tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25263197517650798662024-03-18T20:36:53.904-07:00Art: Theories and ProvocationsMark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.comBlogger138125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-12236947324633120102018-03-16T21:44:00.003-07:002018-03-16T21:44:46.689-07:00<i>another draft from 2013 I stumbled on... I remember this time, this discovery, that Summer...</i><br />
<i>these are the unedited thoughts in my head put down (not on paper)... </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>NYC, 3.16.18</i><br />
<br />
<br />
last summer, on a balcony in Fishkill, NY, i began work on what became a series of calligraphic drawings (acrylic) on a lightweight paper. the notebook made its way with my family and i to Montauk and Long Beach Island, where work was done on the beach under the sun...<br />
<br />
the paint used was a pale blue. it seemed fitting, given the pastoral, lyrical life we were leading between beach, city and countryside.<br />
<br />
in my Bklyn studio, i've a pile of similarly calligraphic drawings in black acrylic. with each work session, i try to do at least 4 or 5, before heading home to Manhattan in the <i>German Steel...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
i see these drawings as i see my work with kettle bells-- wholly satisfying in and of themselves, yet, much more to the point, a conditioning process for a larger enterprise. these works exist, in and of themselves, but they are a conditional tool in the process of my studio practice.<br />
<br />
for several months, i saw my summer notebook as a similar exercise. but, recently,<br />
i began to look anew...<br />
<br />
i saw (suddenly it seemed) a starting point for a new body of work. responding to the gesture before me (as so often in the past) i went back in-- the paper buckling under weight of the additional paint-- the simple paper becoming a precious object...Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-71955912994569517522018-03-16T21:39:00.001-07:002018-03-16T21:39:16.808-07:00 1.<br />
<br />
I stumbled upon theses words as a draft-<br />
unafraid, not committed to life...<br />
from a different time- years ago:<br />
<br />
the grand thoughts and feverish ideas<br />
of time alone in the water<br />
and on the beach have given way<br />
to the reality of the city<br />
and art and being a father…<br />
<br />
i solved problems sitting on a surfboard<br />
bobbing up on the swells that didn't break<br />
and paddling hard for the ones that did.<br />
i caught up on my time with myself<br />
and the water and the sun<br />
and the creatures, so skillfully beneath me…<br />
<br />
there is so much life out there that i could cry<br />
at what is left behind. so much life out there<br />
that i know there are those who will never know<br />
the feeling of the drip of it's residue.<br />
<br />
i have loved this life so hard it almost killed me.<br />
there are cautionary tales to success stories and most poems.<br />
you just have to read them…<br />
<br />
i tilt forward and press my face into the mass<br />
of wilting pink roses before me on the table.<br />
the scent is weak, but there. i sit on the couch<br />
next to my sleeping daughter<br />
and watch a man lay a shin upon the temple<br />
of another with a beautiful rear leg roundhouse kick--<br />
poetry of the highest order…<br />
<br />
i am counting blessings undeserved and grateful--<br />
probing along the way…<br />
<br />
<br />
2.<br />
<br />
<br />
i miss the nights of Wooster and West Broadway,<br />
Spring and Prince…<br />
<br />
the nights of cobblestones and anonymous weed<br />
lit in storefronts by Cooper Union girls,<br />
scared of nothing and aching for everything<br />
<br />
the era of SoHo leads one<br />
to change the names of the innocent.<br />
<br />
the wood floors carry prints<br />
that are best left forgotten…<br />
<br />
the stairs up led to art and wine<br />
and slivers of a culture.<br />
<br />
the stairs down led to another show<br />
and another bed preceded<br />
by another glass of shit wine.<br />
<br />
but it was beautiful.<br />
<br />
it was beautiful in a way<br />
that is now<br />
(if not forgotten)<br />
long gone.<br />
<br />
and i guess<br />
i'm all the better for it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-8666397635471904692018-03-08T20:08:00.000-08:002018-03-16T22:06:15.354-07:00International Women's Day 2018 indeed... At my home, everyday is Women's Day.<br />
<br />
It seems to work.<br />
<br />
A day set aside to celebrate Women- perhaps the abstract concept of "Woman". I'm on board for any number of reasons, some quite personal, some quite obvious... I view the celebration of the Feminine as holy a prospect as the potential celebration of the Masculine. Though, in all honesty, we're not going to see that anytime too soon. Our culture's preoccupation with "social justice" shuts the door on that prospect with a hardy abandon. I've read my Marx, Mao and, indeed, far more than enough French Post-Modernism, to find this dishonesty and juvenile subjectivity as loathsome as I find the tenets of those that would decry the elementary issue of climate shifts, alternative energies and great friends of mine getting married and parenting any number of fortunate children. As a side note, I find it interesting that the Left has recently taken up the Right's populist tool of tossing objective science out the window... Enough.<br />
<br />
All that being said, I raise a glass to the Women in and of my life.<br />
<br />
My Mother married a career military man<br />
and ended up with the chore of raising a son the likes of me.<br />
<br />
My Wife, for all evidence and testimony,<br />
a Woman of high intelligence,<br />
took it upon herself to marry me and further still,<br />
to become the Mother of my Daughter...<br />
<br />
My Daughter... What can I say? She is such a lovely, brutal paradox.<br />
The Artist, The Martial Artist, The Storyteller...<br />
There is joy in our time together that I cannot fathom...<br />
I just try to keep up.<br />
<br />
Last Summer, as I spent a day in the pool with her in Southern California,<br />
I marveled at the strength of her (self-taught)<br />
swimming and later that night wrote in a notebook:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I watch her through the lenses of goggles, </i><br />
<i>as if a looking glass </i><br />
<i>and see the woman </i><br />
<i>she will be...</i>Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-55797046185179175182018-03-02T23:01:00.001-08:002018-03-02T23:01:21.708-08:00Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-53728589923813007402018-03-02T22:30:00.000-08:002018-03-15T21:45:18.932-07:00Somewhat ironically, I'm sipping tequila before typing these words... Though, in general, I view irony as a sordid excuse for the lame, in this case, it fits nicely. After navigating the intricacies of escorting my savage, 6 year old daughter to school on time (the vagaries of breakfast, the esoterica of wardrobe, etc.), the morning's program consisted of iced espresso and hypertrophic protocols.<br />
<br />
