My father-in-law was in town over the weekend. I'm fortunate to have a very good relationship with him and he always insists upon seeing the studio every time he comes to town. It was raining hard that night, and he and my wife got to experience the studio in a way readers of my blogs have read about many times...with the deafening sound of rain coming down on the roof.
I watched this nearly 70-year-old man walk amongst the paintings, both large and small (I know that's a relative thing for me), and all I could think about was how it reminded me of watching my daughters at the zoo. He was lost in joy and wonder. My wife snapped a pic of him in the famous orange chair, staring at a painting that bears her name. Afterwards, we made our way back home and had cocktails and I showed him the film from last year. It was a magical evening.
In those moments, seeing him dwarfed by huge paintings and responding as if he were an 8-year-old boy seeing a rocket for the first time, I realized that this is why I do it. Right there. To entertain the idea, -even for a moment, that I'm able to facilitate that kind of experience by something I do, gives me all the satisfaction in the world.
I may never be rich by the rather absurd standard of making over $250K/year, in fact, I doubt my household will ever see half that number and we are a family of 4. But there is no price tag for what I felt that evening. What, after all, is the value of restoring one's faith?
I'll get knocked down again. I'll get dissed, ignored and refused. The show in Greenville is apparently traveling and I may or may not get invited along, and that's OK. The thing I realized is that I have to get my work out there, -not for money or fame, but for it to have the opportunity to do for others what I saw it do for David. That's the charge. That's what you owe when you answer the call. It isn't about me and my fragile ego and my struggles. It's about getting the work out there, for people to see and respond to...or even to ignore.
hunting and gathering
self portrait, mixed media on paper, 24" x 18", Rico 2005Fall is coming. The time for endings and for change. I've had a cache of paintings in a local event space for a couple of years, and I intend to retrieve them at the end of next month. These were an interesting period; bright, bold palettes, geometric forms colliding and ebbing into one another, suspended space and play with value. Very much inspired by Hans Hoffman, most of them were done that first year I was in the studio, in the Spring, - and they have a jubilant quality to them that nothing since has ever resembled. Thinking about them now brings forth a lot emotion. I don't know what fate awaits them. I do know a massive purging is coming.
I am in an intense period of inner conflict about whether or not to move out of the studio at the end of the year, and so I'm preparing for it just in case. Fiscally, it is a no-brainer. No cash flow means no storefront (or working space in this case). But this feels inseparable from my life. I can't find the boundaries where I end and this begins, and a fundamental part of that is a room of my own.
I am in an intense period of inner conflict about whether or not to move out of the studio at the end of the year, and so I'm preparing for it just in case. Fiscally, it is a no-brainer. No cash flow means no storefront (or working space in this case). But this feels inseparable from my life. I can't find the boundaries where I end and this begins, and a fundamental part of that is a room of my own.
In 2 weeks, I'm bound for Minneapolis for the day job. I'm excited about visiting the Walker Arts Center and seeing my childhood friend, Remi. It will be nice to get out of the South for a few days and hopefully the break will clear my head a bit. Not the trip to NY I was hoping for, but perhaps it is the trip I need.
What does the self-portrait at the top of this post have to do with anything? Nada. I found it at lunch today and, I don't know, there's something about it that I just liked. Sort of Alice Neal meets Egon Schiele. I haven't done one in a while and maybe I should. Anyway, take it or leave it, there it is.
more thoughts on walking away
I've re-engaged the lifelong struggle to peal away illusion and personal lies. It is so easy to lie to ourselves; to imagine a self we want to be or wish we were or, -perhaps more tragically, believe we could never be. I suppose art has a lot less to do with artists than I feel comfortable admitting. Good art, enduring art, is alive in the viewer. It is kept alive this away, arguably life is breathed into it only after someone sees it.
There is power in the making of things, what we call creation. I don't know if art is really creation at all in the true sense. We tend to combine and assemble and re-arrange at best, but I'm skeptical about the position that anything is truly created. Really so-called creativity is another mask of self. This person is creative and so we can categorize them and convince ourselves that we know them and then move on to whatever is next. I wonder how much we actually know about people, because I wonder how much we truly know about ourselves.
