Page 26 - Studio International - March 1965

The Artist as Collector: Alfonso Ossorio

U.S. Collectors of modern art-3 by Kenneth 8. Sawyer
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About three hours travel from Manhattan, through the
cloverleaf and neon wilderness that is southern Long
Island, lies the township of East Hampton. Chartered
in the seventeenth century and prosperous since the
nineteenth. it is perhaps the most charming village on
the east shore. The houses with their cedar shingle or
their white painted clapboard are sturdy and well kept,
lawns are dense and velvet. trees are tall, healthy, and
timeless. The windmills are properly picturesque and
the pond has never suffered the indignity of ice cream
wrappers or bobbing pop bottles. Altogether. it is an
attractive prospect. neither so pretentious as South
Hampton. nor so garish as its neighbour to the north.
Montauk. It seems peopled not merely inhabited. It has,
in fact. very little of the art colony about it. Yet within
a few miles of its limits dwell. in relative peace, some of
America's most distinguished artists.
It supports neither an art school nor a major museum:
its residents attend civic meetings and support worthy
causes. There are few of the jigsaw nightclubs and
tawdry bars that mar much of the American landscape:
one has instead the sense of a solid yeomanry that has
all but disappeared in North America. Yet in summer it
is something of a pantheon. On a fine afternoon on the
Coast Guard Beach-one of the best on the Long
Island shore-the elite of the art world gather to swim.
to sun themselves, and to picnic. It is a world where
talent. wealth, and privilege conjoin in informal fun.
The land itself is gentle, mainly flat. heavily wooded,
and with a surprising abundance of wild life. A few
hundred yards from the tiny airport. on the main road
into the township, there is a simple sign which says
'The Creeks'. The private road it marks is unpaved,
hardly more than a lane. It is punctuated by 'no hunting'
signs and masked by dense foliage. One follows it for
about a quarter mile, then turns abruptly into a circular
drive of neatly raked gravel and surrounded by an
immaculate garden. The house itself is large and in the
Italianate manner favoured by Americans in the early
years of the century (Enrico Caruso rented it during the
hot New York summers).
Beneath the porte cochere, through a massive door,
and one is suddenly inside one of the truly beautiful
houses of America. It is difficult to assimilate all at once:
indeed, no matter how often one visits 'The Creeks' he
is still confronted by small, delightful surprises-a
gorgeous bird, an antique toy, a fantastic vase. Most
dramatic, however, are the paintings. Immediately to
the left as one enters is an enormous oil by Clyfford
Still, predominantly grey. but riven by passages of white,
red, black, and yellow. It is perhaps the most powerful
painting of the collection. Then others appear: oils and
watercolours by Still, Pollock, Dubuffet. deKooning,
Krasner, Little, and by Ossorio himself. Wherever the
eye searches it is rewarded.
The tall, handsome man who appears, offering a
warm smile and refreshment. is, himself, as interesting
as his collection. Gifted with an acute intelligence,
a ready wit. and a presence worthy of Castiglione,
Alfonso Ossorio is something of a legend in American
art. Born in Manila to a family of sugar planters, he is
proudly Eurasian. The surroundings of his early life
were by no means artistic, although his father was a
casual and sporadic collector of jade. He describes
the family house as a melange of 'lovely ivories,
hideous plasters, and some Chinoiserie'. A private
chapel, however, impressed the boy profoundly.
At the age of seven he was taken to England to begin
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