I 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.

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.

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…

If, when sparring, you never suffer the incongruity of injury, you're not trying very hard.

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…

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.

Violent reds and strategic passages of yellow and white.

I was floored...

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).

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...

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.

And sometimes, the good guys win...