I read a John Waters quote this morning that said something to the effect of it is contemporary art's job to destroy what has come before it. So even our creation is imbued with, -or perhaps inseparable from destruction and violence. If my job is to destroy; to dislike the art that is immediately before me with such intensity that I feel compelled to make things whose purpose is to obliterate it, I'm just not sure I'm up to the task. Honestly, I don't know if I want that job.
At this moment, I honestly don't know if I even am an artist. I don't feel comfortable with that label. I think Pop art was funny for about 15 minutes and there were only 2 or 3 people who understood the emptiness of the joke in the first place. The rest were just a herd. Abstract Expressionism, much as I personally relate to it, needed to be made fun of to be sure. It had become a religion. But the hecklers became the stars and then the criticism became the new religion. There are legitimately times when art should be serious, and maybe we've come to that time once again. It's time to talk frankly about the 2-ton balloon dog in the room.
We're seeing the resurgence of greed that mirrors the 80's. So perhaps it's natural to assume that the art should be as bloated and spectacular as ever to comment on it. The sad truth is that those who drive the engines of greed and power and money are not now, nor have they ever been threatened by ironic art and smug artists. How do you take the teeth out of an artist who criticizes the wealthy? Make them wealthy. Not too much, but just enough. Add a little celebrity to the cake and you suddenly have no opposition any more.
The best work I've ever done has been without any monetary goal in mind. I've pondered lately how much I enjoy installations like the one I did last year. It just exists in a moment in time, in a physical space and then that space is gone. Those paintings will never sell, despite the fact that I think they are quite amazing. I'd be lucky to get $2000 each, but I know even that is ambitious where I am. So I wrestle with the dilemma of having them locked away in the dark for no one to see. I wonder if that's right. I wonder if I should give them away, because at least someone might have the opportunity to find resonance in them. But this is against the rules. I'm supposed to get as much as I can for them. I'm supposed to ascend in the system so that they garner 5-figures each and in doing so become "good."
My friends can't afford that. I can't afford that. So who exactly are these made for? People whose houses I will never be invited to? People who would never consider me their peer, even if they truly held me in some sort of awe for what I do? I have people who have bought my work and never offered to show me how it looks in their home. As if the work is allowed there, but I am not. These are people I know personally. Our children have played together. But the distinction of class is clear.
I have long ago dismissed the idea that I will ever be famous. I'm not concerned with that. Honestly, I am probably not very well equipped for it anyway. I just want to work. I want to work at something I feel is meaningful and in my heart I believe that art can be so. If I walk away from this, I just wonder if I am shirking some responsibility to things greater than myself. Simultaneously I wonder if I'm just delusional to believe I could ever take part in something great to begin with.
There is power in the making of things, what we call creation. I don't know if art is really creation at all in the true sense. We tend to combine and assemble and re-arrange at best, but I'm skeptical about the position that anything is truly created. Really so-called creativity is another mask of self. This person is creative and so we can categorize them and convince ourselves that we know them and then move on to whatever is next. I wonder how much we actually know about people, because I wonder how much we truly know about ourselves.
I read a John Waters quote this morning that said something to the effect of it is contemporary art's job to destroy what has come before it. So even our creation is imbued with, -or perhaps inseparable from destruction and violence. If my job is to destroy; to dislike the art that is immediately before me with such intensity that I feel compelled to make things whose purpose is to obliterate it, I'm just not sure I'm up to the task. Honestly, I don't know if I want that job.
At this moment, I honestly don't know if I even am an artist. I don't feel comfortable with that label. I think Pop art was funny for about 15 minutes and there were only 2 or 3 people who understood the emptiness of the joke in the first place. The rest were just a herd. Abstract Expressionism, much as I personally relate to it, needed to be made fun of to be sure. It had become a religion. But the hecklers became the stars and then the criticism became the new religion. There are legitimately times when art should be serious, and maybe we've come to that time once again. It's time to talk frankly about the 2-ton balloon dog in the room.
