Figuring Marlene Dumas Profile Deborah Solomon NYTimes.com

MARLENE DUMAS’S STUDIO occupies an underheated, underfurnished ground-floor apartment on the southern side of Amsterdam. As she sat at her worktable one evening in late March, emptying a bottle of white wine and picking at a plate of almond pastries, she offered an image of contented Bohemianism. Beside her, a red vase held a bouquet of dead white tulips, and beyond an unusually tall window, dusk was gathering in a garden densely overgrown with weeds.

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In the Netherlands, people talk about the Dutch light in rapturous terms. It is frequently described with adjectives related to jewelry — “pearly,” for instance, or “silvery” — but Dumas is more of a night person. She can customarily be found in her studio at 2 or 3 in the morning, and her desire to record experience in its most extreme forms — she paints birth, sex, death and violence, for starters — has failed to bring her one inch closer to observing or recording the famed Dutch light. Tellingly, she does not like to travel, even across town.

“I never learned to ride a bicycle, and it is too late now,” she told me with a hint of pride, before going on to list her other negative achievements. “I never learned to drive. I never learned to swim.” At 54, Dumas is a jovial and garrulous presence, with a tangle of blond curls and fair skin. She speaks English with a heavy accent, in a wheezing, thinned-out voice.

“I was so pleased when I read that Rossellini loved to lie in bed,” she continued, referring to the Italian filmmaker, a confirmed hypochondriac who, she discovered, would take to his bed for two or three days at a time, reading thick novels. “Now people do exercise, and they have hobbies, and they take holidays,” she said. “I am not one of those. I don’t go to a psychiatrist. I don’t go to a gym. I run away from my accountant, I run away from my dentist. They are all supposed to help you, but I like to stay in bed, where I have a chance to reflect, like Rossellini.”

As Dumas languishes in bed in Amsterdam, her career in America has been advancing on its own. The first major survey of her art in this country opens at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles next week, before traveling to the Museum of Modern Art in New York in mid-December and finally ending at the Menil Collection in Houston. “Marlene Dumas: Measuring Your Own Grave,” as the show is titled, might sound more like a do-it-yourself funeral than a foray into the optical pleasures of painting, but one trademark of the artist’s work is her ability to conjoin nerve-racking subject matter and elegant brushwork. She is one of contemporary art’s most compelling painters, taking people from newspaper photographs and turning them into agents in a psychological drama who might shut their eyes on us or look out at us with a gaze that says, “Don’t go.”

The facts of Dumas’s biography — she grew up in South Africa under apartheid — can encourage a viewer to read her work as unadorned social commentary. Significantly, the retrospective in Los Angeles, which was organized by the curator Cornelia Butler and consists of about 70 paintings and 35 works on paper, will be arranged along loose thematic lines touching on topics like race relations and terror. Taken together, Dumas’s portraits might seem to constitute the face book of a bungled imperialism. On the other hand, the figures in her paintings are pleasingly complicated — there are babies who look like dictators and brides in wedding dresses lined up like zombies — and they hark back to the days before big questions about life and death and evil gave way to the drone of gender theory and identity politics.

For all their moral gravity, Dumas’s paintings have led a separate, rather flashy existence in the more commercial precincts of the art world. In February 2005, at Christie’s in London, “The Teacher (sub a)” (1987) — a large, horizontal group portrait that turns a sentiment-laden class picture from her own childhood into a bruising reflection on authority — sold for .34 million. Virtually overnight, Dumas became “the world’s most expensive living female artist,” as the blogs reported, a status she maintained for one year, until Louise Bourgeois sold a sculpture for million and captured the top-art-girl crown.

“The Teacher (sub a),” as it turns out, was purchased by the Acquavella Galleries, which occupies a stately town house on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and, three years later, still owns the painting. “We bought it for ourselves,” Nick Acquavella, who is 30, told me, explaining that he and his art-dealing father attended the auction not to bid on behalf of a client but rather in the hope of adding Dumas’s painting to the family collection, which abounds with Picassos, Giacomettis and other staples of European modernism. “It is difficult to find Marlene’s work on the market,” he said. “She is not very prolific, and most of her work is in European collections where people don’t want to sell.”

Deborah Solomon, the Questions For columnist for the magazine, is completing a biography of the artist Norman Rockwell.