The question on my mind was one of booze and stasis... For 51 years old of not giving a fuck, the lesson had been driven home, but possibly ignored. The grace, at times, gave way to the hangover and they do not come easy. I took it, then, as a question of discipline. I didn't want to quit drinking, as I enjoy my martinis on my Father-in-Law's balcony, basking in his somewhat slurred wisdom and our shared ability to create a 2 man landscape of familial travel potential and glory, but I saw the active lessening of booze as an ally against training with 22 year old college wrestlers and the very realistic order of getting shit done. Getting shit done on a higher level...<br />
<br />
Years ago, I wrote that I was once so young that it almost killed me. Now I'm not so young. I'm the middle aged painter the 23 year old poet could never know. I am not going quietly, rest assured, but there are objective realities to be addressed...<br />
<br />
But perhaps this is becoming too maudlin... Life is so beautiful- it gores an incision, luscious, across my soul and I walk away from all of it and meditate on the gift that my Wife is and the beauty of teaching my Daughter chess and I drive to the Brooklyn studio in the German steel to paint and sort out any number of catastrophes...<br />
<br />
I am, no more or less, the echo of a young artist trying to get his shit together....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-12647367890710542032015-07-26T19:49:00.000-07:002015-07-26T19:57:42.559-07:00If you see one gallery show, walking the fetid concrete of Chelsea, see "UNLIMITED POTENTIAL", at Lyons Wier Gallery, curated by the powerful James Austin Murray. I'm honored to be included in this exhibition, alongside some amazing artists- James Little, Alex Couwenberg, Jeffrey Cortland Jones, Gayle Ruskin, Suzanne Laura Kammin, Jeff Muhs and Christopher Rico to name just a few.<br />
<br />
It's a solid curatorial effort and a beautiful installation. If you manage to make your way to another gallery, hit Robert Miller and allow yourself to be blown away by a fantastic, truly epic offering of very historical work-- most notably 2 monster paintings, among the best of the last century-- bar none, by Lee Krasner.<br />
<br />
I will be very honest and put down in print that I always felt Krasner was overrated.<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'm a fool (not the first time that thought came to me), or I just hadn't seen enough of her work live-- living in the light before me. But from what I had seen, it didn't seem to cut it-- it couldn't hold with the masters and heroes...<br />
<br />
This of course brings me back to the days of touring the galleries with Ruth Kligman. My friend and former owner of L.I.C.K Ltd. Fine Art, Andrew Miller, was representing Ruth in her quest to authenticate and/or sell a work that has since been titled, "Red, Black & and Silver". Ruth was the woman who had once been young enough to survive a certain night with Pollock in the Hamptons with a large car and belly full of booze, 8.11.56, to be exact. Her friend, Edith Metzger was not so lucky.<br />
<br />
The aging Ruth I met was fond of flowing black robes and large hats. She lived in Franz Kline's former space on 14th street (she got around...), the walls posted with black and white photos of Ruth with various mid-century titans. In the bedroom, over the bureau, was the modestly scaled work that seemed consistent with Pollock's technique and graphic vocabulary. She claimed it was the last painting he created. It was unsigned. It was, as one might imagine, not valid in the eyes of the Pollock/Krasner Foundation and never authenticated.<br />
<br />
"She would never allow it," Ruth said...<br />
<br />
There has since been well documented forensic discoveries, that could lead one to believe that, in fact, the work is genuine. Perhaps. Perhaps not... Either way, Ruth isn't around to enjoy the party and neither is Lee Krasner.<br />
<br />
But all of that is in the past...<br />
<br />
I don't have the titles (I'm not a journalist) but the work speaks for itself if you just get there. In one piece Krasner stakes her claim to the formal aesthetic legacy of her man, Jackson, broadening it in fact- taking it to a place he never had the chance to... Frankenthaler got that medal, but that was probably based on her looks, Clem and the fact that her canvas was laying down on the studio floor. Its seems nobody noticed the "Pollock Widow" kicking ass and taking names in Springs, bearing the grief and horror of memory...<br />
<br />
With a buoyant, dare I say, optimistic painting, Krasner nails a legit, late-twentieth century take on Matisse-- and blasts it into very personal and intimate space that (to my eye) no artist of her age went to...<br />
<br />
It's a group show at Robert Miller. It's nothing but quality. Historic Quality... Paul Jenkins looks good. Milton Resnick is powerful- looking like Milton Resnick, but it's Krasner that will forever stay with me. And I mean forever. I've seen a shit load of art around the world and I've read my Kant and I know when a painting works and when it falls apart. I've wept in the Van Gogh Museum and I've slept under a Hermann Nitsch. I guess that by this time I can call a spade a spade and a great painting a great painting.<br />
<br />
Krasner nailed down great work. Maybe it's only these 2 paintings that moved me so, maybe not. But if thats it-- it's enough...<br />
<br />
Theres nothing more exciting than being proven wrong. I will now forever hold Krasner up with the giants. I think her time and proficiency came late and perhaps, not often. But when it came, it came with a cry to callous sinew and bone. Harsh, immediate and most importantly, honest...Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-60963744343154429472015-07-20T21:30:00.001-07:002015-07-20T21:30:21.843-07:00<i>"Devouring time, blunt thou the lions paws."</i><br />
<i> William Shakespeare, Sonnet 19</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
In and of itself, aging is not a bad thing. I've grown somewhat amused by the vagaries and delicate intrusions of it's practice-- fighting them all the way. I've been admonished, harshly, yet not unjustly, by my Wife, Friends and Parents to ease into the silk of what Dylan Thomas so beautifully termed, "that good night".<br />
<br />
Yet, of course, I cannot go silently...<br />
<br />
There is a life lived vital and there is a life lived vicariously. There are fighters and there are spectators. There is the arena and there is the sofa... I've added weight to my bench press and dropped it on my deadlift only to preserve technique. And my back... A concession, perhaps, to age, though I would prefer to think it a concession to the more mobile aspects of my physical life- not to mention the flights of stairs I climb to my studio and the hoisting of 7 foot canvases to the screws in the paint smeared wall...<br />
<br />
I've dealt with 5 days on crutches. Five days bereft of paint, iron, or the joy of picking up my daughter. 5 hard days... A few of them hopeless.<br />
<br />
After my Doctor examined the MRI he concluded that there were medial and lateral tears of the meniscus and that my ACL was, variously, "...a lump of snot," and/or "gone..."<br />
