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...
Monday, January 6, 2014
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...
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
I
my daughter was pissed that mommy went off to work.
an hour and a half later (desperate) we were making art.
at 2 years of age, her paint handling is robust--
heavy with the authority that comes from not giving a shit.
my contributions-- soundly dismissed beneath the gravity
of her fevered, joyful expression…
our collaboration made me mourn those awful hours
of self-consciousness and professionalism--
the meager theater of "trying…"
II
it has occurred to me that every practice
attaches itself, at its highest level, to "art".
dentistry, law, carpentry, tending bar, gambling,
selling crack, stringing tennis racquets,
running guns, or any number of poor souls and ill gotten gains…
everything wants to be "art", but only art is "art".
art is lonely. or at least, maybe it should be…
it isn't the massed concrete of Chelsea avenues,
or Culver City sidewalks
and it wasn't the cobblestones of SoHo.
art is the studio-- the dirty window,
the old coffee can housing the fossil of a 4-inch brush.
the drawing never finished; cheap white oil-- long since yellowed…
III
"I will tell you this:
no eternal reward
will forgive us
for wasting the dawn."
Jim Morrison
there is craft: our learned practicality-
the processes and skill sets
that allowed our conquests of protein and fields.
the only thing worse than a man that can't put up a wall
is a woman who can't cook…
but we are losing "craft", we are losing ability…
and still, the journeyman aspires to "art".
in an era of manual incompetence,
my daughter will know how to cook
in the kitchen, or over the embers of a fire she built
and indeed, lit, if need be, bereft of matches,
a lighter or any number of convenient surplus.
she will know how to build a wall, change a tire,
clean a fish, tie a hook, stretch a canvas,
break an arm, choke a man out
and the beauty of the head clinch and knee…
she will know the grace of an old book
and the mysteries of graphite and sunsets.
unless, of course,
she tells me to fuck off...
my daughter was pissed that mommy went off to work.
an hour and a half later (desperate) we were making art.
at 2 years of age, her paint handling is robust--
heavy with the authority that comes from not giving a shit.
my contributions-- soundly dismissed beneath the gravity
of her fevered, joyful expression…
our collaboration made me mourn those awful hours
of self-consciousness and professionalism--
the meager theater of "trying…"
II
it has occurred to me that every practice
attaches itself, at its highest level, to "art".
dentistry, law, carpentry, tending bar, gambling,
selling crack, stringing tennis racquets,
running guns, or any number of poor souls and ill gotten gains…
everything wants to be "art", but only art is "art".
art is lonely. or at least, maybe it should be…
it isn't the massed concrete of Chelsea avenues,
or Culver City sidewalks
and it wasn't the cobblestones of SoHo.
art is the studio-- the dirty window,
the old coffee can housing the fossil of a 4-inch brush.
the drawing never finished; cheap white oil-- long since yellowed…
III
"I will tell you this:
no eternal reward
will forgive us
for wasting the dawn."
Jim Morrison
there is craft: our learned practicality-
the processes and skill sets
that allowed our conquests of protein and fields.
the only thing worse than a man that can't put up a wall
is a woman who can't cook…
but we are losing "craft", we are losing ability…
and still, the journeyman aspires to "art".
in an era of manual incompetence,
my daughter will know how to cook
in the kitchen, or over the embers of a fire she built
and indeed, lit, if need be, bereft of matches,
a lighter or any number of convenient surplus.
she will know how to build a wall, change a tire,
clean a fish, tie a hook, stretch a canvas,
break an arm, choke a man out
and the beauty of the head clinch and knee…
she will know the grace of an old book
and the mysteries of graphite and sunsets.
unless, of course,
she tells me to fuck off...
