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...
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
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...
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...
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