We're seeing the resurgence of greed that mirrors the 80's. So perhaps it's natural to assume that the art should be as bloated and spectacular as ever to comment on it. The sad truth is that those who drive the engines of greed and power and money are not now, nor have they ever been threatened by ironic art and smug artists. How do you take the teeth out of an artist who criticizes the wealthy? Make them wealthy. Not too much, but just enough. Add a little celebrity to the cake and you suddenly have no opposition any more.
The best work I've ever done has been without any monetary goal in mind. I've pondered lately how much I enjoy installations like the one I did last year. It just exists in a moment in time, in a physical space and then that space is gone. Those paintings will never sell, despite the fact that I think they are quite amazing. I'd be lucky to get $2000 each, but I know even that is ambitious where I am. So I wrestle with the dilemma of having them locked away in the dark for no one to see. I wonder if that's right. I wonder if I should give them away, because at least someone might have the opportunity to find resonance in them. But this is against the rules. I'm supposed to get as much as I can for them. I'm supposed to ascend in the system so that they garner 5-figures each and in doing so become "good."
My friends can't afford that. I can't afford that. So who exactly are these made for? People whose houses I will never be invited to? People who would never consider me their peer, even if they truly held me in some sort of awe for what I do? I have people who have bought my work and never offered to show me how it looks in their home. As if the work is allowed there, but I am not. These are people I know personally. Our children have played together. But the distinction of class is clear.
I have long ago dismissed the idea that I will ever be famous. I'm not concerned with that. Honestly, I am probably not very well equipped for it anyway. I just want to work. I want to work at something I feel is meaningful and in my heart I believe that art can be so. If I walk away from this, I just wonder if I am shirking some responsibility to things greater than myself. Simultaneously I wonder if I'm just delusional to believe I could ever take part in something great to begin with.
on a positive note
I'm going to brag on a friend of mine. I met Heyd at a Lydia Lunch show in Austin, TX circa 1997. My roommate Johnny liked him and they had dated briefly, but for whatever reason it didn't work out the first time out. That night, Heyd had invited Johnny out to the show and he brought me along as part insurance, part escape hatch I imagine. Long story short, 13 years later they remain in a committed relationship and whatever your personal beliefs about same sex marriage, that's an admirable run for love; better than a lot of "traditional" marriages I know of personally.
Heyd is a great guy, and I saw him earlier this year when he passed through SC. He is getting a lot of attention with his painting and just last week got this killer review in the Washington Post.
What I like about his painting is that it is personal and real and still interesting and accessible. You don't have to know the people in his paintings to feel as though you do, and looking at his work I realize that what is often missing in my own is that sense of self which he imbues each of his portraits with.
I know yesterday was a pity party, but I'm really feeling beat lately. I wanted to celebrate the success of someone who I know and feel really deserves it.
Bravo, Heyd!
THE VERY QUEER PORTRAITS OF HEYD FONTENOT
Through Dec. 4 at the Art Gallery, 1202 Art-Sociology Building, University of Maryland, College Park. 301-405-2763. http://www.artgallery.umd.edu. Hours: Open Monday-Saturday 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Admission: Free. Public program: On Nov. 4 at 6:30 p.m., Fontenot will discuss his work with exhibition curator Jonathan Frederick Walz and Anne Collins Goodyear, assistant curator of prints and drawings at the National Portrait Gallery. Free.
Saltz
Of all the unlikely people whose criticism would leave me feeling vindicated, lo and behold comes Jerry Saltz. Just when I had him made for a whore for doing "that-artist-reality-show-of-which-I-do-not-speak", his subsequent ruminations on that process as well as recent reviews have proven me wrong. I apologize, Mr. Saltz.
2007 Art in 2010
I've been spending a lot of time reading this blog, about an artist who has entered into a crisis of faith about, -well, being an artist. I confess I'm feeling it myself, ready to throw in the towel and walk away with what little money (and less dignity) that I have left. Painting seems so meaningless now. No one cares, and worse, no one knows why they should.
I have a shelf full of books about how to further a career as an artist. All of them insist that you don't need to live in NYC or LA to make it in American art. This is a complete lie. You can certainly garner some success in places like Chicago, Atlanta, possibly Dallas (although I would argue this is very specific), and some other mid-sized cities, but living where I do it is like fighting the surging tide with a dagger. An exercise in tenacity perhaps, but fruitless nonetheless.