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
a little after 5pm on a friday, 7 university art students
walked through the old gate and the old wooden door
and up the old wooden stairs to my studio…
i wanted to talk about living in NYC
i told them to remember that their time will come
and they needed to be ready for it.
the right eyes and the right handshakes will happen
maybe not in a year or 2, but maybe in a decade or 3
someone will recognize what you've always known.
you just have to keep it going until it all comes together...
as a young poet i had no idea
i'd one day be a 46 year old painter.
i don't know how i got here but i made it to this place
and this point on the compass of all that i've lived through
and for the most part i'm smiling…
i told them to make sure they had a job
that paid for the paint and the walls of a studio.
luck is beautiful though never to be trusted.
i wanted to tell them that there is a responsibility to spend money.
if 500 sq. feet is almost 2 grand you can't sweat 10 bucks.
even when you're broke it's important to know
you can't be afraid to spend money if you have it.
one artist's thrift is another artist's lost chance.
the city is still hard and those taxis are there for a reason...
walked through the old gate and the old wooden door
and up the old wooden stairs to my studio…
i wanted to talk about living in NYC
i told them to remember that their time will come
and they needed to be ready for it.
the right eyes and the right handshakes will happen
maybe not in a year or 2, but maybe in a decade or 3
someone will recognize what you've always known.
you just have to keep it going until it all comes together...
as a young poet i had no idea
i'd one day be a 46 year old painter.
i don't know how i got here but i made it to this place
and this point on the compass of all that i've lived through
and for the most part i'm smiling…
i told them to make sure they had a job
that paid for the paint and the walls of a studio.
luck is beautiful though never to be trusted.
i wanted to tell them that there is a responsibility to spend money.
if 500 sq. feet is almost 2 grand you can't sweat 10 bucks.
even when you're broke it's important to know
you can't be afraid to spend money if you have it.
one artist's thrift is another artist's lost chance.
the city is still hard and those taxis are there for a reason...
Thursday, August 15, 2013
the other morning a thought came to me--
a 72 LB kettlebell doesn't lie…
this thought could have been a meaningless patch
of metaphor at the end of a grueling
self-inflicted tribulation.
or it could have been an insert into the catalog of authenticity
parenthood has goaded me into investigating.
i don't know.
i'm just trying to find my way.
in the day to day struggle to wake up get out get to work come home
there can be a sense of loss
and of delusion.
or illusion, or perhaps more creatively,
a lack thereof…
add the romantic struggles of a working artist
and it's easy to see why so few have the endurance,
the faith in the pursuit to carry on,
to push forward, to survive.
we can lie to ourselves and we can grow up
and we can turn on the television
and the computer
and play at limping through this 2nd decade
of the 21st fucking century.
we can play the game,
follow the rules
and waste whatever it is
we need to say and to see
and to share with the world
outside the studio walls…
for every artist soldiering on,
with or without success,
there are untold numbers cashing paychecks
for having given up on the dream.
the alternative of course,
is facing what is confronting us-
be it a chokehold, leg kick
or the sales of your work
not quite being where you want them to be.
this is scary shit…
and it cannot be handled blithely.
the artist, particularly, the painter,
holds much in common with the fighter-
in the gym alone, tuning into a very private song of war.
there are those who will give words of wisdom
yet none will feel the actuality
of the individual pain in process of the practice…
and then there is success.
it happens.
suddenly the gods are smiling on you--
and maybe you smile back.
or maybe not...
success can boost an ego
burdened by self-loathing or ennui,
but, perhaps, for some
it can be one of several nails in the coffin--
one question being:
how much is enough?
in a like sense,
for the evolved ego,
hard times may furnish the whetstone
for a blade dulled by insouciance,
while caving in the hopes
of the weak--
the fire of art
becoming, in the end,
a rote hobby--
a youthful and forgotten ember.
this then, is the culling of the herd.
the natural selection of art…
maybe. maybe not...
this is not hard and fast truth--
in fact none of this is anything at all-
simply my thoughts in my head,
thinking and learning out loud.
if we come to the understanding
that failure is not an option
we must also assert that success,
at times, harbors a shadow
of crisis all it's own…
now i ask of myself:
what does this have to do with authenticity?
everything.
don't lie to yourself.
make the best work you can
and get on with life…
if things are bad figure it out.
