted up an endangered redwood.

Nearby at Jack Hanley, the DIY spirit is echoed in “Archipelago (Seq 14),” a large sculpture by a young artist named Marie Lorenz, who is known for building small boats that she uses to explore New York Harbor. Here she combines the decaying hull of a boat she found with a fresh white Fiberglas cast of it. Placed upright, they suggest an improvised shelter and also a monument (maybe to Bruce Nauman).

The Independent runs through Sunday at 548 West 22nd Street, Chelsea; independentnewyork.com.

This article has been revised to reflect the following correction:

Correction: March 9, 2012

 

An earlier version of this review misspelled the surname of Thea Djordjadze.

 

By OLIVIA WANG

Beijing

Chatting over tea in his penthouse studio here, the artist Cai Xiaosong looks like a hipster, with rectangular bamboo-framed glasses and a black-and-white polka-dot scarf. One would not expect that the charismatic 47-year-old finds inspiration in his favorite Song dynasty (960-1279) painters. Yet "they tell me what they think of my paintings, and I also tell them what I think of theirs," Mr. Cai says. He began as a traditional landscape artist, but now focuses on portraits of rocks. To him, rocks are the essence of the Chinese landscape.

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Courtesy of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

In the foreground, the scholars' rock 'The Honorable Old Man'; in the background, 'Ten Differentiated Views of the Honorable Old Man' by Liu Dan.

He is not alone. In the Chinese art world today, many artists are taking Chinese antiquity as their inspiration and reinterpreting it. And one focus of their attention is Chinese scholars' rocks: complex and often bizarre natural formations, collected and admired for more than a thousand years.

Ranked among the world's earliest abstract sculptures, scholars' rocks are also collected in the West. In London last autumn, Damien Hirst's private trove served as the basis for the inaugural exhibition of White Cube's Bermondsey gallery. A show encapsulating the "scholar's spirit" through scholars' rocks will open at the Musée Guimet in Paris this spring.

During the Song dynasty, rocks were considered among the most esteemed items of the emperors and leading painters of the day. First, huge specimens were gathered for display in gardens; later, smaller ones made up home or studio collections. They brought the natural world inside, providing "imaginary travel" to magical peaks and cave paradises. The most prominent petrophile was the Northern Song emperor Huizong, whose passion for collecting rocks from all over China for his gardens drained the Empire of its resources. In that same period, the painter Mi Fu is said to have been so taken by the power and beauty of a rock that he bowed to it.

By the 17th century, artists used portraits of rocks as vehicles for self-expression, through nuances of brushwork and composition. Today, artists of varied backgrounds and approaches have rediscovered this aesthetic and are gaining wider international recognition.

Mr. Cai writes in his personal statement that he is "tracing tradition with fresh eyes." An aficionado of such European Old Masters as Rembrandt and Michelangelo, he likens painting rocks to the complexities of portraiture in Western classical painting. His use of brush and ink captures the crevices and contours of the rock's surface, heightening a sense of vertigo in the viewer. He places some of his rock portraits between two panels of glass that are then mounted on a plinth, creating a remarkable illusory effect. The rocks appear fragile and transparent, yet command an arresting presence. It's no wonder that his works shone at the 2011 Venice Biennale and are set to be exhibited in Miami and New York this spring.

With his long white beard and traditional robe, the 67-year-old Luo Jianwu could be mistaken for an eccentric 17th-century painter. First inspired by the pine trees of Central Park when he lived for more than a decade in New York, Mr. Luo is known for his dramatic depictions of unique trees, gnarled tree roots and rocks. He moved back to Beijing a few years ago so he could behold the mountains of China, seeking inspiration from nature. Mr. Luo calls rocks "the bones of mountains," because they are the foundation of Chinese landscape paintings.

At his studio-cum-flat, which was being redecorated on the advice of his feng shui master, Mr. Luo was asked which aspects draw him to rocks. "It is like looking at a beautiful woman," he replies—you don't know what draws you in, but something does. His work reflects a modern interpretation that transports the viewer to a different realm. Mr. Luo's "Rock Like a Cloud," shown recently at Kaikodo Gallery in New York, stands nearly 10 feet tall and shows a rock shrouded in mist, its amorphous form ethereal and devoid of weight.

