another draft from 2013 I stumbled on... I remember this time, this discovery, that Summer...
these are the unedited thoughts in my head put down (not on paper)...
NYC, 3.16.18
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...
the paint used was a pale blue. it seemed fitting, given the pastoral, lyrical life we were leading between beach, city and countryside.
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 German Steel...
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.
for several months, i saw my summer notebook as a similar exercise. but, recently,
i began to look anew...
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...
Friday, March 16, 2018
1.
I stumbled upon theses words as a draft-
unafraid, not committed to life...
from a different time- years ago:
the grand thoughts and feverish ideas
of time alone in the water
and on the beach have given way
to the reality of the city
and art and being a father…
i solved problems sitting on a surfboard
bobbing up on the swells that didn't break
and paddling hard for the ones that did.
i caught up on my time with myself
and the water and the sun
and the creatures, so skillfully beneath me…
there is so much life out there that i could cry
at what is left behind. so much life out there
that i know there are those who will never know
the feeling of the drip of it's residue.
i have loved this life so hard it almost killed me.
there are cautionary tales to success stories and most poems.
you just have to read them…
i tilt forward and press my face into the mass
of wilting pink roses before me on the table.
the scent is weak, but there. i sit on the couch
next to my sleeping daughter
and watch a man lay a shin upon the temple
of another with a beautiful rear leg roundhouse kick--
poetry of the highest order…
i am counting blessings undeserved and grateful--
probing along the way…
2.
i miss the nights of Wooster and West Broadway,
Spring and Prince…
the nights of cobblestones and anonymous weed
lit in storefronts by Cooper Union girls,
scared of nothing and aching for everything
the era of SoHo leads one
to change the names of the innocent.
the wood floors carry prints
that are best left forgotten…
the stairs up led to art and wine
and slivers of a culture.
the stairs down led to another show
and another bed preceded
by another glass of shit wine.
but it was beautiful.
it was beautiful in a way
that is now
(if not forgotten)
long gone.
and i guess
i'm all the better for it.
I stumbled upon theses words as a draft-
unafraid, not committed to life...
from a different time- years ago:
the grand thoughts and feverish ideas
of time alone in the water
and on the beach have given way
to the reality of the city
and art and being a father…
i solved problems sitting on a surfboard
bobbing up on the swells that didn't break
and paddling hard for the ones that did.
i caught up on my time with myself
and the water and the sun
and the creatures, so skillfully beneath me…
there is so much life out there that i could cry
at what is left behind. so much life out there
that i know there are those who will never know
the feeling of the drip of it's residue.
i have loved this life so hard it almost killed me.
there are cautionary tales to success stories and most poems.
you just have to read them…
i tilt forward and press my face into the mass
of wilting pink roses before me on the table.
the scent is weak, but there. i sit on the couch
next to my sleeping daughter
and watch a man lay a shin upon the temple
of another with a beautiful rear leg roundhouse kick--
poetry of the highest order…
i am counting blessings undeserved and grateful--
probing along the way…
2.
i miss the nights of Wooster and West Broadway,
Spring and Prince…
the nights of cobblestones and anonymous weed
lit in storefronts by Cooper Union girls,
scared of nothing and aching for everything
the era of SoHo leads one
to change the names of the innocent.
the wood floors carry prints
that are best left forgotten…
the stairs up led to art and wine
and slivers of a culture.
the stairs down led to another show
and another bed preceded
by another glass of shit wine.
but it was beautiful.
it was beautiful in a way
that is now
(if not forgotten)
long gone.
and i guess
i'm all the better for it.
Thursday, March 8, 2018
International Women's Day 2018 indeed... At my home, everyday is Women's Day.
It seems to work.
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.
All that being said, I raise a glass to the Women in and of my life.
My Mother married a career military man
and ended up with the chore of raising a son the likes of me.
My Wife, for all evidence and testimony,
a Woman of high intelligence,
took it upon herself to marry me and further still,
to become the Mother of my Daughter...
My Daughter... What can I say? She is such a lovely, brutal paradox.
The Artist, The Martial Artist, The Storyteller...
There is joy in our time together that I cannot fathom...
I just try to keep up.
Last Summer, as I spent a day in the pool with her in Southern California,
I marveled at the strength of her (self-taught)
swimming and later that night wrote in a notebook:
I watch her through the lenses of goggles,
as if a looking glass
and see the woman
she will be...