right the ship and get on with it…
if things are good and while kicking ass
and taking names
you note a grim melancholia--
step back and make some tough choices.
and then get on with it.
an honest artist should be ready to handle
the tough choices.
they should be made daily.
or if not daily--
strongly...
we labor within our individual needs--
personally, i toil within an unpopulated landscape
of rugged mathematics--
addition and subtraction--
paint put down and paint taken off.
these are tough choices all,
but choices made
and consequences dealt with accordingly.
in my studio practice there often comes a time
when a canvas worked and worked
becomes (perhaps) something dishonest-
something not what it should be.
and eventually the dishonesty disappears
behind a wall of black or white gesso
and the hunt begins anew…
years ago the poetic Robert Kingston
admonished me to never save
a singular part of a painting…
as hard as it is at times,
i have strived to toe that line...
the brutal decisions are the most honest.
they reflect back to us
the beauty of what our art aspires to.
never doubt yourself in times of loss.
never question your art in the womb of success.
simply tune into your mechanisms--
feel yourself meld within the circumstances
of a market and scene
and match the best of those vibes
to the best in the studio.
ask yourself how it feels…
and make the tough choices.
to be fair,
i rather enjoy the dilemma of packing crates
and shipping paintings.
the logistics of customs
and adding bottles of wine to the modest collection.
the point is to carry on.
its important to take on the hardships
of our chosen path with resolve.
look the favors and sorrows in the eye--
staring back as hard
and as natural as a wolf.
or if not a wolf,
at least a bad motherfucker...
a 72 LB kettlebell doesn't lie…
this thought could have been a meaningless patch
of metaphor at the end of a grueling
self-inflicted tribulation.
or it could have been an insert into the catalog of authenticity
parenthood has goaded me into investigating.
i don't know.
i'm just trying to find my way.
in the day to day struggle to wake up get out get to work come home
there can be a sense of loss
and of delusion.
or illusion, or perhaps more creatively,
a lack thereof…
add the romantic struggles of a working artist
and it's easy to see why so few have the endurance,
the faith in the pursuit to carry on,
to push forward, to survive.
we can lie to ourselves and we can grow up
and we can turn on the television
and the computer
and play at limping through this 2nd decade
of the 21st fucking century.
we can play the game,
follow the rules
and waste whatever it is
we need to say and to see
and to share with the world
outside the studio walls…
for every artist soldiering on,
with or without success,
there are untold numbers cashing paychecks
for having given up on the dream.
the alternative of course,
is facing what is confronting us-
be it a chokehold, leg kick
or the sales of your work
not quite being where you want them to be.
this is scary shit…
and it cannot be handled blithely.
the artist, particularly, the painter,
holds much in common with the fighter-
in the gym alone, tuning into a very private song of war.
there are those who will give words of wisdom
yet none will feel the actuality
of the individual pain in process of the practice…
and then there is success.
it happens.
suddenly the gods are smiling on you--
and maybe you smile back.
or maybe not...
success can boost an ego
burdened by self-loathing or ennui,
but, perhaps, for some
it can be one of several nails in the coffin--
one question being:
how much is enough?
in a like sense,
for the evolved ego,
hard times may furnish the whetstone
for a blade dulled by insouciance,
while caving in the hopes
of the weak--
the fire of art
becoming, in the end,
a rote hobby--
a youthful and forgotten ember.
this then, is the culling of the herd.
the natural selection of art…
maybe. maybe not...
this is not hard and fast truth--
in fact none of this is anything at all-
simply my thoughts in my head,
thinking and learning out loud.
if we come to the understanding
that failure is not an option
we must also assert that success,
at times, harbors a shadow
of crisis all it's own…
now i ask of myself:
what does this have to do with authenticity?
everything.
don't lie to yourself.
make the best work you can
and get on with life…
if things are bad figure it out.
right the ship and get on with it…
if things are good and while kicking ass
and taking names
you note a grim melancholia--
step back and make some tough choices.
and then get on with it.