The works of Liu Dan, a modern-day doyen of rock and landscape paintings, are in private and museum collections world-wide. The Musée Guimet and the British Museum will be exhibiting his work this spring. The 58-year-old Mr. Liu, with his long hair tied in a neat ponytail, is an intellectual as well-versed in the Chinese classics as the Western Old Masters. In his loft apartment, he shows me the exquisite objects he has collected over the past 20 years, which range from Indian sculpture to imperial paintings.

Mr. Liu has often described rocks as the stem cells of landscape painting. To him, rocks also "serve as a key to liberate the mind and heighten the imagination to create." For his "Ten Differentiated Views of the Honorable Old Man" at the "Fresh Ink" show at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, last year, he painted portraits of a prized Ming period rock in the museum's collection from nine different angles, which hung on a curved wall that wrapped around the rock in a semicircle. The 10th view was a nearly 30-foot-long landscape scroll painting inspired by his interpretation of the rock.

When asked where he has found inspiration, Mr. Liu says, "I look into a candle light, but instead of the flame, I am observing the phenomenon of light and its many patterns and layers caused by the dancing flame. That's the moment I realize I have found what I was looking for." Perhaps that is how he can create the complexities and richness of his paintings that are far beyond the imagination of the viewer.

With Mr. Liu as his teacher and mentor, Tai Xiangzhou is reinterpreting traditional Chinese aesthetics in his own way. The 43-year-old Mr. Tai is an erudite scholar with a serious interest in science and astronomy, subjects that serve as inspiration for his paintings. He favors the works of Stephen Hawking and Roger Penrose, scientists he likens to Confucius and Laozi. His favorite piece in his collection is an iron meteorite that he bought recently at a SoHo gallery in New York. He says he was immediately taken in by the object's shape and resemblance to a scholar's rock, but also by its unique history and the natural processes involved in its creation. Mr. Tai chose to paint this piece in his work "No. 4 of Big Dipper," which is accompanied by a 2,000-year-old Chinese text on astronomy. He made his U.S. debut last spring at the Chinese Porcelain Company in New York, and will have his first solo show there March 16-24. For 2013, he is preparing an exhibition featuring paintings of about 20 favorite rocks that he has encountered in China.

These artists have revived the spirit of the rock while, as Mr. Liu puts it, "pursuing human artistic tradition, not traditional art." And with the younger generation of artists increasingly following their lead, we can expect more formidable artworks to come. As the 30-year-old oil painter Yang Xun summarizes, when asked why he looks to rocks for inspiration, "rocks have no starting point and no ending—they are timeless."

Ms. Wang is a postgraduate student of modern Chinese art at Oxford University.

A version of this article appeared Mar. 8, 2012, on page D6 in some U.S. editions of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: The Dawn of a Rock Renaissance.

By PETER PLAGENS

New Haven, Conn.

'The Theory of Catastrophe" (2004)—a big overhead view of a freeway pileup painted by Malcolm Morley in a deliberately offhand, close-enough-for-government-work version of Photo Realism—could well be painting's riposte to the reason the photographer Garry Winogrand gave for photographing something: to see what it would look like photographed. Mr. Morley wanted to see what such a chaotic scene would look like painted. Of course, the obvious objection to this comparison is photography's supposed machine-made "objectivity"—even in this digital age of Photoshop. Mr. Morley, though, is himself something of a painting machine. That's a compliment, meant in the same way you might call Rafael Nadal or Roger Federer tennis "machines."

Courtesy Sperone Westwater, New York

'The Theory of Catastrophe' (2004).