It seems to work.
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.
All that being said, I raise a glass to the Women in and of my life.
My Mother married a career military man
and ended up with the chore of raising a son the likes of me.
My Wife, for all evidence and testimony,
a Woman of high intelligence,
took it upon herself to marry me and further still,
to become the Mother of my Daughter...
My Daughter... What can I say? She is such a lovely, brutal paradox.
The Artist, The Martial Artist, The Storyteller...
There is joy in our time together that I cannot fathom...
I just try to keep up.
Last Summer, as I spent a day in the pool with her in Southern California,
I marveled at the strength of her (self-taught)
swimming and later that night wrote in a notebook:
I watch her through the lenses of goggles,
as if a looking glass
and see the woman
she will be...
Friday, March 2, 2018
Somewhat 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.
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...
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...
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...
I am, no more or less, the echo of a young artist trying to get his shit together....
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...
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...
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...
I am, no more or less, the echo of a young artist trying to get his shit together....
Sunday, July 26, 2015
If 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.
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.
I will be very honest and put down in print that I always felt Krasner was overrated.
Nope.
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...
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.
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.
"She would never allow it," Ruth said...
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.
But all of that is in the past...
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...
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...
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.
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...
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...
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.
I will be very honest and put down in print that I always felt Krasner was overrated.
Nope.
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...
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.
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.
"She would never allow it," Ruth said...
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.
But all of that is in the past...
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...
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...
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.
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...
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...
Monday, July 20, 2015
"Devouring time, blunt thou the lions paws."
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 19
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".
Yet, of course, I cannot go silently...
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...
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.
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..."
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.
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?
Yes...
But I wear those colors proudly.
As proudly as I wear my scars...
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 19
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".
Yet, of course, I cannot go silently...
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...
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.
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..."
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.
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?
Yes...
But I wear those colors proudly.
As proudly as I wear my scars...
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Art & Life
writing or drawing
while my daughter sleeps
second guessing my labors of yesterday
while my daughter sleeps
my daughter at her easel
pausing reflectively before the violence ensues
my daughter and i at MoMa
my daughter and i at an opening
my daughter and i at my opening
my daughter and i at any number of galleries
my daughter banging her head to Saxon
my daughter telling me to "hear" her
my daughter reciting the lines
of various and sundry Disney princesses
i'm shopping for tonights dinner
before hitting the studio
forgetting that Manhattan grocery shopping
on a saturday entails the rude, oblivious and insane
i'm putting together a stew before i hit the studio
i'm painting my ass off
keeping an eye on the snow
outside the tall windows
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
and if you're not there tearing it up in the studio, you are certainly thinking about it.
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...
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.
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...).
writing or drawing
while my daughter sleeps
second guessing my labors of yesterday
while my daughter sleeps
my daughter at her easel
pausing reflectively before the violence ensues
my daughter and i at MoMa
my daughter and i at an opening
my daughter and i at my opening
my daughter and i at any number of galleries
my daughter banging her head to Saxon
my daughter telling me to "hear" her
my daughter reciting the lines
of various and sundry Disney princesses
i'm shopping for tonights dinner
before hitting the studio
forgetting that Manhattan grocery shopping
on a saturday entails the rude, oblivious and insane
i'm putting together a stew before i hit the studio
i'm painting my ass off
keeping an eye on the snow
outside the tall windows
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
and if you're not there tearing it up in the studio, you are certainly thinking about it.
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...
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.
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...).
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
As I played with my Daughter, about an hour ago, word came of the passing of Robin Ross. She was 61. Diabetes...
It seems strange now, but I never thought of Diabetes as a killer. Live and learn...
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...
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.
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).
And now she's gone...
Adjectives form at my finger tips: caring, odd, lyrical, kind, open, brave, thoughtful, endearing, triumphant...
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.
Watching the furious efforts of my Daughter at her easel often brought thoughts of Robin to me.
They would have loved each other...
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.
My thoughts are with Robin's Husband, Noah Baen and the rest of her family and friends.
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.
"The Poem is on The Ground
The settler Has Not Yet Found The Boundary."
It seems strange now, but I never thought of Diabetes as a killer. Live and learn...
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...
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.
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).
And now she's gone...
Adjectives form at my finger tips: caring, odd, lyrical, kind, open, brave, thoughtful, endearing, triumphant...
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.