<br />
I will not strive for personal bests in the squat and deadlift, though they will haunt me-- mocking me with low weight and feeble results. But I've managed the stress of harsher demons, so I'll shed the ghosts of a bar loaded with plates and enjoy the delicacies of fast twitch fibers to earn my protein.<br />
<br />
As a young Poet, I dreamed that I wanted to live my life as a poem. Now, as a middle-aged painter, I seem to be living life as a vigorously brushed painting- smudged, layered and perhaps a bit too heavy handed for it's own good. As an artist, I've always allowed myself to enjoy the back-roads to a painting-- the shift and questioning. the moments of utter loss and glowing joy... Romantic and perhaps nonsensical?<br />
<br />
Yes...<br />
<br />
But I wear those colors proudly.<br />
<br />
As proudly as I wear my scars...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-15622124482473892462015-02-21T21:42:00.001-08:002015-02-21T21:42:59.026-08:00<i>Art & Life</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>writing or drawing </i><br />
<i>while my daughter sleeps</i><br />
<i>second guessing my labors of yesterday </i><br />
<i>while my daughter sleeps</i><br />
<i>my daughter at her easel </i><br />
<i>pausing reflectively before the violence ensues</i><br />
<i>my daughter and i at MoMa</i><br />
<i>my daughter and i at an opening</i><br />
<i>my daughter and i at my opening </i><br />
<i>my daughter and i at any number of galleries</i><br />
<i>my daughter banging her head to Saxon</i><br />
<i>my daughter telling me to "hear" her</i><br />
<i>my daughter reciting the lines </i><br />
<i>of various and sundry Disney princesses</i><br />
<i>i'm shopping for tonights dinner </i><br />
<i>before hitting the studio </i><br />
<i>forgetting that Manhattan grocery shopping </i><br />
<i>on a saturday entails the rude, oblivious and insane</i><br />
<i>i'm putting together a stew before i hit the studio</i><br />
<i>i'm painting my ass off </i><br />
<i>keeping an eye on the snow </i><br />
<i>outside the tall windows</i><br />
<br />
Art and the life around it mingle together like furtive teenagers at a basement keg party-- awkward, perhaps lewd, casting glances that may or may not be appreciated... You go through your day<br />
and if you're not there tearing it up in the studio, you are certainly thinking about it.<br />
A specific gesture comes to mind-- a movement, a piece of brilliance that you missed last night or the night before. Thoughts of color and placement, realization, composition and the like...<br />
<br />
The beauty is that you can't second guess yourself hypothetically. The making of Art is not simply the application of materials. There is the guessing-- there is the thought and tumult... The major contemplations of Monday are but empty bottles and wads of masking tape come Thursday.<br />
<br />
And thats fine (I believe it was Ginsberg who admonished us to never begin a line with "and", but it feels so good to do so and I'm cool with being a bad writer, so fuck it...). We have that beautiful authority to cast out what could otherwise be construed as "failure" and unravel what becomes victory (I grimaced as this was typed, but, again, fuck it, its so true...).<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-53621151662430343822015-02-03T20:16:00.000-08:002015-02-03T20:21:27.275-08:00As I played with my Daughter, about an hour ago, word came of the passing of Robin Ross. She was 61. Diabetes...<br />
<br />
It seems strange now, but I never thought of Diabetes as a killer. Live and learn...<br />
<br />
I first met Robin around '97 in either Brooklyn or LIC. I remember being blown away by the muscular intensity of her laboriously built paintings-- Art troweled on, scarred, Umber soil and carvings of poetry. I was a babe of 30 when we met- fueled by violence and any number of unspeakable vices and doubts and Robin put up with my immaturity and my bravado and went about her business-- perhaps laughing behind my back, but only in kindness. or perhaps pity...<br />
<br />
In 2001, she had a brilliant solo show at Andrew Miller's short lived L.I.C.K. Ltd. Fine Art and shortly after that, she moved back to Colorado.<br />
<br />
Over the last few years, I kept up with Robin's work via images of paintings and mysterious notebook pages on social media (some of which made veiled reference to her failing health).<br />
<br />
And now she's gone...<br />
<br />
Adjectives form at my finger tips: caring, odd, lyrical, kind, open, brave, thoughtful, endearing, triumphant...<br />
<br />
And while the Gods have managed to gain a great human soul and one hell of a painter, I can't help but feel rather sorry for all of us left behind.<br />
<br />
Watching the furious efforts of my Daughter at her easel often brought thoughts of Robin to me.<br />
<br />
They would have loved each other...<br />
<br />
I'm not as sad as I am numb right now. I will pour another tequila and raise the glass in hopes that will facilitate the appropriate level of heartache.<br />
<br />
My thoughts are with Robin's Husband, Noah Baen and the rest of her family and friends.<br />
<br />
And I will conclude with Robin's own words, words incised into the ground of a sumptuous painting on paper that hangs in front of me now as I type.<br />
<br />
"The Poem is on The Ground<br />
The settler Has Not Yet Found The Boundary."<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-57712837757711209842014-08-08T21:10:00.000-07:002014-08-16T00:17:41.251-07:00 1.<br />
<br />
Months before my daughter was born, I vowed to work towards creating a life free of the negative-- or, at least as free of the negative as it could be given the variance of life and art and meals poorly prepared. And so I walked away… The "art world" could wait-- I would have a child to raise and train to move in her own style and swagger. My hands would be full...<br />
<br />
3 years later, my daughter paints better than me, with an assured authority that belies her lack of grammatical prowess and syntax, or experience with the Russian novel...<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> If, in 30 years, </i><br />
<i> she paints as she does now, </i><br />
<i> the world will be a better place…</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<br />
2.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to now as I type this, nestled in the bosom of the San Fernando Valley… I am a lucky man. I was married in Vegas and left $1,300 ahead. It was a fine omen given the life we have carved out-- our union and all the rest-- travel, art, the ocean, martial arts, cooking, wine, what have you…<br />
<br />
As for today and this thing we know as the "present"-- having worked out, swam, cared for a toddler and tussled with the confusions and physicality of art-making, notebooks and an art "career", I sit here typing with a belly full of meat, greens and tequila, understanding that optimism is the one tool we need, bereft of others-- be it poet, painter, chef, fighter, bigot or victim… Optimism for the poet or painter keeps them going and we, the world, need that. Optimism keeps the chef working and we, the world, need that too… It keeps the fighter hitting the bag and working takedown defense and the offensive guard and it can make the bigot understand his fuckups and see the world in a better, more objective light and it allows the victim to understand that there is so much more out there-- so much more life to go…<br />
