A Chat with Leo Steinberg
by Charlie Finch
We were so depressed by Philip-Lorca diCorcia’s decadent dungeon encompassed snaps of strippers, hung upside down on poles like Baselitzes, that we walked over to 11th Avenue for air.
It was Chelsea’s carnivale opening night last Thursday. We turned the corner onto 27th Street -- there, sitting on a stoop, nattily dressed in a burnt umber suit with light yellow shirt and his always resplendent beard, was Leo Steinberg.