There has to be community and without it, the lines between art, delusion and masturbation blur. I've fought alone and unsupported for as long as I can....uncle!
I still feel the need to make. I still experience the world with wonder and see the interconnectedness of things that make me want to accentuate or exploit patterns. I love the plastic, and I love discovering all the things it can do. Where will I put all of this? I don't know.
I have several artist friends who practice martial arts, and this has always seemed a very natural extension of the artist's life. I believe most artists are seeking a Way, after all. I used to get this to some extent when I was a cyclist. Riding for 50 or 60 miles, your body has to surrender and there were times when I felt emptied out and could only feel the pumping of of the pedals and only hear my own breathing. I get moments like this when I paint, or make. That's why I choose to believe that there is something to it, that it is -at least partially, my Way. But 13 years without any real external validation is a damn long time. The constant, and emphatic rejection has built up and with two children to take care of I question the sanity of continuing to attempt to make this Way into a money-making career. Perhaps they are (and have always been) separate things. Perhaps that's ok.
Since I'm unwilling to leave my wife and children and marry, -oh say an Italian porn star, or become a NY party-boy artist, I don't see myself garnering publicity enough to thrust my "art" into the public discourse. Since the one idea I did have which would have certainly done that I rejected out of both principal as well as implication, it is clear to me that I don't want that certain brand of fame (or infamy) enough.
Finally, there is the cold hard truth that I may just not have the mettle. That my chops aren't good enough and that no matter how long or hard I work at this it will never result in so much as minor gallery representation. I should be happy a handful of paintings have sold and go home.
2007 Art in 2010
I've been spending a lot of time reading this blog, about an artist who has entered into a crisis of faith about, -well, being an artist. I confess I'm feeling it myself, ready to throw in the towel and walk away with what little money (and less dignity) that I have left. Painting seems so meaningless now. No one cares, and worse, no one knows why they should.
I have a shelf full of books about how to further a career as an artist. All of them insist that you don't need to live in NYC or LA to make it in American art. This is a complete lie. You can certainly garner some success in places like Chicago, Atlanta, possibly Dallas (although I would argue this is very specific), and some other mid-sized cities, but living where I do it is like fighting the surging tide with a dagger. An exercise in tenacity perhaps, but fruitless nonetheless.
There has to be community and without it, the lines between art, delusion and masturbation blur. I've fought alone and unsupported for as long as I can....uncle!
I still feel the need to make. I still experience the world with wonder and see the interconnectedness of things that make me want to accentuate or exploit patterns. I love the plastic, and I love discovering all the things it can do. Where will I put all of this? I don't know.
I have several artist friends who practice martial arts, and this has always seemed a very natural extension of the artist's life. I believe most artists are seeking a Way, after all. I used to get this to some extent when I was a cyclist. Riding for 50 or 60 miles, your body has to surrender and there were times when I felt emptied out and could only feel the pumping of of the pedals and only hear my own breathing. I get moments like this when I paint, or make. That's why I choose to believe that there is something to it, that it is -at least partially, my Way. But 13 years without any real external validation is a damn long time. The constant, and emphatic rejection has built up and with two children to take care of I question the sanity of continuing to attempt to make this Way into a money-making career. Perhaps they are (and have always been) separate things. Perhaps that's ok.
Since I'm unwilling to leave my wife and children and marry, -oh say an Italian porn star, or become a NY party-boy artist, I don't see myself garnering publicity enough to thrust my "art" into the public discourse. Since the one idea I did have which would have certainly done that I rejected out of both principal as well as implication, it is clear to me that I don't want that certain brand of fame (or infamy) enough.
Finally, there is the cold hard truth that I may just not have the mettle. That my chops aren't good enough and that no matter how long or hard I work at this it will never result in so much as minor gallery representation. I should be happy a handful of paintings have sold and go home.
steel and cotton
the mad hours where once we danced on the sofaoil and acrylic on canvas, 40" x 30", Rico '10
eating soil and drinking bullets from a cupoil and acrylic on canvas, 40" x 30", Rico '10
Living art
There's recent art criticism that makes me hopeful. I came across this article in Prospect Magazine, which draws comparisons between Post-Modernism and Rococo, comparing (rightfully so) Damien Hurst to the likes of Bouguereau. It is a compelling argument. So much of the blue chip art of the last decade, or even two, has been narcissistic, vapid pastiche; willfully plagiarising in the name of Concept or Commentary.