<br />
If you enter into this beast, that is the "art world", you will stumble, you will (perhaps) become jaded, bummed out, lost, frustrated and/or denied. But you will-- you must-- continue.<br />
<br />
There will always be the voices of sorrow, art rehab and quitting. Silence them.<br />
<br />
Continue. And endure. It's just better that way...<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-59750346041785744152014-08-04T21:28:00.002-07:002014-08-04T21:28:30.168-07:00My Daughter worked rapidly at her easel,<br />
loaded up her brush and paused contemplatively,<br />
"I'm going to cast another spell Daddy…"<br />
<br />
I am clearly biased,<br />
but words more profound<br />
have yet to be uttered...Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-57476901497658992382014-07-15T22:02:00.003-07:002014-07-16T08:54:42.840-07:00This morning I was surf casting for fluke on Long Beach Island and after being shut out, went for a run along the shore. A day of driving and a night in the studio later, time being the ambiguous slut that it is, we will say that, some weeks back, the ladies and I took a taxi down to 25th Street for the opening of Joan Mitchell at Cheim & Read. I will publicly admit that I now feel I never looked at her work properly. I didn't get it, thought I did and worse yet, voiced opinions that now seem pretty ridiculous, given how moved I was by the exhibition titled, "Trees".<br />
<br />
Fair enough… Perhaps the recent protocols of dead lifts, tequila and grass-fed beef evolved my patterns and processes.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Sorry Joan, I fucked up. But I can live with myself, I don't worry too much about the guy on the treadmill...</i><br />
<br />
And Soulages… These are the times that make life here a bit more worth the living.<br />
<br />
While we dealt with the frozen challenges of the past winter, my Wife and I (more or less) seriously discussed moving to LA. Now, after beautiful adventures on Fire Island, Montauk and Long Beach Island (and a month in LA to look forward to), I think we're both happy where we are… Now, as this season winds down, I'm benefiting from that buoyant optimism that is the reward of endurance in the face of hardship-- the optimism that is the rarefied status of an artist living and creating in NYC. Yes, it sucks that the drive to my Brooklyn studio can take up to an hour. But fuck it-- I live in Manhattan…<br />
<br />
<br />
And there is the optimism of labor- good hours in that Brooklyn studio…<br />
And there is the optimism of the paint of others showing and selling and sharing.<br />
<br />
Having just returned from Montauk, I turned around and drove the German Steel back East to Bridgehampton for the Art Market Hamptons Fair. The triumphant James Austin Murray met me at the gate and we took it all in before the rush of crowds and plastic surgery. With 4 new good sized pieces in the Lyons Wier booth, my man was clearly (to my eye) the star of show. But there was also (with Lyons Wier) the killer work of Jeff Muhs- painterly, ethereal, what have you…<br />
<br />
At Katherine Markel Fine Art, Suzanne Laura Kammin stood out with her painterly attack, as did the nuanced pyrotechnics of Jeffrey Cortland Jones-- a few weeks off of his solo show (that should not be missed) at KMFA.<br />
<br />
The day of his opening, Jones graciously paid a visit to my studio. Fittingly, I picked him up in front of The Met. What could be better?<br />
<br />
There will always be the talk and the ink reserved for a Marden show, or Soulages, Mitchell or the latest debacle at the Whitney (perhaps a Koons retrospective, or the manufacture of chocolates?). But with so much fine painting in one season, the soul smiles and the drinks taste better...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-35911136865814271212014-05-06T20:13:00.001-07:002014-05-06T20:13:40.064-07:00I hit the studio hard Saturday morning and then cruised Chelsea for a few hours-- conspicuously, the only man with dried paint on his boots and hands. I wanted to catch up on what was happening and more specifically, to see the Julian Schnabel exhibit at Gagosian and my good friend, ex-studio mate, running partner and drinking buddy, James Austin Murray at Lyons Wier Gallery.<br />
<br />
We've been friends long enough that each has stories the other would sooner us forget. For better or worse, his memorable speech at my Las Vegas wedding is still remarked upon by those in attendance. Over the years I've seen his work go through numerous transitions of uncertain quality and brilliance. But, as he began to understand the radical shift in his art that would come to be defined by potent black oil on canvas and polystyrene structures, I knew I was seeing in my friend the maturation of a fully formed painter. Today, Murray's approach to art making is one of earnest authority. It would be an understatement to say he is putting out some of the finest paintings in NYC (or LA, for that matter). The quality of material, the meticulous paint handling, the content and his capture of calligraphic motion all point towards his importance. To my eye, this is a fact as hard won as it is objective.<br />
<br />
The Schnabel show was what it was-- John Yau wrote eloquently (though not quite positively) about it and I'm no critic. Suffice to say, I felt the 3 works on burlap from 1990 were amazing paintings…<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i> If, when sparring, you never suffer the incongruity of injury, you're not trying very hard.</i><br />
<br />
Michael Lyons Wier and I discussed the Schnabel gig as we looked around the gallery at Murray's black oil, then he moved into action as a couple voiced interest and laid down the credit card. It was beautiful to watch-- the good vibe of dollars spent on strong art, well earned coin in my boy's pocket and Lyons Wier working it all in his bow tie and cowboy boots…<br />
<br />
Heading back to my car, I stopped into Berry-Campbell Modern and Contemporary Art and stumbled upon the work of Norman Kanter. One small piece dated 1959, on paper mounted on canvas (roughly 20"x 23"), displaying the pyrotechnics so favored by the post-De Kooning downtown artists.<br />
<br />
Violent reds and strategic passages of yellow and white.<br />
<br />
I was floored...<br />
<br />
How the fuck had I never heard this name? I stood there with my mouth open and in a move as desperate as it was optimistic, asked for the price of the work (oddly enough, once I got home, my Wife didn't approve of the purchase).<br />
<br />
In my studio clothes, I wasn't fooling anybody. But gallery owner, Martha Campbell, was very gracious and printed an image of the Kanter piece for me. I have the image pinned to the wall in my studio...<br />
<br />