Watching the furious efforts of my Daughter at her easel often brought thoughts of Robin to me.
They would have loved each other...
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.
My thoughts are with Robin's Husband, Noah Baen and the rest of her family and friends.
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.
"The Poem is on The Ground
The settler Has Not Yet Found The Boundary."
Friday, August 8, 2014
1.
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...
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...
If, in 30 years,
she paints as she does now,
the world will be a better place…
2.
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…
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…
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.
There will always be the voices of sorrow, art rehab and quitting. Silence them.
Continue. And endure. It's just better that way...
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...
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...
If, in 30 years,
she paints as she does now,
the world will be a better place…
2.
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…
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…
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.
There will always be the voices of sorrow, art rehab and quitting. Silence them.
Continue. And endure. It's just better that way...
Monday, August 4, 2014
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
This 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".
Fair enough… Perhaps the recent protocols of dead lifts, tequila and grass-fed beef evolved my patterns and processes.
Sorry Joan, I fucked up. But I can live with myself, I don't worry too much about the guy on the treadmill...
And Soulages… These are the times that make life here a bit more worth the living.
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…
And there is the optimism of labor- good hours in that Brooklyn studio…
And there is the optimism of the paint of others showing and selling and sharing.
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…
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.
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?
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...
Fair enough… Perhaps the recent protocols of dead lifts, tequila and grass-fed beef evolved my patterns and processes.
Sorry Joan, I fucked up. But I can live with myself, I don't worry too much about the guy on the treadmill...
And Soulages… These are the times that make life here a bit more worth the living.
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…
And there is the optimism of labor- good hours in that Brooklyn studio…
And there is the optimism of the paint of others showing and selling and sharing.
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…
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.
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?
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...
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
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...
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...
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
The legendary Jackson Pollock work, "Mural", is on view at the Getty Center, in Los Angeles.
Conservators have completed the restoration and cleaning of the painting and the technical research into it's storied, rather apocryphal creation…
while academics and fey Warholians bow down
to the ghost of Mike Kelly, far and away from the riot
of paint and sincerity that fueled the brave
of the mid-20th century, it's nearly impossible
to reflect on a time when the reward of Art
wasn't paying off student loans, or the new car--
it was not starving to death…
I fell in love with my Wife for any number of reasons,
but with reflection I admired her for being a "seeker".
she didn't speak of what she knew,
she spoke of what she wanted to learn.
a legitimate artist never "knows" paint.
he succumbs to it, he delves into it's nature,
he gives himself over to the journey…
in a like sense, one can never "know" a martial art.
the practitioner, over time,
may acquire a greater athleticism
and facility of technique,
but the esoterica of training
is never a rote endeavor.
the "way" of paint is no different.
perhaps the distinction between art and craft
lies in the varied desperation of the former
and the accrued "knowledge" of the latter.
by all accounts, Pollock was so deeply flawed,
he had no choice but to search…
i've limped the road of stone
to understanding that what i paint
matters little compared
to what a painting becomes…
i like to think of Pollock's perception
of nature and the turning of that to art…
yesterday was a hell of a day in the studio.
i hope Jackson found
that unique solace at times--
in his small space
with the wood burning stove--
the rope of black enamel
held, for a second,
above the cotton weave...
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
my daughter sleeps
on the couch these days…
she's there now while i type this.
i'm procrastinating on duties
needed to move the day forward.
i'm taking this quiet time for myself…
there is a grass fed sirloin to marinate,
dishes in the sink and drawings waiting for life.
but right now i'm typing.
typing and thinking
the thoughts of a man,
perhaps, too satisfied.
there is still fire in the hours
i move through,
but the fire burns
without the tinder of rage.
the urgency,
one of savoring-
of reflecting…
i used to roam Europe
with one bag and no money.
for better or worse,
those days are long over--
families don't hitchhike
and a wife and child
demand the courtesies
of more refined travel.
47 seems a comfortable distance
from 26 and it's violent insecurities.
the danger, of course,
is losing that edge
that made shit happen…
in bad times the artist has to tuck their chin,
roll the shoulders forward,
and bite down on the mouthpiece.
in good times the artist
must continue to find
a battle in every day,
while living richly
and creating loudly…
or quietly.
like now...
on the couch these days…
she's there now while i type this.
i'm procrastinating on duties
needed to move the day forward.
i'm taking this quiet time for myself…
there is a grass fed sirloin to marinate,
dishes in the sink and drawings waiting for life.
but right now i'm typing.
typing and thinking
the thoughts of a man,
perhaps, too satisfied.
there is still fire in the hours
i move through,
but the fire burns
without the tinder of rage.
the urgency,
one of savoring-
of reflecting…
i used to roam Europe
with one bag and no money.
for better or worse,
those days are long over--
families don't hitchhike
and a wife and child
demand the courtesies
of more refined travel.