Mr. Morley was born in 1931 in London. His family's house was blown up by a German bomb during the Blitz; homeless for a time, he led a rough-and-tumble youth. Serving a three-year sentence in the Dickensian-sounding Wormwood Scrubs prison for breaking and entering, the young Mr. Morley read "Lust for Life," the novel about Vincent van Gogh and, he later told a critic, he figured that being an artist was something he could do. After attending art school in London, he moved to New York in the late 1950s. There he met Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein, and was set on a course combining Warhol's wan acceptance of practically any subject that passed in front of his face as suitable for painting with Lichtenstein's surgical irony toward the paradox of the painted image—is it just a bunch of borrowed colored shapes, or is anything meaningful fully there?

For more than half a century, Mr. Morley has attacked that paradox by painting and painting and painting. He's taken his brushes and palette on a wild ride from dreary English postwar realism ("Richmond Hill Below the Wick," 1954) to hard-core Photo Realism (the ocean liner "Cristoforo Colombo," 1965), varieties of neo-expressionism ("Camels and Goats," 1980), cliché-embracing pulp-illustration pictures of World War II fighter planes ("Beautiful Explosion," 2010) and, most recently, veritable installation art (an exterior segment of a pub called "The Spitfire," 2012). All of this and more is engagingly crammed into the modestly proportioned art gallery of the Yale School of Art, a little minimalist building that's usually used for graduate-thesis exhibitions. "Malcolm Morley in a Nutshell" was curated by Robert Storr, the school's director, and it's an art education all by itself.

An awful lot of expertly improvisational painting moves—oddball compositions, deft brush strokes, snappy colors, risky gimmicks such as miniature 3-D barrels hanging by wires in "Depth Mine with Sharks" (2011)—are in action at a breakneck pace. While a few artists might be better at paint-handling than Mr. Morley, he does keep his colors separate and crisp, and he can make you shiver at the dark, cold wetness of Atlantic Ocean water. A certain visual garrulousness is part of his charm.

Malcolm Morley In a Nutshell: The Fine Art of Painting 1954-2012

Edgewood Avenue Gallery, Yale University School of Art

Through March 31

But he isn't perfect—and he probably wouldn't want to be. A couple of titles ("Aero-naughty-cal Manuever" from 2009, for instance) are too cute. A painting called "Split Level" (2011) is an expedient top-and-bottom reprise of two previous paintings, and one of the pub installations, "Biggles" (2011), is too sentimental for real translation into a work of art, yet too garish to convey genuine affection. "Rat Tat Tat" (2001), a 17-foot-wide triptych depicting cardboard punch-out models of World War I aircraft—and the least successful work in the show—is installed directly above the gallery entrance, as if to encourage you to miss it.

In the end, though, Mr. Morley is great at representation, not just verisimilitude. He paints whatever wows him at the moment, and manages most times to find the superficial essence (a deliberate oxymoron here) of his enthusiastically varied subjects. Mr. Morley's emphasis on finding his artistic inspiration outside of himself is what keeps his art from succumbing—as so much contemporary work does these days—to overintellectualizing and bottomless self-reference. "The idea," Mr. Morley has said, "is to have no idea. Get lost. Get lost in the landscape." By landscape, he means the hurly-burly of the world at large—ships, airplanes, naval battles, exotic animals, pubs and the occasional catastrophe. The exhibition is a kind of tribute to the good, old-fashioned, lusty painter's life, and—although Mr. Morley is in his ninth decade—an artistic spirit that's still as young as they come.

Mr. Plagens is a New York-based painter and writer.

A version of this article appeared Mar. 8, 2012, on page D6 in some U.S. editions of The Wall Street Journal, with the headline: Don't Stop, Just Paint.

They do so across the expanse of the museum’s fourth floor, tracing their loops over a surface painted with a blueprint for the building. At one end, opposite the window onto Madison Avenue, hangs a giant neon-tube portrait of Ms. Michelson, glowing green.

Nicole Mannarino is the first to enter and the last to leave. Her blue jumpsuit, slit in a bare V, from neck to waist, has kimono sleeves that suggest wings as she holds her arms out to the side. She circles backward on half-toe, pauses periodically to reset, and continues circling.

