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.