Ben Lewis lays it on the line in this unflinching article and I applaud anyone in this day and age with the cajones to say what they feel and the intellect and substance to back it up. Political writers could certainly take a page from this book. Similarly, the now-seminal Roberta Smith article from earlier this year gave so many of us hope that there may actually be art critics in New York that are paying attention to what they are NOT seeing instead of reaffirming the Program imposed upon us by Museums, auction houses and dealers. Smith is poised to become a truly great art critic, one that history will vindicate, even celebrate if she is willing to take it one step further; to get out into the studios and get dirty. Get thee to Brooklyn, Ms. Smith.
It's one thing to recognize there is great art (yes, I said great) being made outside the collective limelight. It is quite another to take the time, effort and risk to seek it out and champion it. Isn't this what a handful of art critics are best known for? Not only did it propel their own careers, but it brought unknown, desperate artists into the light of day (and under the lights of the galleries) who have since become the bedrock of contemporary art. Sadly, we have forgotten that the Impressionists were once outsider artists but were championed until people were able to see rather than look. This job is never over, and the onus of discourse (and to some degree discovery) lies squarely on the shoulders of those who would call themselves critics.
The current thread in Carol Diehl's blog about artist statements relates well to what I'm saying. It has become our task as artists to create not only our work, but equally to draft crib notes about that work for the flaccid art press. It's high time we got some educated feedback. I for one, make work because I want a dialog. I want to interact and to know what YOU, the people seeing it think. Art is not art in a dark studio. It only becomes art when people see it, and respond to it. In the end, my intentions, -no matter sacred or profane, matter little to the life of the work.
Art, ultimately, has to live and die on its own. Yet we have lost a sophisticated audience, and more poignantly, we have lost cultural leaders who can positively inform and educate audiences as to what they are looking at. I've beat this drum before, but art is not, NOT, 100% subjective. Like wine or literature or other cultural expressions, one must bring a certain amount of knowledge and awareness (as well as openness) to the table when encountering art. Personal tastes are inherently flawed and lack credibility in the broader conversations. There is a vast history that informs the way we perceive, and without knowledge or concern for these and other contexts, we become little more than gawkers.
Medium-sized cities like the one where I currently have a show want to import some kind of culture-template. But vibrant art scenes are not out-of-the-box products. They take time and nurturing and they take the audience meeting the artists and galleries half way. Asheville has this built-in because of decades of residents from Europe and New York and notably the Black Mountain College experiement. Contemporary art is not feared there, and audiences know how to respond to it because they have taken part in its genesis in America. Sadly, the recent influx of new wealth (that which lacks this very sense of history and tradition), may well be that city's arts undoing.
In this region there is a provincial mindset which lacks the tools to deal with anything post-Impressionist for fear of looking foolish. But this very fear is one of the major obstacles to a thriving scene. Artists would move here in droves if they felt supported. The cost of living is low, studios like mine can still be had at reasonable rents, and there are relatively few serious artists, so there is an honest potential for community. Moreover, the influx of truly professional artists to the area would thin out the playing field, marginalize the dilettantes, and bring the overall quality up. Right now we have fine art, craft artists and so-called Outsider artists all lumped together with no delineation that can easily be understood by the art public. The galleries, for their part, cannot execute real programs because they are forced into a one-size-fits-all, appeal to everyone business model that may sell a few $50 paintings here and there but does little to advance or cultivate a diverse and thriving art scene.
This hurts craft artists and artisans as much as it hurts struggling artists like myself. To be fair, why should someone pay $5000 for a painting that is hanging next to another of the same size and,-at least to the uninformed eye, same style for $500? The answer is a no-brainer, they shouldn't. The juried show presided over by an amateur and the flee-market approach to curating that is so popular here do not serve anyone. They only highlight the cultural inadequacies which are so prevalent. (But I am digressing and this is really another post).