Eleanor Hullihan arrives, her legs uncovered — the costumes, by Ms. Michelson and James Kidd, are remarkable for their individualized exposure of flesh — and the two women circle together with a precision that grows more incredible as their paths diverge and overlap. Each lowers an arm to avoid a collision.

One at a time, three other circlers join in; one at a time, all five circlers depart. (This is not counting the character in the horse’s head from Ms. Michelson’s 2009 work “Dover Beach,” who comes and goes inscrutably.)

That’s the gist of the dance, and the dancers’ entrances and exits constitute major events. But so, eventually, do small variations in the circling or quick digressions from it. Very late in the game, a mere torso tilt screams “beauty.” A few leaps forward by Ms. Hullihan seem as shocking as a reversal of gravity.

You might take all of this as a meditation on time, or on minimalism in art and dance. Or you might be bored out of your mind. (James Lo’s score meditates on minimalism in music.) There was significant audience attrition at the Thursday opening, particularly during the middle section, where the dancers stop circling to stand for what seems like eternity.

Meditating, however, is made difficult from the beginning by a conversation in voice-over, stalled and repeated, between Ms. Michelson and the playwright Richard Maxwell. They ask themselves the inane questions artists are often asked, and their inane answers — about how challenging art isn’t popular, etc. — are made more irritating by a purposefully insincere tone. Later, when Ms. Michelson recounts telling her dancers to “make it very beautiful,” it’s like a confession.

Meditation on the movement is thwarted again at the end, when Ms. Michelson’s voice, which has gone quiet, returns to opine about faith amid a ridiculous fable about God’s other child, Marjorie. Religion is also invoked in the program, where Ms. Michelson quotes George Balanchine’s praising comparison of American dancers to angels “who, when they relate a tragic situation, do not themselves suffer.”

But these dancers do suffer. The choreography is punishing, physically and mentally. Ms. Mannarino, her stylish jumpsuit sweat-darkened by the halfway point, endures heroically, but Moriah Evans is saddled with an oversize smock, and Ms. Michelson emphasizes her obvious struggle with the movement by excluding her from the parallel orbits of the others.

“You can get away with murder,” Ms. Michelson says, pretending that she doesn’t care if we agree. The choreographer whose image looks down upon the dancers and who keeps interfering and who demands acts of devotion is a cruel and anxious god.

“Devotion Study #1” continues through Sunday at the Whitney Museum of American Art; (212) 570-3600, whitney.org.

They do so across the expanse of the museum’s fourth floor, tracing their loops over a surface painted with a blueprint for the building. At one end, opposite the window onto Madison Avenue, hangs a giant neon-tube portrait of Ms. Michelson, glowing green.

Nicole Mannarino is the first to enter and the last to leave. Her blue jumpsuit, slit in a bare V, from neck to waist, has kimono sleeves that suggest wings as she holds her arms out to the side. She circles backward on half-toe, pauses periodically to reset, and continues circling.

Eleanor Hullihan arrives, her legs uncovered — the costumes, by Ms. Michelson and James Kidd, are remarkable for their individualized exposure of flesh — and the two women circle together with a precision that grows more incredible as their paths diverge and overlap. Each lowers an arm to avoid a collision.

One at a time, three other circlers join in; one at a time, all five circlers depart. (This is not counting the character in the horse’s head from Ms. Michelson’s 2009 work “Dover Beach,” who comes and goes inscrutably.)

That’s the gist of the dance, and the dancers’ entrances and exits constitute major events. But so, eventually, do small variations in the circling or quick digressions from it. Very late in the game, a mere torso tilt screams “beauty.” A few leaps forward by Ms. Hullihan seem as shocking as a reversal of gravity.

You might take all of this as a meditation on time, or on minimalism in art and dance. Or you might be bored out of your mind. (James Lo’s score meditates on minimalism in music.) There was significant audience attrition at the Thursday opening, particularly during the middle section, where the dancers stop circling to stand for what seems like eternity.