It is easy sport to bitch and whine about the travesties of the "Art World" and it's players, it's dealers and the very "art" that keeps the whole game going. I've done it myself. But there is much good in what we (the artists, the dealers, the curators and the collectors) do: we drive this engine of culture on into the decades we won't even see. We define the future of "Art" by what we do in our daily practices of paint and the deal-- installing shows and sipping cheap wine. Little known artists are discovered, having passed on to their next journey and those of the "mid-career" begin to carve out a living as they realize their finest works.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And sometimes, the good guys win...</i><br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-67040648552153894112014-04-29T10:11:00.000-07:002014-04-29T20:19:30.581-07:00<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i><i>The legendary Jackson Pollock work, "Mural", is on view at the Getty Center, in Los Angeles.</i><br />
<i>Conservators have completed the restoration and cleaning of the painting and the technical research into it's storied, rather apocryphal creation…</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<br />
while academics and fey Warholians bow down<br />
to the ghost of Mike Kelly, far and away from the riot<br />
of paint and sincerity that fueled the brave<br />
of the mid-20th century, it's nearly impossible<br />
to reflect on a time when the reward of Art<br />
wasn't paying off student loans, or the new car--<br />
<br />
it was not starving to death…<br />
<br />
I fell in love with my Wife for any number of reasons,<br />
but with reflection I admired her for being a "seeker".<br />
she didn't speak of what she knew,<br />
she spoke of what she wanted to learn.<br />
<br />
a legitimate artist never "knows" paint.<br />
he succumbs to it, he delves into it's nature,<br />
he gives himself over to the journey…<br />
<br />
in a like sense, one can never "know" a martial art.<br />
the practitioner, over time,<br />
may acquire a greater athleticism<br />
and facility of technique,<br />
but the esoterica of training<br />
is never a rote endeavor.<br />
<br />
the "way" of paint is no different.<br />
<br />
perhaps the distinction between art and craft<br />
lies in the varied desperation of the former<br />
and the accrued "knowledge" of the latter.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>by all accounts, Pollock was so deeply flawed,</i><br />
<i>he had no choice but to search…</i><br />
<br />
i've limped the road of stone<br />
to understanding that what i paint<br />
matters little compared<br />
to what a painting becomes…<br />
<br />
i like to think of Pollock's perception<br />
of nature and the turning of <i>that</i> to art…<br />
<br />
yesterday was a hell of a day in the studio.<br />
i hope Jackson found<br />
that unique solace at times--<br />
in his small space<br />
with the wood burning stove--<br />
the rope of black enamel<br />
held, for a second, <br />
above the cotton weave...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-28664527491110172232014-03-11T10:13:00.001-07:002014-03-11T19:10:51.603-07:00my daughter sleeps<br />
on the couch these days…<br />
she's there now while i type this.<br />
i'm procrastinating on duties<br />
needed to move the day forward.<br />
i'm taking this quiet time for myself…<br />
there is a grass fed sirloin to marinate,<br />
dishes in the sink and drawings waiting for life.<br />
<br />
but right now i'm typing.<br />
typing and thinking<br />
the thoughts of a man,<br />
perhaps, too satisfied.<br />
<br />
there is still fire in the hours<br />
i move through,<br />
but the fire burns<br />
without the tinder of rage.<br />
the urgency,<br />
one of savoring-<br />
of reflecting…<br />
<br />
i used to roam Europe<br />
with one bag and no money.<br />
for better or worse,<br />
those days are long over--<br />
families don't hitchhike<br />
and a wife and child<br />
demand the courtesies<br />
of more refined travel.<br />
<br />
47 seems a comfortable distance<br />
from 26 and it's violent insecurities.<br />
<br />
the danger, of course,<br />
is losing that edge<br />
that made shit happen…<br />
<br />
in bad times the artist has to tuck their chin,<br />
roll the shoulders forward,<br />
and bite down on the mouthpiece.<br />
<br />
in good times the artist<br />
must continue to find<br />
a battle in every day,<br />
while living richly<br />
and creating loudly…<br />
<br />
or quietly.<br />
<br />
like now...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-29263853220133359462014-03-09T20:18:00.000-07:002014-03-09T20:56:24.369-07:00the tumult of the laundry list of fairs<br />
and the debacle of the Whitney is closing…<br />
i've been in my studio. working.<br />
this year was not my year<br />
for $19 glasses of champagne.<br />
i've been in my studio. working…<br />
i have, however, spent time with thoughts<br />
of SoHo, the SoHo of decades ago,<br />
circa 1993…<br />
<br />
climbing white painted stairs<br />
for red wine in plastic cups,<br />
later to stagger into clubs and bars<br />
with our fill of art, primed<br />
for heavier sport…<br />
<br />
the bouncers liked me<br />
because i could finish what i started…<br />
<br />
the same cobblestones<br />
and the same majestic<br />
buildings still exist,<br />
but the glass walled real estate<br />
bordering the sidewalks<br />
is not the same.<br />
<br />
and there are places i remember<br />
that are now only that...Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-6664356809184166442014-02-11T09:12:00.001-08:002014-02-11T09:15:45.900-08:00so much whining and complaining:<br />
Dave Hickey, art money, real estate,<br />
dealers, NYC, fairs, etc…<br />
too much time on our hands?<br />
dead space and dead minds<br />
cancel out creativity.<br />
and then what?<br />
well, you can look around<br />
and bitch (as i am now,<br />
having worked the kettlebell<br />
as my daughter naps...).<br />
<br />
life is far too short<br />
to wring our hands<br />
over so much<br />
that, in the end,<br />
has nothing to do<br />
with anything of importance.<br />
<br />
open that notebook,<br />
pour the paint,<br />
write that novel,<br />
let all the rest burn.<br />
do some dead lifts<br />
and front squats<br />
then fire up the grill...Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-59460294033350962242014-01-16T21:51:00.000-08:002014-01-16T22:12:57.229-08:00 <br />
1.<br />
<br />
the studio looked good<br />
after 2 weeks in California<br />
and a week in Hawaii--<br />
indeed, by my standards, rather orderly.<br />
it strikes me that some of the real value<br />
in the "space" of a studio<br />
might lie in the banal moments<br />
of maintenance and upkeep.<br />
clearly, sweating away<br />
over the elusive line<br />
and uncooperative passage of color<br />
offer their own rewards and scars,<br />
but there is some odd strength<br />
to the less poetic pursuits of priming a wall<br />
or balling up the detritus<br />
of masking tape and paper towels<br />
stiffened by the subtraction of acrylic…<br />
<br />
in the San Fernando Valley,<br />
Encino, to be specific,<br />
