82 Books Like Man with a Blue Scarf

Not much in common between Gombrich and Berger, ideologically—so I would presume. Yet Berger’s social history of Western art, woven into the rise of capitalism, advertising, and mass media, is similarly direct in style.

It irritates me; it’s supposed to irritate. Given its radical energy, the book seems surprisingly undated. First published in 1972, it also still seems adventurous in design—the art book as a work of art.

In the late 1990s, when I was writing a short history of the Phaidon Press–a pioneer imprint of art books both affordable and beautiful—I used to visit Gombrich at his home in north London. His own career as art historian was entwined with Phaidon’s fortunes. I asked him if it were true that he used to get an adolescent to read his texts to check for clarity of expression.

The legend was exaggerated, of course. But Gombrich’s prose still strikes me as admirably free of academic obfuscation, and this book is filled with lucid discussion of what is happening, perceptually and psychologically, when artists invite viewers into their ‘worlds’.

I’m fond of writers who indulge the anecdotal mode. Vasari is up there with Plutarch, Boswell, de Quincey, and other biographers who see how apparently trivial information can transmit essential personal characteristics. While he gives reverential accounts of artists he regards in the category of genius, Vasari humanizes them through anecdotes.

How Michelangelo became physically attached to his clothes because he so seldom changed them. How Leonardo bought caged birds in the market in order to set them free. How Raphael died of too much sex. It’s not a read-through book, but a text to consult whenever you see a remarkable sculpture, building, or painting of the Italian Renaissance and want to know more about the men (it is all men) who made it—each burning with that hard gem-like flame.

I pity current practitioners of academic anthropology. Is there any human society today without the smartphone? It is then all the more valuable to read accounts of art-making derived from fieldwork among pre-industrial, pre-tech communities.

Ellen Dissanayake’s work, seasoned by (pre-phone) research experience in Asia, Africa, and Papua New Guinea, argues urgently for art as a common human necessity.

Women and Warriors of the Plains is about the frontier adventures of a newly-married young woman and her camera in the early 20th Century. Settling on the Northern Cheyenne Indian reservation in Montana, Julia Tuell went on to capture portraits and photojournalistic depictions of Native Americans living off the land and going about their everyday lives, including the Northern Cheyenne and the Rosebud Sioux Tribe of the Lakota nation. Many of Tuell’s photos taught me to compose my paintings in a more natural way.

There’s a saying in hip-hop to always “trust the shooter”, a nod to the importance of photographers in capturing the moment.

Contact High goes behind the lens and celebrates the photographers who contributed to the visual evolution of hip-hop. This is one of the best coffee table hip-hop books and goes beyond just pretty pictures. By using contact sheets, readers get a rare insider view of the creative process and a deep appreciation for the power of photography.

Published by the National Portrait Gallery in Washington D.C., this beautifully produced and generously illustrated book contains essays on many aspects of portraiture with special emphasis on the USA. Portraits are fascinating; there is just so much to say about the ways in which materials such as paper, stone, metal, and canvas, ink, crayon, and paint can conjure up a human being. Nations, institutions, professions, families, and individuals all make use of portraits to affirm their positions, persuade those who view them of their worth, and shape forms of remembrance. The essays are relatively short, which encourages readers to browse, read a contribution and then come back often to look as well as read more about one of the most extraordinary forms of visual culture that has ever been produced.    

Manhattan art dealer Sera James watched her world crumble at the altar two years ago, and her heart is still fragile. Her desire for distraction reignites a passion for a mysterious portrait she first saw as a young girl—a painting of a young violinist with piercing blue eyes. Along with wealthy heir William Hanover, Sera unravels the story behind the painting’s subject, an Austrian violinist Adele Von Bron who smuggles Jews out of Vienna and finds herself in Auschwitz.

Evocative, haunting, soul searching, this debut by Cambron is time-slip historical fiction at its best: heartbreaking truth of the horrors of Auschwitz, romance with a musical refrain, art and faith. Just the kind of story I try to write. A delight.

Elton John may be a feast more for the ears than the eyes, but his unique and elaborate costuming and showmanship, along with his collector’s approach to art and fashion, mean that a visual component is crucial to any complete appraisal of his cultural significance. 

I was thrilled to be able to include a few of Terry O’Neill’s classic photographs in my book On Elton John, but O’Neill’s work really deserves the treatment it is given here—a lavish, gorgeous, often mesmerizing presentation of every great O’Neill shot of John and the people who filled his world.

An ideal accompaniment to the biographies and albums.

Women photographers have all too often been overlooked or forgotten. (This happened to the subject of my own book choice, Helen Post.) But Helen Levitt – who really flourished from the 1940s through the 1960s and is now undergoing something of a renaissance – has always had devotees. Steichen invited her to contribute to The Family of Man and one of her most notable admirers, James Agee, the novelist, poet, film critic, and documentarian, was pleased to write the insightful essay to A Way of Seeing. Levitt’s quirky pictures of street life – especially those featuring children, often at play – document quite ordinary customs at a particular moment. Despite never seeming intrusive, they get up close, reveal the photographer’s rapport with her subjects, and present them, so to speak, on the level. Ultimately, these images are so expressive that they become universal, transcending the period in which they… show more.