47 seems a comfortable distance
from 26 and it's violent insecurities.
the danger, of course,
is losing that edge
that made shit happen…
in bad times the artist has to tuck their chin,
roll the shoulders forward,
and bite down on the mouthpiece.
in good times the artist
must continue to find
a battle in every day,
while living richly
and creating loudly…
or quietly.
like now...
Sunday, March 9, 2014
the tumult of the laundry list of fairs
and the debacle of the Whitney is closing…
i've been in my studio. working.
this year was not my year
for $19 glasses of champagne.
i've been in my studio. working…
i have, however, spent time with thoughts
of SoHo, the SoHo of decades ago,
circa 1993…
climbing white painted stairs
for red wine in plastic cups,
later to stagger into clubs and bars
with our fill of art, primed
for heavier sport…
the bouncers liked me
because i could finish what i started…
the same cobblestones
and the same majestic
buildings still exist,
but the glass walled real estate
bordering the sidewalks
is not the same.
and there are places i remember
that are now only that...
and the debacle of the Whitney is closing…
i've been in my studio. working.
this year was not my year
for $19 glasses of champagne.
i've been in my studio. working…
i have, however, spent time with thoughts
of SoHo, the SoHo of decades ago,
circa 1993…
climbing white painted stairs
for red wine in plastic cups,
later to stagger into clubs and bars
with our fill of art, primed
for heavier sport…
the bouncers liked me
because i could finish what i started…
the same cobblestones
and the same majestic
buildings still exist,
but the glass walled real estate
bordering the sidewalks
is not the same.
and there are places i remember
that are now only that...
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
so much whining and complaining:
Dave Hickey, art money, real estate,
dealers, NYC, fairs, etc…
too much time on our hands?
dead space and dead minds
cancel out creativity.
and then what?
well, you can look around
and bitch (as i am now,
having worked the kettlebell
as my daughter naps...).
life is far too short
to wring our hands
over so much
that, in the end,
has nothing to do
with anything of importance.
open that notebook,
pour the paint,
write that novel,
let all the rest burn.
do some dead lifts
and front squats
then fire up the grill...
Dave Hickey, art money, real estate,
dealers, NYC, fairs, etc…
too much time on our hands?
dead space and dead minds
cancel out creativity.
and then what?
well, you can look around
and bitch (as i am now,
having worked the kettlebell
as my daughter naps...).
life is far too short
to wring our hands
over so much
that, in the end,
has nothing to do
with anything of importance.
open that notebook,
pour the paint,
write that novel,
let all the rest burn.
do some dead lifts
and front squats
then fire up the grill...
Thursday, January 16, 2014
1.
the studio looked good
after 2 weeks in California
and a week in Hawaii--
indeed, by my standards, rather orderly.
it strikes me that some of the real value
in the "space" of a studio
might lie in the banal moments
of maintenance and upkeep.
clearly, sweating away
over the elusive line
and uncooperative passage of color
offer their own rewards and scars,
but there is some odd strength
to the less poetic pursuits of priming a wall
or balling up the detritus
of masking tape and paper towels
stiffened by the subtraction of acrylic…
in the San Fernando Valley,
Encino, to be specific,
i ply my trade in a small redwood studio,
at times, sitting on a brick porch,
beneath an orange tree.
at other times, i set my work table up by the pool--
large canvases atop bricks and labor under the sun.
in Brooklyn, i work in a former candy factory,
built over a century ago,
a building of sense and history,
of crooked, aching stairs
and weathered 12 foot ceilings...
the work of either coast informs
the work a continent away…
the murky romance of NYC
soils the vivid promise of California,
just as the chlorinated blues
and olive teals of the Valley
inform the work hanging opposite
the 4 tall windows.