i ply my trade in a small redwood studio,<br />
at times, sitting on a brick porch,<br />
beneath an orange tree.<br />
at other times, i set my work table up by the pool--<br />
large canvases atop bricks and labor under the sun.<br />
in Brooklyn, i work in a former candy factory,<br />
built over a century ago,<br />
a building of sense and history,<br />
of crooked, aching stairs<br />
and weathered 12 foot ceilings...<br />
<br />
the work of either coast informs<br />
the work a continent away…<br />
the murky romance of NYC<br />
soils the vivid promise of California,<br />
just as the chlorinated blues<br />
and olive teals of the Valley<br />
inform the work hanging opposite<br />
the 4 tall windows.<br />
<br />
<br />
2.<br />
<br />
this afternoon, my daughter<br />
and i walked blocks west<br />
to Riverside Park. she was excited<br />
by the action of the squirrels<br />
and the dogs they maddened.<br />
it was a very profound moment for me--<br />
walking the streets with my little girl<br />
holding my hand, or at times, merely a finger.<br />
our steps slowly chewing up the distance<br />
to wherever it was we were going.<br />
<br />
at 2 1/2 years old, she has distanced herself<br />
from the frivolities of the stroller--<br />
turning her ambitions to the larger game<br />
of independent mobility.<br />
<br />
i mean well, but my good intentions<br />
shade many faults.<br />
however, she tolerates me,<br />
as do my wife and long suffering friends.<br />
there are moments when it seems<br />
all i'm really meant for<br />
is sweeping a dirty floor<br />
in a studio in an old building,<br />
in an old part of Brooklyn<br />
near the Navy Yard.<br />
and then there are times when the paint<br />
is moving so well i could cry,<br />
except that wiping the tears<br />
would be a tremendous waste of valuable time.<br />
<br />
and then there are times like today--<br />
taking small steps<br />
through the park<br />
my daughter<br />
holding my hand,<br />
or perhaps, <br />
just a finger...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-11259651608981203572014-01-06T23:09:00.000-08:002014-01-06T23:11:45.277-08:00 1.<br />
<br />
<br />
My second meeting with Alex Couwenberg, was at the opening of a group show at POST, curated by the lyrical artist, Robert Kingston. I was new to the LA scene and had an inclination to drink too much and lay by the pool.<br />
<br />
The year before ('98, '99?) our work hung side by side at the Ruth Bachofner Gallery. I was impressed by the idiosyncratic line and surface quality of his art and went out of my way to meet him, as he cradled 2 toddlers...<br />
<br />
Fast forward a year later and I made my way to Couwenberg again, offering my hand.<br />
<br />
"Dude", he said, "you're red..."<br />
<br />
And then he drifted away to more engaging conversation.<br />
<br />
<br />
2.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
15 or so years later, art has been traded, floors crashed on, shows have been shared and de-installed, booze poured and cities threatened...<br />
<br />
Now, after a week in Hawaii, surfing, paddling, swimming, drinking and re-visiting childhood haunts, I'm feeding my daughter in the San Fernando Valley.<br />
<br />
Suddenly bereft of ALOHA, I settle into and cherish the time allowed me by the vibrant woman-child that calls me Daddy...<br />
<br />
<br />
3.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm driving up the 101 to an "undisclosed location", to sit in on the private screening of a film produced by Couwenberg and his lovely Wife (and force of nature), Andi Campognone.<br />
<br />
There are shots and sips of Patron and beers and introductions and finally the film...<br />
<br />
I first heard of MANA as a concept tossed about by Andi and Alex as we lounged by my parents pool--<br />
this idea of a film on artists and their relationships to the ocean and it's influence on studio practice.<br />
<br />
And life...<br />
<br />
Directed by Eric Minh Swenson, MANA is so much more than the sum of it's parts.<br />
<br />
There is art. There is surfing. There is, to be sure, Hawaii and a beautiful reverence for it's culture and singular vibe.<br />
<br />
But, there is also an experience and understanding offered that is almost as illusive as an accurate English definition for the word "mana".<br />
<br />
10 artists and 10 approaches to creation. 10 artists and 10 narratives...<br />
<br />
I would short change those involved and the film itself, if I tried to cherry pick one quote of profundity over another; or one frame, or image over another...<br />
<br />
I'm no critic...<br />
<br />
I'm an artist moved and stoked by the processes of peers and friends.<br />
<br />
I'm an artist blown away by Swenson's film.<br />
<br />
A film unique and needed.<br />
<br />
Gracious and electric.<br />
<br />
As vividly poetic as it is earnest...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-68068762308380869072013-12-15T22:50:00.000-08:002013-12-15T22:50:54.437-08:00as the art industry winds down from the gloating<br />
and whining of miami,<br />
my interests turn to more modest proposals:<br />
the practice of drawing.<br />
more specifically, drawing with paint.<br />
<br />
this is not the fine work of graphite<br />
And ink- this is paint-- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">dense of body </span><br />
and of a decidedly independent character.<br />
<br />
there is the physical nature of the practice--<br />
i enjoy the<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"> buckling of the paper, </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">curling as it does </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">beneath the wash of gesso</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">or the dirty, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">dried brush line </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">of ivory black...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">there is hard beauty to be found </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">in the motions of hand and paper--</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">the "line" versus "surface",</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">the language of tool and wrist...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);"><br /></span>
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<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-13946411423749956302013-10-08T09:54:00.000-07:002013-10-09T09:53:04.349-07:00 I<br />
<br />
<br />
my daughter was pissed that mommy went off to work.<br />
an hour and a half later (desperate) we were making art.<br />
at 2 years of age, her paint handling is robust--<br />
heavy with the authority that comes from not giving a shit.<br />
my contributions-- soundly dismissed beneath the gravity<br />
of her fevered, joyful expression…<br />
<br />
our collaboration made me mourn those awful hours<br />
of self-consciousness and professionalism--<br />
the meager theater of "trying…"<br />
<br />
<br />
II<br />
<br />
<br />
it has occurred to me that every practice<br />