an honest artist should be ready to handle
the tough choices.
they should be made daily.
or if not daily--
strongly...
we labor within our individual needs--
personally, i toil within an unpopulated landscape
of rugged mathematics--
addition and subtraction--
paint put down and paint taken off.
these are tough choices all,
but choices made
and consequences dealt with accordingly.
in my studio practice there often comes a time
when a canvas worked and worked
becomes (perhaps) something dishonest-
something not what it should be.
and eventually the dishonesty disappears
behind a wall of black or white gesso
and the hunt begins anew…
years ago the poetic Robert Kingston
admonished me to never save
a singular part of a painting…
as hard as it is at times,
i have strived to toe that line...
the brutal decisions are the most honest.
they reflect back to us
the beauty of what our art aspires to.
never doubt yourself in times of loss.
never question your art in the womb of success.
simply tune into your mechanisms--
feel yourself meld within the circumstances
of a market and scene
and match the best of those vibes
to the best in the studio.
ask yourself how it feels…
and make the tough choices.
to be fair,
i rather enjoy the dilemma of packing crates
and shipping paintings.
the logistics of customs
and adding bottles of wine to the modest collection.
the point is to carry on.
its important to take on the hardships
of our chosen path with resolve.
look the favors and sorrows in the eye--
staring back as hard
and as natural as a wolf.
or if not a wolf,
at least a bad motherfucker...
Sunday, July 21, 2013
I
5 or 6 years ago i made a commitment
to make "drawing" a prominent activity,
not only in my studio practice,
but also my day to day pursuits.
there have been minutes
hunched over a notebook
with a stick of charcoal
where i learned more about myself
and my art than any number of 19 hour shifts
in my Long Island City warehouse space of years ago,
fueled as i was by booze
and any number of unmentionable habits-
long since abandoned…
in that time, i've cast off the distinctions between
"finished" drawings and "working" drawings.
my works on paper swing wildly
between the geometries that move me
and the aggressive (or perhaps, meditative)
calligraphy that has since found it's way into my paintings.
there are the drawings that have been labored over
and across 3 or 4 years
and there are the drawings
that are simply what they are-
the movement of a brush,
or other tool across an expanse of paper…
II
i'm home and the family is asleep.
it's too late to start cooking,
so the meal will be of a simple tequila.
the labors have been in the nature of "setting up"--
under painting and the sorting out
of misconceptions
and false starts…
this can be maddening
or, at times pure,
indelicate release.
but, like changing a diaper
or cutting back the bamboo,
it is the work that is needed for now…
it's important to remember
that we are on this journey
to find out where it takes us,
not to reach a destination…
this is the paradox of the studio:
we're going nowhere and universal all at once.
5 or 6 years ago i made a commitment
to make "drawing" a prominent activity,
not only in my studio practice,
but also my day to day pursuits.
there have been minutes
hunched over a notebook
with a stick of charcoal
where i learned more about myself
and my art than any number of 19 hour shifts
in my Long Island City warehouse space of years ago,
fueled as i was by booze
and any number of unmentionable habits-
long since abandoned…
in that time, i've cast off the distinctions between
"finished" drawings and "working" drawings.
my works on paper swing wildly
between the geometries that move me
and the aggressive (or perhaps, meditative)
calligraphy that has since found it's way into my paintings.
there are the drawings that have been labored over
and across 3 or 4 years
and there are the drawings
that are simply what they are-
the movement of a brush,
or other tool across an expanse of paper…
II
i'm home and the family is asleep.
it's too late to start cooking,
so the meal will be of a simple tequila.
the labors have been in the nature of "setting up"--
under painting and the sorting out
of misconceptions
and false starts…
this can be maddening
or, at times pure,
indelicate release.
but, like changing a diaper
or cutting back the bamboo,
it is the work that is needed for now…
it's important to remember
that we are on this journey
to find out where it takes us,
not to reach a destination…
this is the paradox of the studio:
we're going nowhere and universal all at once.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
painting is hard. sometimes physically,
but its really not the physical thats a problem
with the making of art.
