AT Minneapolis' Walker Art Center last week was a brilliant and very odd exhibition of pictures by Attilio Salemme, who died four years ago at 43. Before he died, Salemme had shaped to near perfection a wholly personal idiom. His retrospective show, which originated at Boston's Institute of Contemporary Art and will move to Manhattan's Whitney Museum later this month, proved Salemme to have been sad and chill, yet magical, and a colorist of weird subtlety.
A sailor's son, Salemme was born in a Boston suburb, went to Manhattan at 18 and made it his own, educating himself at the public library....
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