attaches itself, at its highest level, to "art".<br />
dentistry, law, carpentry, tending bar, gambling,<br />
selling crack, stringing tennis racquets,<br />
running guns, or any number of poor souls and ill gotten gains…<br />
<br />
everything wants to be "art", but only art is "art".<br />
<br />
art is lonely. or at least, maybe it should be…<br />
it isn't the massed concrete of Chelsea avenues, <br />
or Culver City sidewalks<br />
and it wasn't the cobblestones of SoHo.<br />
art is the studio-- the dirty window,<br />
the old coffee can housing the fossil of a 4-inch brush.<br />
the drawing never finished; cheap white oil-- long since yellowed…<br />
<br />
<br />
III<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"I will tell you this:</i><br />
<i>no eternal reward </i><br />
<i>will forgive us </i><br />
<i>for wasting the dawn."</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i> Jim Morrison</i><br />
<br />
there is craft: our learned practicality-<br />
the processes and skill sets<br />
that allowed our conquests of protein and fields.<br />
<br />
<i>the only thing worse </i><i>than a man that can't put up a wall</i><br />
<i>is a woman who can't cook…</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
but we are losing "craft", we are losing ability…<br />
and still, the journeyman aspires to "art".<br />
<i><br /></i>
in an era of manual incompetence,<br />
my daughter will know how to cook<br />
in the kitchen, or over the embers of a fire she built<br />
and indeed, lit, if need be, bereft of matches,<br />
a lighter or any number of convenient surplus.<br />
she will know how to build a wall, change a tire,<br />
clean a fish, tie a hook, stretch a canvas,<br />
break an arm, choke a man out<br />
and the beauty of the head clinch and knee…<br />
<br />
she will know the grace of an old book<br />
and the mysteries of graphite and sunsets.<br />
<br />
unless, of course,<br />
she tells me to fuck off...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-47300301996292355512013-09-10T07:15:00.000-07:002013-09-10T07:19:35.537-07:00<i>a little after 5pm on a friday, 7 university art students </i><br />
<i>walked through the old gate </i><i>and the old wooden door </i><br />
<i>and up the old wooden stairs to my studio…</i><br />
<br />
i wanted to talk about living in NYC<br />
i told them to remember that their time will come<br />
and they needed to be ready for it.<br />
the right eyes and the right handshakes will happen<br />
maybe not in a year or 2, but maybe in a decade or 3<br />
someone will recognize what you've always known.<br />
you just have to keep it going until it all comes together...<br />
<br />
as a young poet i had no idea<br />
i'd one day be a 46 year old painter.<br />
<br />
i don't know how i got here but i made it to this place<br />
and this point on the compass of all that i've lived through<br />
and for the most part i'm smiling…<br />
<br />
i told them to make sure they had a job<br />
that paid for the paint and the walls of a studio.<br />
luck is beautiful though never to be trusted.<br />
i wanted to tell them that there is a responsibility to spend money.<br />
if 500 sq. feet is almost 2 grand you can't sweat 10 bucks.<br />
even when you're broke it's important to know<br />
you can't be afraid to spend money if you have it.<br />
<br />
one artist's thrift is another artist's lost chance.<br />
the city is still hard and those taxis are there for a reason...Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-82547872584853992722013-08-15T21:57:00.000-07:002013-08-16T22:29:40.714-07:00<i>the other morning a thought came to me-- </i><br />
<i>a 72 LB kettlebell doesn't lie…</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>this thought could have been a meaningless patch</i><br />
<i>of metaphor at the end of a grueling</i><br />
<i>self-inflicted tribulation.</i><br />
<i>or it could have been an insert </i><i>into the catalog of authenticity</i><br />
<i>parenthood has goaded me into investigating.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>i don't know. </i><br />
<i>i'm just trying to find my way.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
in the day to day struggle to wake up get out get to work come home<br />
there can be a sense of loss<br />
and of delusion.<br />
or illusion, or perhaps more creatively,<br />
a lack thereof…<br />
add the romantic struggles of a working artist<br />
and it's easy to see why so few have the endurance,<br />
the faith in the pursuit to carry on,<br />
to push forward, to survive.<br />
<br />
we can lie to ourselves and we can grow up<br />
and we can turn on the television<br />
and the computer<br />
and play at limping through this 2nd decade<br />
of the 21st fucking century.<br />
<br />
we can play the game,<br />
follow the rules<br />
and waste whatever it is<br />
we need to say and to see<br />
and to share with the world<br />
outside the studio walls…<br />
<br />
for every artist soldiering on,<br />
with or without success,<br />
there are untold numbers cashing paychecks<br />
for having given up on the dream.<br />
<br />
the alternative of course,<br />
is facing what is confronting us-<br />
be it a chokehold, leg kick<br />
or the sales of your work<br />
not quite being where you want them to be.<br />
<br />
this is scary shit…<br />
<br />
and it cannot be handled blithely.<br />
the artist, particularly, the painter,<br />
holds much in common with the fighter-<br />
in the gym alone, tuning into a very private song of war.<br />
<br />
there are those who will give words of wisdom<br />
yet none will feel the actuality<br />
of the individual pain in process of the practice…<br />
<br />
and then there is success.<br />
<br />
it happens.<br />
<br />
suddenly the gods are smiling on you--<br />
and maybe you smile back.<br />
<br />
or maybe not...<br />
<br />
success can boost an ego<br />
burdened by self-loathing or ennui,<br />
but, perhaps, for some<br />
it can be one of several nails in the coffin--<br />
one question being:<br />
how much is enough?<br />
<br />
in a like sense,<br />
for the evolved ego,<br />
hard times may furnish the whetstone<br />
for a blade dulled by insouciance,<br />
while caving in the hopes<br />
of the weak--<br />
the fire of art<br />
becoming, in the end,<br />
a rote hobby--<br />
a youthful and forgotten ember.<br />
<br />
this then, is the culling of the herd.<br />
the natural selection of art…<br />
<br />
maybe. maybe not...<br />
<br />
this is not hard and fast truth--<br />
in fact none of this is anything at all-<br />
simply my thoughts in my head,<br />
thinking and learning out loud.<br />
<br />
if we come to the understanding<br />
that failure is not an option<br />
we must also assert that success,<br />
at times, harbors a shadow<br />
of crisis all it's own…<br />
<br />
now i ask of myself:<br />
what does this have to do with authenticity?<br />
<br />
everything.<br />
<br />
don't lie to yourself.<br />
make the best work you can<br />
and get on with life…<br />
<br />
if things are bad figure it out.<br />
right the ship and get on with it…<br />
<br />
if things are good and while kicking ass<br />