Meditating, however, is made difficult from the beginning by a conversation in voice-over, stalled and repeated, between Ms. Michelson and the playwright Richard Maxwell. They ask themselves the inane questions artists are often asked, and their inane answers — about how challenging art isn’t popular, etc. — are made more irritating by a purposefully insincere tone. Later, when Ms. Michelson recounts telling her dancers to “make it very beautiful,” it’s like a confession.

Meditation on the movement is thwarted again at the end, when Ms. Michelson’s voice, which has gone quiet, returns to opine about faith amid a ridiculous fable about God’s other child, Marjorie. Religion is also invoked in the program, where Ms. Michelson quotes George Balanchine’s praising comparison of American dancers to angels “who, when they relate a tragic situation, do not themselves suffer.”

But these dancers do suffer. The choreography is punishing, physically and mentally. Ms. Mannarino, her stylish jumpsuit sweat-darkened by the halfway point, endures heroically, but Moriah Evans is saddled with an oversize smock, and Ms. Michelson emphasizes her obvious struggle with the movement by excluding her from the parallel orbits of the others.

“You can get away with murder,” Ms. Michelson says, pretending that she doesn’t care if we agree. The choreographer whose image looks down upon the dancers and who keeps interfering and who demands acts of devotion is a cruel and anxious god.

“Devotion Study #1” continues through Sunday at the Whitney Museum of American Art; (212) 570-3600, whitney.org.

 

They do so across the expanse of the museum’s fourth floor, tracing their loops over a surface painted with a blueprint for the building. At one end, opposite the window onto Madison Avenue, hangs a giant neon-tube portrait of Ms. Michelson, glowing green.

Nicole Mannarino is the first to enter and the last to leave. Her blue jumpsuit, slit in a bare V, from neck to waist, has kimono sleeves that suggest wings as she holds her arms out to the side. She circles backward on half-toe, pauses periodically to reset, and continues circling.

Eleanor Hullihan arrives, her legs uncovered — the costumes, by Ms. Michelson and James Kidd, are remarkable for their individualized exposure of flesh — and the two women circle together with a precision that grows more incredible as their paths diverge and overlap. Each lowers an arm to avoid a collision.

One at a time, three other circlers join in; one at a time, all five circlers depart. (This is not counting the character in the horse’s head from Ms. Michelson’s 2009 work “Dover Beach,” who comes and goes inscrutably.)

That’s the gist of the dance, and the dancers’ entrances and exits constitute major events. But so, eventually, do small variations in the circling or quick digressions from it. Very late in the game, a mere torso tilt screams “beauty.” A few leaps forward by Ms. Hullihan seem as shocking as a reversal of gravity.

You might take all of this as a meditation on time, or on minimalism in art and dance. Or you might be bored out of your mind. (James Lo’s score meditates on minimalism in music.) There was significant audience attrition at the Thursday opening, particularly during the middle section, where the dancers stop circling to stand for what seems like eternity.

Meditating, however, is made difficult from the beginning by a conversation in voice-over, stalled and repeated, between Ms. Michelson and the playwright Richard Maxwell. They ask themselves the inane questions artists are often asked, and their inane answers — about how challenging art isn’t popular, etc. — are made more irritating by a purposefully insincere tone. Later, when Ms. Michelson recounts telling her dancers to “make it very beautiful,” it’s like a confession.

Meditation on the movement is thwarted again at the end, when Ms. Michelson’s voice, which has gone quiet, returns to opine about faith amid a ridiculous fable about God’s other child, Marjorie. Religion is also invoked in the program, where Ms. Michelson quotes George Balanchine’s praising comparison of American dancers to angels “who, when they relate a tragic situation, do not themselves suffer.”

But these dancers do suffer. The choreography is punishing, physically and mentally. Ms. Mannarino, her stylish jumpsuit sweat-darkened by the halfway point, endures heroically, but Moriah Evans is saddled with an oversize smock, and Ms. Michelson emphasizes her obvious struggle with the movement by excluding her from the parallel orbits of the others.

“You can get away with murder,” Ms. Michelson says, pretending that she doesn’t care if we agree. The choreographer whose image looks down upon the dancers and who keeps interfering and who demands acts of devotion is a cruel and anxious god.