Rather than embrace the accepted, isn't it time we ask to be surprised? I don't mean shocked, and certainly not shocked for shock's sake. I mean genuinely surprised by what we see on the walls? This is a trickle-down economy that actually can work, in visual currency and in aesthetic trade. The big city critics scour the studios, the museums get spines to risk ridicule and low attendance with shows of living artists, medium and small city museums follow suit, and the smaller scenes and remote artists respond to the renewed dialogue.
More next week.
Ben Lewis lays it on the line in this unflinching article and I applaud anyone in this day and age with the cajones to say what they feel and the intellect and substance to back it up. Political writers could certainly take a page from this book. Similarly, the now-seminal Roberta Smith article from earlier this year gave so many of us hope that there may actually be art critics in New York that are paying attention to what they are NOT seeing instead of reaffirming the Program imposed upon us by Museums, auction houses and dealers. Smith is poised to become a truly great art critic, one that history will vindicate, even celebrate if she is willing to take it one step further; to get out into the studios and get dirty. Get thee to Brooklyn, Ms. Smith.
It's one thing to recognize there is great art (yes, I said great) being made outside the collective limelight. It is quite another to take the time, effort and risk to seek it out and champion it. Isn't this what a handful of art critics are best known for? Not only did it propel their own careers, but it brought unknown, desperate artists into the light of day (and under the lights of the galleries) who have since become the bedrock of contemporary art. Sadly, we have forgotten that the Impressionists were once outsider artists but were championed until people were able to see rather than look. This job is never over, and the onus of discourse (and to some degree discovery) lies squarely on the shoulders of those who would call themselves critics.
The current thread in Carol Diehl's blog about artist statements relates well to what I'm saying. It has become our task as artists to create not only our work, but equally to draft crib notes about that work for the flaccid art press. It's high time we got some educated feedback. I for one, make work because I want a dialog. I want to interact and to know what YOU, the people seeing it think. Art is not art in a dark studio. It only becomes art when people see it, and respond to it. In the end, my intentions, -no matter sacred or profane, matter little to the life of the work.
Art, ultimately, has to live and die on its own. Yet we have lost a sophisticated audience, and more poignantly, we have lost cultural leaders who can positively inform and educate audiences as to what they are looking at. I've beat this drum before, but art is not, NOT, 100% subjective. Like wine or literature or other cultural expressions, one must bring a certain amount of knowledge and awareness (as well as openness) to the table when encountering art. Personal tastes are inherently flawed and lack credibility in the broader conversations. There is a vast history that informs the way we perceive, and without knowledge or concern for these and other contexts, we become little more than gawkers.
Medium-sized cities like the one where I currently have a show want to import some kind of culture-template. But vibrant art scenes are not out-of-the-box products. They take time and nurturing and they take the audience meeting the artists and galleries half way. Asheville has this built-in because of decades of residents from Europe and New York and notably the Black Mountain College experiement. Contemporary art is not feared there, and audiences know how to respond to it because they have taken part in its genesis in America. Sadly, the recent influx of new wealth (that which lacks this very sense of history and tradition), may well be that city's arts undoing.
In this region there is a provincial mindset which lacks the tools to deal with anything post-Impressionist for fear of looking foolish. But this very fear is one of the major obstacles to a thriving scene. Artists would move here in droves if they felt supported. The cost of living is low, studios like mine can still be had at reasonable rents, and there are relatively few serious artists, so there is an honest potential for community. Moreover, the influx of truly professional artists to the area would thin out the playing field, marginalize the dilettantes, and bring the overall quality up. Right now we have fine art, craft artists and so-called Outsider artists all lumped together with no delineation that can easily be understood by the art public. The galleries, for their part, cannot execute real programs because they are forced into a one-size-fits-all, appeal to everyone business model that may sell a few $50 paintings here and there but does little to advance or cultivate a diverse and thriving art scene.