and taking names<br />
you note a grim melancholia--<br />
step back and make some tough choices.<br />
and then get on with it.<br />
<br />
an honest artist should be ready to handle<br />
the tough choices.<br />
<br />
they should be made daily.<br />
or if not daily--<br />
strongly...<br />
<br />
we labor within our individual needs--<br />
personally, i toil within an unpopulated landscape<br />
of rugged mathematics--<br />
addition and subtraction--<br />
paint put down and paint taken off.<br />
these are tough choices all,<br />
but choices made<br />
and consequences dealt with accordingly.<br />
<br />
in my studio practice there often comes a time<br />
when a canvas worked and worked<br />
becomes (perhaps) something dishonest-<br />
something not what it should be.<br />
and eventually the dishonesty disappears<br />
behind a wall of black or white gesso<br />
and the hunt begins anew…<br />
<br />
years ago the poetic Robert Kingston<br />
admonished me to never save<br />
a singular part of a painting…<br />
<br />
as hard as it is at times,<br />
i have strived to toe that line...<br />
<br />
the brutal decisions are the most honest.<br />
they reflect back to us<br />
the beauty of what our art aspires to.<br />
<br />
never doubt yourself in times of loss.<br />
<br />
never question your art in the womb of success.<br />
simply tune into your mechanisms--<br />
feel yourself meld within the circumstances<br />
of a market and scene<br />
<br />
and match the best of those vibes<br />
to the best in the studio.<br />
<br />
ask yourself how it feels…<br />
<br />
and make the tough choices.<br />
<br />
to be fair,<br />
i rather enjoy the dilemma of packing crates<br />
and shipping paintings.<br />
the logistics of customs<br />
and adding bottles of wine to the modest collection.<br />
<br />
the point is to carry on.<br />
<br />
its important to take on the hardships<br />
of our chosen path with resolve.<br />
<br />
look the favors and sorrows in the eye--<br />
staring back as hard<br />
and as natural as a wolf.<br />
or if not a wolf,<br />
at least a bad motherfucker...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-25413437354311311962013-07-21T22:40:00.001-07:002013-07-21T22:40:51.394-07:00 I<br />
<br />
5 or 6 years ago i made a commitment<br />
to make "drawing" a prominent activity,<br />
not only in my studio practice,<br />
but also my day to day pursuits.<br />
there have been minutes<br />
hunched over a notebook<br />
with a stick of charcoal<br />
where i learned more about myself<br />
and my art than any number of 19 hour shifts<br />
in my Long Island City warehouse space of years ago,<br />
fueled as i was by booze<br />
and any number of unmentionable habits-<br />
long since abandoned…<br />
<br />
in that time, i've cast off the distinctions between<br />
"finished" drawings and "working" drawings.<br />
my works on paper swing wildly<br />
between the geometries that move me<br />
and the aggressive (or perhaps, meditative)<br />
calligraphy that has since found it's way into my paintings.<br />
<br />
there are the drawings that have been labored over<br />
and across 3 or 4 years<br />
and there are the drawings<br />
that are simply what they are-<br />
the movement of a brush,<br />
or other tool across an expanse of paper…<br />
<br />
<br />
II<br />
<br />
i'm home and the family is asleep.<br />
it's too late to start cooking,<br />
so the meal will be of a simple tequila.<br />
the labors have been in the nature of "setting up"--<br />
under painting and the sorting out<br />
of misconceptions<br />
and false starts…<br />
this can be maddening<br />
or, at times pure,<br />
indelicate release.<br />
<br />
but, like changing a diaper<br />
or cutting back the bamboo,<br />
it is the work that is needed for now…<br />
<br />
it's important to remember<br />
that we are on this journey<br />
to find out where it takes us,<br />
not to reach a destination…<br />
<br />
this is the paradox of the studio:<br />
we're going nowhere and universal all at once.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2526319751765079866.post-34802470530693522662013-05-04T23:43:00.001-07:002013-07-21T21:42:04.187-07:00painting is hard. sometimes physically,<br />
but its really not the physical thats a problem<br />
with the making of art.<br />
lets be honest, painting a picture<br />
is not a 30 minute kettlebell session.<br />
and its certainly not training with a badass stud<br />
whose main goal is to choke you unconscious...<br />
<br />
nonetheless, it can be a hard grind--<br />
this practice of paint handling.<br />
<br />
i'm not complaining.<br />
we ask for so much of our suffering<br />
that further comment is beyond redundant<br />
and in the end, who cares?<br />
<br />
a productive day of experimenting<br />
and honing the craft.<br />
fair enough.<br />
and then, somehow,<br />
the doubt creeps in.<br />
the sulphorous odor<br />
of ambition not met and $$$ not there.<br />
<br />
and? well, i painted my way out of it...<br />
<br />
for better or worse.<br />
and lived to tell the tale.<br />
<br />
life is good--<br />
i'm a blessed man living and working<br />
in a great city with a great family<br />
pursuing my dreams.<br />
<br />
but there are times of hardship--<br />
not the hardship of a lack of coin in pocket,<br />
or sleeping on cardboard<br />
in the German countryside to be sure--<br />
but there is hardship.<br />
life-- the gods,<br />
have a need to keep a man honest<br />
or perhaps humble.<br />
<br />
or if not humble,<br />
at least on his game...<br />
<br />
there are moments of loss--<br />
bereft of a compass for such latitudes.<br />
the brush, burdened as it is with paint<br />
cannot make a mark.<br />
the canvas slack--<br />
impotent against the labors of sanding...<br />
<br />
the idea that brought solidity to a composition<br />
is now a lumpen impediment to progress<br />
or, indeed, finality...<br />
<br />
upon returning home,<br />
my amazing wife surprised me<br />
with a pair of grass-fed sirloins...<br />
<br />
the evening was set:<br />
a fine dinner from the grill<br />
a finer Cabernet (Keenan '09)<br />
and a bottle and bed<br />
for baby Deegan...<br />
<br />
it was not to be...<br />
as i laid my daughter down for the night<br />
she twisted into a baroque posture<br />
that i could not accept.<br />
in adjusting her,<br />
i brought fourth a wrath<br />
far greater<br />
than any god<br />
or woman<br />
i've come across...<br />
<br />
hours later, mother and daughter sleep<br />
soundly...<br />
and i type these words.<br />
<br />
things can go wrong-<br />
for any number of reasons<br />
at any time--<br />
many of which are inconvenient...<br />
our duty is to stagger<br />
through the drama--<br />
willful and somewhat intact...<br />
<br />
it was a great day in the studio<br />
but there were thorns<br />
along the path...<br />
<br />
and with the thorns<br />
came wounds.<br />
<br />
but the wounds healed<br />
as quickly as the paint dried...<br />
<br />
<br />Mark Zimmermannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01899352843330896767noreply@blogger.com0