The genius of Growing (1981) lies in its subversion of the word "growing." For most people, growing implies progress. For Rivers, a student of history and a chronicler of the messy human condition, growing is synonymous with entropy.
Look closely at the brushwork. In the 1950s, Rivers had a lush, almost de Kooning-esque touch. By 1981, that touch has turned aggressive and dry. There are sections of Growing where the paint seems scraped off rather than applied. There are areas of raw, unpainted canvas—gaps in the "growth." This formal decision suggests that growing is not a smooth process; it is full of holes, erasures, and false starts.
Rivers is asking a radical question: What if growing is just a slower form of dying? growing 1981 larry rivers
In the top-left panel of the work, a tiny, photographic image of a child (presumably Rivers’ own son) is silkscreened. Below it, the same child’s face appears aged and skull-like. The "growth" from one to the other is linear, but the emotional impact is tragic. Rivers the father sees his child growing; Rivers the artist sees the clock ticking.
In the sprawling, chaotic narrative of 20th-century art, few figures defy categorization as stubbornly as Larry Rivers. A Jewish kid from the Bronx who played jazz saxophone, hung out with the Beat Generation, and bridged the gap between Abstract Expressionism and Pop Art, Rivers spent his career smashing boundaries. But by 1981, Rivers was a different artist than the one who shocked the art world with Washington Crossing the Delaware (1953). He was older, more introspective, and grappling with a new set of anxieties: mortality, legacy, and the relentless forward march of time. The genius of Growing (1981) lies in its
It is within this mature, reflective context that we encounter "Growing" (1981). At first glance, the title suggests nature, biology, or the wholesome passage of time. But in the hands of Larry Rivers, "growing" is a loaded, ironic, and deeply visceral concept. This article explores the history, formal qualities, and thematic depth of this lesser-known but crucial work, revealing why Growing remains a pivotal piece in understanding Rivers’ late-career genius.
If you are an artist studying this work, ask yourself: What does "growth" look like when it hurts? In the 1950s, Rivers had a lush, almost
Rivers rejected the digital future (the early 80s saw the rise of the PC and early digital art). He insisted on the hand. In Growing, the hand is shaky, insistent, and sometimes ugly. That ugliness is the truth.
In an era of AI-generated perfection and Instagram-filtered beauty, Growing (1981) feels prophetic. It reminds us that authentic growth—artistic or biological—is messy. It leaves scars. It leaves erased lines. It does not always make sense.
To create Growing, Rivers employed a technique he perfected in the 1970s: carbon transfer printing combined with oil paint. He would take photographs, transfer them onto the canvas using a chemical process, and then paint over, under, and around them. This created a disorienting depth—the photograph says "reality," but the hand-painted distortions say "memory."
In this piece, notice the hands. The hands in Growing are enormous, disproportionate, and rendered almost entirely in charcoal pencil over a thin wash of oil. They hover near the groin and the heart—two centers of biological growth. The fingers look like roots digging into the soil of the torso. It is gross, tender, and utterly profound.
