By Show and Tell
By Bree Davies
By Bree Davies
By Cory Casciato
By Emilie Johnson
By Robin Edwards
By Bree Davis
By Josiah M. Hesse
In the 1960s, some Denver artists pushed to promote the Mile High City as the new contemporary-art capital of the Rockies, and, eventually, they won. That's partly because the creeping conservatism in the Springs did nothing to encourage cutting-edge artists, while a more progressive crowd up here was open to new ideas.
Another reason Denver had become the state's unrivaled art center by the mid-1970s is that the city was booming in the late '60s and early '70s and was starting to get rich. This created the perfect conditions for launching a new era in art appreciation in Denver -- something Beverly Rosen helped to do.
Rosen was born Beverly Ullian in Massachusetts in 1924. She met her future husband, Bernie Rosen, while on summer break from Simmons College in the 1940s. In 1951 the couple moved to Denver, and Bernie's career as an insurance executive took off. As was typical for the Leave It to Beaver era, Bev stayed home and raised four children. In her spare time, she created abstract-expressionist paintings, such as 1953's "Symphony," which was exhibited at the Denver Art Museum's 60th Western Annual, held in 1954.
In the late '50s, Bev decided to go back to school to hone her skills as an artist. She applied to the University of Colorado at Boulder but was rejected, so she sought admission to the University of Denver. She was accepted and completed her BFA there in 1960. She then earned an MFA in 1963 and immediately went on to teach at DU. The character of her work at that time is best revealed by her thesis topic: "Energy of Pigment." According to Bernie, "Bev loved splashing paint around." While at DU, she was mentored by Vance Kirkland, then chairman of the art department.
In the mid-'60s and into the early '70s, Rosen shifted gears radically, abandoning expressionism completely in favor of hard-edged painting. The turn was partly predicated by her interest in American Indian art that featured geometric motifs, especially rugs and pottery. Another source of inspiration was the building boom that had just started in Denver and crowded the skyline with the straight lines of all the skeletal steel frames being erected. It was the paintings Rosen did during this period that would gain the widest local acclaim and establish her as one of the city's most important contemporary artists. These stripped paintings, which she dubbed "Cityscapes," are considered her signature works, as are the closely related "Girder" paintings of the same period.
A good example is "Collimation," from 1972, which is on display at the Kirkland Museum of Fine and Decorative Art. At first I thought she'd made up the title, but it's actually a real, if rarely used, word. It means rendering something so that it is parallel to a certain direction. That's a perfect description of this painting: Rosen divided her composition into several angular sections and then filled each with stacks of parallel bars. The orientation of each section is different, so that the bars collide where the parts intersect. Surely one of the most important aspects of this enormous painting is its stunning array of colors. There is essentially a complete prism, with the bright and vibrant shades ranging from reds and pinks at one end of the spectrum to greens and blues at the other. "One thing that nearly everyone said about Bev was what a marvelous colorist she was," recalls Bernie.
In addition to painting and teaching and raising kids, Rosen was also one of the city's greatest advocates for contemporary art. In the late '60s, she was a founder of Friends of Contemporary Art, which put pressure on the DAM to present contemporary art and, ultimately, to hire Dianne Vanderlip as the institution's first paid curator in that field. (Kirkland had served in the same role earlier, but he was a volunteer.)
Rosen was also the catalyst for the Denver Sculpture Symposium of 1968, which ultimately became Burns Park, located at the northeast corner of Colorado Boulevard and Alameda Avenue. "It was 9:30 on Thanksgiving night of 1967," recalls Bernie, "and Roger Kotoske and Wilbert Verhelst rang our doorbell after having had a fair amount to drink. At about 3 a.m., and after we'd consumed four bottles of wine, Roger was complaining that there was nowhere to show sculpture in Denver. Bev said, ŒLet's vow tonight to have a sculpture park in Denver.' The idea was radical, as there were no sculpture parks anywhere in America at that time."