2.
this afternoon, my daughter
and i walked blocks west
to Riverside Park. she was excited
by the action of the squirrels
and the dogs they maddened.
it was a very profound moment for me--
walking the streets with my little girl
holding my hand, or at times, merely a finger.
our steps slowly chewing up the distance
to wherever it was we were going.
at 2 1/2 years old, she has distanced herself
from the frivolities of the stroller--
turning her ambitions to the larger game
of independent mobility.
i mean well, but my good intentions
shade many faults.
however, she tolerates me,
as do my wife and long suffering friends.
there are moments when it seems
all i'm really meant for
is sweeping a dirty floor
in a studio in an old building,
in an old part of Brooklyn
near the Navy Yard.
and then there are times when the paint
is moving so well i could cry,
except that wiping the tears
would be a tremendous waste of valuable time.
and then there are times like today--
taking small steps
through the park
my daughter
holding my hand,
or perhaps,
just a finger...
Monday, January 6, 2014
1.
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.
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...
Fast forward a year later and I made my way to Couwenberg again, offering my hand.
"Dude", he said, "you're red..."
And then he drifted away to more engaging conversation.
2.
15 or so years later, art has been traded, floors crashed on, shows have been shared and de-installed, booze poured and cities threatened...
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.
Suddenly bereft of ALOHA, I settle into and cherish the time allowed me by the vibrant woman-child that calls me Daddy...
3.
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.
There are shots and sips of Patron and beers and introductions and finally the film...
I first heard of MANA as a concept tossed about by Andi and Alex as we lounged by my parents pool--
this idea of a film on artists and their relationships to the ocean and it's influence on studio practice.
And life...
Directed by Eric Minh Swenson, MANA is so much more than the sum of it's parts.
There is art. There is surfing. There is, to be sure, Hawaii and a beautiful reverence for it's culture and singular vibe.
But, there is also an experience and understanding offered that is almost as illusive as an accurate English definition for the word "mana".
10 artists and 10 approaches to creation. 10 artists and 10 narratives...
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...
I'm no critic...
I'm an artist moved and stoked by the processes of peers and friends.
I'm an artist blown away by Swenson's film.
A film unique and needed.
Gracious and electric.
As vividly poetic as it is earnest...
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.
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...
Fast forward a year later and I made my way to Couwenberg again, offering my hand.
"Dude", he said, "you're red..."
And then he drifted away to more engaging conversation.
2.
15 or so years later, art has been traded, floors crashed on, shows have been shared and de-installed, booze poured and cities threatened...
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.
Suddenly bereft of ALOHA, I settle into and cherish the time allowed me by the vibrant woman-child that calls me Daddy...
3.
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.
There are shots and sips of Patron and beers and introductions and finally the film...
I first heard of MANA as a concept tossed about by Andi and Alex as we lounged by my parents pool--
this idea of a film on artists and their relationships to the ocean and it's influence on studio practice.
And life...
Directed by Eric Minh Swenson, MANA is so much more than the sum of it's parts.
There is art. There is surfing. There is, to be sure, Hawaii and a beautiful reverence for it's culture and singular vibe.
But, there is also an experience and understanding offered that is almost as illusive as an accurate English definition for the word "mana".
10 artists and 10 approaches to creation. 10 artists and 10 narratives...
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...
I'm no critic...
I'm an artist moved and stoked by the processes of peers and friends.
I'm an artist blown away by Swenson's film.
A film unique and needed.
Gracious and electric.
As vividly poetic as it is earnest...
Sunday, December 15, 2013
as the art industry winds down from the gloating
and whining of miami,
my interests turn to more modest proposals:
the practice of drawing.
more specifically, drawing with paint.
this is not the fine work of graphite
And ink- this is paint-- dense of body
and of a decidedly independent character.
there is the physical nature of the practice--
i enjoy the buckling of the paper,
curling as it does beneath the wash of gesso
or the dirty, dried brush line
of ivory black...
there is hard beauty to be found
in the motions of hand and paper--
the "line" versus "surface",
the language of tool and wrist...
and whining of miami,
my interests turn to more modest proposals:
the practice of drawing.
more specifically, drawing with paint.
this is not the fine work of graphite
And ink- this is paint-- dense of body
and of a decidedly independent character.
there is the physical nature of the practice--
i enjoy the buckling of the paper,
curling as it does beneath the wash of gesso
or the dirty, dried brush line
of ivory black...
there is hard beauty to be found
in the motions of hand and paper--
the "line" versus "surface",
the language of tool and wrist...
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