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Kitaj would declare later in life that he had a condition that his good friend Philip Roth would call “Jew-on-the brain.”  This obsession with the condition of the Jews had two key components for Kitaj: a sense of marvel at the depth of Jewish cultural genius, borne of “an aesthetic of entrapment and escape” that characterized the Diaspora Jew; and a sense of astonishment at the persistence of anti-Semitism.  This latter phenomenon came to play a decisive role in his own life.  During the 1980s, Kitaj’s own work drew heavily not only on Jewish themes, but on anti-Semitism in particular; a number of paintings from this period contain the image of the chimney, a chilling evocation of Auschwitz. 

In 1994, a major retrospective of Kitaj’s work was held at the Tate Gallery in London.  The exhibit unleashed a torrent of criticism from the art establishment, with reviewers labeling him a “supreme dilettante,” an “egotist,” and an “unprovocative” and “ponderous” painter.  The critics took particular aim at Kitaj’s habit of writing commentaries, arguing that “the visual interest and quality of the painting, as a painting, should be what make it interesting.”  A host of notable admirers, including Paul McCartney, Brian Eno, and Pete Townshend, sharply dissented from the professional critics, and wrote to Kitaj in glowing praise of his work.  Kitaj, for his part, was enraged by the London critics, seeing them as purveyors of a thinly veiled anti-Semitic attack on a Jewish artist.  He also believed that the strain and pressure produced by the criticism led to the brain aneurysm that killed his wife, Sandra Fisher, two weeks after the close of the Tate show.