This hurts craft artists and artisans as much as it hurts struggling artists like myself. To be fair, why should someone pay $5000 for a painting that is hanging next to another of the same size and,-at least to the uninformed eye, same style for $500? The answer is a no-brainer, they shouldn't. The juried show presided over by an amateur and the flee-market approach to curating that is so popular here do not serve anyone. They only highlight the cultural inadequacies which are so prevalent. (But I am digressing and this is really another post).
Rather than embrace the accepted, isn't it time we ask to be surprised? I don't mean shocked, and certainly not shocked for shock's sake. I mean genuinely surprised by what we see on the walls? This is a trickle-down economy that actually can work, in visual currency and in aesthetic trade. The big city critics scour the studios, the museums get spines to risk ridicule and low attendance with shows of living artists, medium and small city museums follow suit, and the smaller scenes and remote artists respond to the renewed dialogue.
More next week.
the mad hours
the mad hours where once we danced on the sofain progress, 2010 Rico
I'm bi-polar. For years, I've survived and functioned through the standard ways of self-medicating, my well-known strength of will, diet, exercise and the fact that so many people tend to sleep walk through life and not really pay attention to anyone else. Lately, and by this I mean over the past year, the surf has become too rough. In the highs, I walk shoulder to shoulder with gods and angels. I am the Hero and the Tyrant, for they are one in the same archetype. I can't sleep, I seem to move through my day in vibration.
The lows have become soundless hollow pits, from which I can barely look out at my wife and children. I exhaust myself during the day trying to appear "normal" and when I get home I can hardly speak to anyone and this, -at worst, can go on for weeks. I can feel myself going down, but like being caught in a rip tide I lack the strength to escape and instead am swept away. The added hell to this is the fact that I am, all the while, completely aware of what is happening.
The time has come to try medication. I have so many fears and anxieties about this, but the things I fear losing the most pale in comparison to what I know I am losing now. I worry that I will lose creativity, because I know that true creation comes from resistance. I'm deeply conflicted because while my mental health has been on a steady decline, my work has seemingly hit a notable arc and we artists are a superstitious lot who fear the slightest change in routine will somehow shatter that fragile thing we believe is inspiration.
I've come to understand this is a lie.
One can no more turn being an artist on and off than with any other imprinted way of being. We are born stamped with certain things: sexuality, intellect, predisposition to safety or adventure, and yes, the artist. With this in mind, so-called inspiration does not truly exist outside of one's self. It is the soul, the hard-wired personality which interprets the external world (every moment of it) as inspiring. We feel compelled to speak about it, -through words, through the making of things, music, and so on. Who in their right mind would choose this, after all?
So a new adventure begins in my life, and one on the outset of which, i confess, that I am very anxious and unsure. I've documented 4 years of my little life within these bandwidths, and at times I know it has been like watching a slow-motion train wreck. So I'll document this, because this is inseparable from the artistic practice.
It's a cliche', but I'm making the first step toward change by admitting the problem, -at least the major symptom of whatever the larger problem truly may be.
You may well say that, in light of this I have no business using the works of Anne Sexton as my current point of reference for the work going on in the studio. You might be right. But Anne and I have been together for a long, long time. The moment finally came when it was time, and "no" was simply not an option. Forgive me if I obsess on death and loss. It doesn't mean I'm feeling sorry for myself, or indulging my black-beret-wearing stereotype. It's just my moment for wrestling with it, nothing more.
eating soil and drinking bullets from a cup
in progress, 2010 Rico
So these are the mad hours. The funny thing about time is that it is always moving. Time is the shark and we are the prey. We could worry ourselves about the inevitability of our death, or we could enjoy swimming in the vast sea while we are able. Sometimes in schools, sometimes alone in the nooks and coral of the shallows. We cannot escape the time, and no man or nation or corporation can stop it.
It's hard to believe that art matters. By extension, it is often hard to imagine that my life and its pursuits matter either. What good does it do to make work that so few see, and that far less care about? Yet I can't stop. What tolls have been paid, and at what cost?
I am off to Missouri next week for a family wedding. Weddings and funerals are magical because we often simultaneously dread and enjoy them. Family gets together, and we observe life outside of ourselves. I think this is why they are healthy things, that sense of taking a moment from our busy, self-absorption and focusing -utterly and entirely on someone else's life.