lets be honest, painting a picture
is not a 30 minute kettlebell session.
and its certainly not training with a badass stud
whose main goal is to choke you unconscious...
nonetheless, it can be a hard grind--
this practice of paint handling.
i'm not complaining.
we ask for so much of our suffering
that further comment is beyond redundant
and in the end, who cares?
a productive day of experimenting
and honing the craft.
fair enough.
and then, somehow,
the doubt creeps in.
the sulphorous odor
of ambition not met and $$$ not there.
and? well, i painted my way out of it...
for better or worse.
and lived to tell the tale.
life is good--
i'm a blessed man living and working
in a great city with a great family
pursuing my dreams.
but there are times of hardship--
not the hardship of a lack of coin in pocket,
or sleeping on cardboard
in the German countryside to be sure--
but there is hardship.
life-- the gods,
have a need to keep a man honest
or perhaps humble.
or if not humble,
at least on his game...
there are moments of loss--
bereft of a compass for such latitudes.
the brush, burdened as it is with paint
cannot make a mark.
the canvas slack--
impotent against the labors of sanding...
the idea that brought solidity to a composition
is now a lumpen impediment to progress
or, indeed, finality...
upon returning home,
my amazing wife surprised me
with a pair of grass-fed sirloins...
the evening was set:
a fine dinner from the grill
a finer Cabernet (Keenan '09)
and a bottle and bed
for baby Deegan...
it was not to be...
as i laid my daughter down for the night
she twisted into a baroque posture
that i could not accept.
in adjusting her,
i brought fourth a wrath
far greater
than any god
or woman
i've come across...
hours later, mother and daughter sleep
soundly...
and i type these words.
things can go wrong-
for any number of reasons
at any time--
many of which are inconvenient...
our duty is to stagger
through the drama--
willful and somewhat intact...
it was a great day in the studio
but there were thorns
along the path...
and with the thorns
came wounds.
but the wounds healed
as quickly as the paint dried...
but its really not the physical thats a problem
with the making of art.
lets be honest, painting a picture
is not a 30 minute kettlebell session.
and its certainly not training with a badass stud
whose main goal is to choke you unconscious...
nonetheless, it can be a hard grind--
this practice of paint handling.
i'm not complaining.
we ask for so much of our suffering
that further comment is beyond redundant
and in the end, who cares?
a productive day of experimenting
and honing the craft.
fair enough.
and then, somehow,
the doubt creeps in.
the sulphorous odor
of ambition not met and $$$ not there.
and? well, i painted my way out of it...
for better or worse.
and lived to tell the tale.
life is good--
i'm a blessed man living and working
in a great city with a great family
pursuing my dreams.
but there are times of hardship--
not the hardship of a lack of coin in pocket,
or sleeping on cardboard
in the German countryside to be sure--
but there is hardship.
life-- the gods,
have a need to keep a man honest
or perhaps humble.
or if not humble,
at least on his game...
there are moments of loss--
bereft of a compass for such latitudes.
the brush, burdened as it is with paint
cannot make a mark.
the canvas slack--
impotent against the labors of sanding...
the idea that brought solidity to a composition
is now a lumpen impediment to progress
or, indeed, finality...
upon returning home,
my amazing wife surprised me
with a pair of grass-fed sirloins...
the evening was set:
a fine dinner from the grill
a finer Cabernet (Keenan '09)
and a bottle and bed
for baby Deegan...
it was not to be...
as i laid my daughter down for the night
she twisted into a baroque posture
that i could not accept.
in adjusting her,
i brought fourth a wrath
far greater
than any god
or woman
i've come across...
hours later, mother and daughter sleep
soundly...
and i type these words.
things can go wrong-
for any number of reasons
at any time--
many of which are inconvenient...
our duty is to stagger
through the drama--
willful and somewhat intact...
it was a great day in the studio
but there were thorns
along the path...
and with the thorns
came wounds.
but the wounds healed
as quickly as the paint dried...
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