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...

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...

                       
                           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...














               

                                                          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...

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...

                           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...

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...