«Musa Mayer: Writer, Philanthropist and Therapist»

Von Julieta Schildknecht

Writer, philanthropist, and therapist Musa Mayer shares with us a wealth of fascinating insights beyond those found in her book “Night Studio”. In our conversation, we had the privilege of learning more about her father, Philip Guston, while also exploring her diverse interests, including painting and politics.

An Interlude with Musa Mayer: A Daughter’s Odyssey in Art and Legacy

In a compelling dialogue, Musa Mayer, author, art historian, and custodian of the Philip Guston legacy, offers an intimate look into her life and work, unveiling connections between personal history and broader artistic, cultural, and philosophical currents. Mayer, whose influence spans literary, philanthropic, and art historical realms, speaks with an open, reflective tone about her journey, her father’s towering presence, and her ongoing dedication to both his art and her independent pursuits.
 
Musa Mayer: So, you’re recording the audio?

Julieta Schildknecht: Exactly, and I’m going to focus on you—especially on you.

JS: It’s political season in the US.

MM: I know. Everyone is reaching out for contributions. Horrible, horrible.

 

JS: This has to be registered. I’d like to conduct this interview like walking through a time tunnel, drawing parallels between your life and your father’s, Philip Guston. Let’s begin with something you mentioned in your book—a citation from Søren Kierkegaard:
«Every moment I lie like a child who must learn to swim out in the middle of the sea. I scream, for I have indeed a harness about my waist, but the pole that holds me up I do not see. It is a fearful way in which to get experience».

 

MM: Amazing! Did I quote that in my book?

 

JS:  Yes, it’s in the book. The title is „Either/Or“ by Søren Kierkegaard. Let’s start there. When you were 13, living in Harry Holtzman’s loft on 18th Street – owned by one of the founders of the American Abstract Artists Group – how did your experiences at the Music and Art Public High School in New York City, and later at Columbia University, shape your journey?

 

MM: That was much later. You’ve jumped from 1956 to 1985 – a big leap for a young person. What would you like to know about that?

 

JS: Your experiences, dreams, thoughts, abstractions, drawings—what were you painting?

 

MM:  I wasn’t painting anything of significance. As a teenager, I went to the Art Students League here in Woodstock, where I am now, and drew from models. Looking back, it’s hard to take my early attempts at visual art seriously.

Although I studied art at the High School of Music and Art, my wish to go there was mainly because it was the best public high school available to me. My parents couldn’t afford private school, and the other public options were either too academically demanding or not great. I had just left a private school in eighth grade, which convinced me I wasn’t as smart as I’d thought I was.

So, I applied to Music and Art as an art major. But by the time I graduated, I knew I wanted to be an art historian or writer. I went to Oberlin College to study art history, which was wonderful. The professors and the museum collections there were of the highest quality.

But my personal life intervened. My boyfriend, the son of one of my father’s oldest friends, Ruben Kadish, gave me an ultimatum: come back to New York, or we’re done. So, I transferred to NYU, got married, and became a mother. For the next decade, I was managing a bad marriage and raising two young children.

Later, while living in New Haven, I began writing art criticism for the „New Haven Register“. That was when I discovered my love for writing. I’d kept a diary as a child, so writing wasn’t entirely new. But it wasn’t until I returned to New York, attended workshops at The New School, and later enrolled in Columbia’s Graduate Writing Program that I fully committed to it. I wrote „Night Studio“ there.

 

JS:  Your book reflects a keen sense of observation—meticulously researched, almost encyclopedic in its detail. I particularly loved your description of Harry Holtzman’s flat.

 

MM:  Oh, yes. Holtzman, a protégé of Mondrian, designed the loft like a Mondrian painting—white surfaces with primary-colored accents. It was striking, though the craftsmanship wasn’t great.

Living there was a magical time. My father’s studio was directly above ours—it had once belonged to Walt Kuhn, and some of his paintings were still there. I was sad when the building was torn down. We moved to a more conventional apartment after that.

 

JS:  Your first boyfriend, Josh Rifkin, was a pianist and composer. Could you share stories about him, your violin, and sneaking into Carnegie Hall?

 

MM: I was smitten with Josh—he was a prodigy and very gifted. He even played on WNYC, the local public radio station. I think, because of my father, I was drawn to gifted men. Josh later recorded a popular album of Scott Joplin’s piano rags.

As for the violin, I dabbled in it, just as I dabbled in art. These were cultural pursuits I felt were expected of me. I enjoyed them but never truly dedicated myself.

 

JS:  Your first husband, Danny Kadish, introduced you to Thelonious Monk and Ornette Coleman at the Five Spot. What does music mean to you?

 

MM:  I don’t have a passion for music. I followed what others enjoyed. Hearing formative jazz performances was exciting, but I never developed a deep connection. Similarly, with Danny, I experienced great rock performances—Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix. But music has never been central to my life.

 

JS: From your father’s 1955 Sidney Janis gallery exhibit to watching Michael Blackwood’s 1980 documentary shortly after his death—what was it like seeing your father on screen?

 

MM:  It wasn’t the footage of him working that upset me. It was seeing him alive on screen, so soon after his death. My father was a mystery to me, which became part of my impetus to write „Night Studio“.

 

JS: You’ve said your father’s depressions shaped his art. Could you elaborate?

 

MM: He was never formally diagnosed or treated. He self-medicated with alcohol, which only worsened things. His later works—full of despair, violence, and fear—reflect that.

 

JS: Your father’s hooded figures and Nixon caricatures were controversial. How do you view his political art?

 

MM:  My father felt compelled to reveal the truth about the world. He paid a price for it. The Marlborough show, where he first exhibited those works, drove him into solitude—but it was a solitude from which a prolific period emerged.

 

JS: You’ve donated many of his works to institutions like the Met. What motivated that?

 

MM:  Practicality. The foundation couldn’t handle the costs of storing, insuring, and maintaining the works. Donating them ensures they’ll be cared for and seen by the public.

 

JS: Finally, what’s next for you?

 

MM:  After completing a book on my mother’s journals, I’d like to step back—spend less time traveling and more time living quietly. But I’ll always oversee the foundation’s work and ensure my father’s legacy is preserved.

 

JS:  Thank you so much for sharing your journey.

 

MM:  Thank you – it’s been a pleasure.