“Devotion Study #1” continues through Sunday at the Whitney Museum of American Art; (212) 570-3600, whitney.org.

In its 10th year of showcasing work from Latin American artists, the arteaméricas fair in Miami Beach that opens Saturday is highlighting something new: work from artists of any origin.

The new FotoAméricas section, which was open to all nationalities, is a reflection of Miami’s increasingly global reputation as an art destination.

Miami’s profile has been raised largely thanks to Art Basel Miami Beach, which marked its 10th year in December, and multiple satellite fairs that draw an international audience each year.

“You have now a much more international crowd of not only Latin Americans but Spaniards, Europeans,” fair president Leslie Pantín said. “You have [an area] that has changed dramatically in the last 10 years with all these international people that live most of the year down here in Miami.”

His own fair represents that shift, Pantín said: In its first year, “only Hispanics came.”

This year, the 52-gallery fair is expected to draw an estimated 15,000 art lovers from all over the Southern part of the state, New York — and, of course, Latin America.

Observers say that while Miami remains a city in artistic flux, its roots in Hispanic culture are deep.

“Miami is a city in search of its cultural artistic identity,” said Reed V. Horth, president and curator of Robin Rile Fine Art and curator of a Salvador Dalí exhibit that opens next week in Miami. “There are many names, shows and styles all vying to become what is quintessential about Miami. While the future remains uncertain, we are slowly becoming to Latin American art what Paris was to impressionism in the 1880s.”

Arteaméricas, which runs through Monday, is the first of three major events that focus on Latin America and its mother country of Spain to open in Miami the space of a week. On Wednesday, the five-day Dalí Miami exhibit, featuring 200 works by the Spanish artist, opens at the Moore Building in the Design District. Thursday brings the opening reception for Cuba: The Natural Beauty by photographer Clyde Butcher at the Center for Visual Communication in Miami.

The events are a testament to the built-in audience that South Florida provides for art with a Latin American or Spanish bent. With high-profile galleries and artists in the community, “it would be hard to argue any other city has had as much of an impact on Latin American art as Miami has,” Horth said.

Gary Nader, an art dealer and gallery owner, began auctioning Latin American art in the early 90s and just recently opened a show featuring masters and contemporary Latin American artists.

“When I opened my first gallery here 25 years ago, I registered ‘Miami, Latin American art capital of the world’ [as a trademark] because it’s where you find the most important things in Latin American art — in Miami,” he said.

Still, Nader said, only about 50 percent of what his gallery shows is Latin American art. And when he resurrected his auction house earlier this year, the pieces he sold were Latin American, modern and contemporary.

The presence of Art Basel Miami Beach has introduced collectors of modern Latin American art to more cutting-edge contemporary artists from the area, said art advisor Lisa Austin. And the growing population of affluent young Latin Americans are proving a solid target for those contemporary artists.

 

Upstairs, downstairs

By Anne Tschida The Miami Herald

In a pair of Bass Museum exhibits, creativity takes divergent forms

Erwin Wurm Mies van der Rohe - melting, 2005/2008 acrylic 43 5/16 x 28 3/4 x 36 1/4 inches Courtesy of the artist; Xavier Hufkens, Brussels; Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac, Salzburg and Paris; and Lehmann Maupin, New York Part of an exhibition at the Bass Museum of Art, January 2012. Courtesy of the artist; Xavier Hufkens, Brussels; Galerie Thaddaeus

 

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If you go "Portrait of a Man” from Laurent Grasso, with pieces from the Bass At tBass Museum of Art, 2100 Collins Ave., Miami Beach; 305-673-7530; www.bassmuseum.org.

 By Anne Tschida

Special to The Miami Herald

A strange soundtrack from a vaguely sci-fi-looking video greets visitors to the ground-floor exhibit at the Bass Museum, Portrait of a Young Man. The video, along with paintings and works made from electric lights, comes from French artist Laurent Grasso. The darkened rooms also hold early Renaissance treasures from the museum’s collection, creating a lovely and enlightening mixture.