I'll leave off with one final image, still untitled and larger than the other canvases I'm working on right now. More later this week.
The lows have become soundless hollow pits, from which I can barely look out at my wife and children. I exhaust myself during the day trying to appear "normal" and when I get home I can hardly speak to anyone and this, -at worst, can go on for weeks. I can feel myself going down, but like being caught in a rip tide I lack the strength to escape and instead am swept away. The added hell to this is the fact that I am, all the while, completely aware of what is happening.
The time has come to try medication. I have so many fears and anxieties about this, but the things I fear losing the most pale in comparison to what I know I am losing now. I worry that I will lose creativity, because I know that true creation comes from resistance. I'm deeply conflicted because while my mental health has been on a steady decline, my work has seemingly hit a notable arc and we artists are a superstitious lot who fear the slightest change in routine will somehow shatter that fragile thing we believe is inspiration.
I've come to understand this is a lie.
One can no more turn being an artist on and off than with any other imprinted way of being. We are born stamped with certain things: sexuality, intellect, predisposition to safety or adventure, and yes, the artist. With this in mind, so-called inspiration does not truly exist outside of one's self. It is the soul, the hard-wired personality which interprets the external world (every moment of it) as inspiring. We feel compelled to speak about it, -through words, through the making of things, music, and so on. Who in their right mind would choose this, after all?
So a new adventure begins in my life, and one on the outset of which, i confess, that I am very anxious and unsure. I've documented 4 years of my little life within these bandwidths, and at times I know it has been like watching a slow-motion train wreck. So I'll document this, because this is inseparable from the artistic practice.
It's a cliche', but I'm making the first step toward change by admitting the problem, -at least the major symptom of whatever the larger problem truly may be.
You may well say that, in light of this I have no business using the works of Anne Sexton as my current point of reference for the work going on in the studio. You might be right. But Anne and I have been together for a long, long time. The moment finally came when it was time, and "no" was simply not an option. Forgive me if I obsess on death and loss. It doesn't mean I'm feeling sorry for myself, or indulging my black-beret-wearing stereotype. It's just my moment for wrestling with it, nothing more.
eating soil and drinking bullets from a cupin progress, 2010 Rico
So these are the mad hours. The funny thing about time is that it is always moving. Time is the shark and we are the prey. We could worry ourselves about the inevitability of our death, or we could enjoy swimming in the vast sea while we are able. Sometimes in schools, sometimes alone in the nooks and coral of the shallows. We cannot escape the time, and no man or nation or corporation can stop it.
It's hard to believe that art matters. By extension, it is often hard to imagine that my life and its pursuits matter either. What good does it do to make work that so few see, and that far less care about? Yet I can't stop. What tolls have been paid, and at what cost?
I am off to Missouri next week for a family wedding. Weddings and funerals are magical because we often simultaneously dread and enjoy them. Family gets together, and we observe life outside of ourselves. I think this is why they are healthy things, that sense of taking a moment from our busy, self-absorption and focusing -utterly and entirely on someone else's life.
I'll leave off with one final image, still untitled and larger than the other canvases I'm working on right now. More later this week.
emerging
Attended the Faculty art exhibition last night and enjoyed speaking at length with a group of people I haven't seen in some time. I live and work in isolation, so contact with others of my ilk is often very magical and even emotional for me. For the most part I enjoy my "Splendid Isolation" as Zevon put it, but now and again is feels good to yak about art over booze and get loud and passionate about it all.
The work is steady and last night as I answered questions about how it is going, I was able to more clearly express what I'm interested in with these paintings, what excites me about non-traditional space exhibitions, and my upcoming trip to NY. When one speaks with others in one's field, it's just so much easier because you can go straight to specifics, and talk about the things that matter or concern you. There's no preliminary explaining to do.
Met some people and may have cultivated them into potential collectors, so the evening had that added bonus. Tonight the show at UVA opens and hopefully that will get my work in front of people who may have heard my name but not seen what I do. Logistics prohibit me from attending, but I'll see the show in a couple of weeks.
I feel a new sense of focus, and a new desire to get it in front of people. After 13 years, I have to confess that only now do I feel that sense of emerging.
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