blank slate
The past 2 weeks have felt like free falling; a big part of life is uncertain at this moment and we find ourselves in the unanticipated position of re-thinking where and how we want to live our lives. I'll keep that close to the vest for now.I wandered into the local office supply store yesterday and saw these two beauties laying carelessly against some shelving. Already marked at 50%, for once I thought like the wealthy and asked for more of a discount. The shopkeeper agreed and in the truck they went this afternoon. Axiom # 3; always ask.
I don't know why these two canvases wandered across my path, but I didn't hesitate in purchasing them. I don't really even know what they will be, and I've been working within the confines of what I consider very small painting for some time now so it will feel good to spread out and get back to my whole-body style of painting for a bit.
Nothing is more beautiful to me than a blank canvas. I never feel anything but a sense of possibility, and perhaps -beneath the anxieties and even fear I find myself feeling right now about the future, that sense of broader possibility is really where I'm at. Axiom # 5; you can always change your mind.
more thoughts on originality
Sometimes thoughts happen in memes. We're all inundated with information each day, so it stands to reason we hear echos of (and ourselves echo) common thoughts. One of my favorite Twitter feeds is from Seth Gordon, and while this might be somewhat unexpected given my utter lack of business acumen, I love the concise nature of his blog and that each entry has substance. Today's post touches on some of the very things I posted yesterday:
http://sethgodin.typepad.com/seths_blog/2011/03/originality.html
So what is originality really? How does this translate into saying whether or not an artist has real merit? I've posted many, many times that I feel Damien Hurst is the greatest art thief of our era. I don't know if the man is truly capable (or even all that worried) about producing an original thought, yet he is undeniably one of the most successful living artists around, and one whose work will be responded to (and against), for decades to come.
I long ago freed myself from the pressure of trying to invent some "new" form of art. I don't make any secrets about my references, just ask me. Yet I am alive in my time and experiencing it through the distorted lens of my own emotional, cultural, spiritual and economic realities, so the work I make, -even with its obvious nods to this or that, is by definition a translation; an interpretation. The danger of something being truly "new" is that it quickly becomes merely novel, and novelty has very little staying power. My wife bought the boxed set of Rogers and Hammerstein's musicals (more on that in another post), and it is no coincidence that all musicals begin by playing a quick version of all the upcoming songs before the story begins. We respond to familiarity; we fear what is truly new.
It's hard for the "wow factor" to sustain. Thanks to the internet, I get exposed to all kinds of art I would never have access to living where I do. I've noticed this trend, that something will initially grab me and I'll think, "wow, that's really incredible" only to re-visit the same image a day or two later and perceive it as flat and derivative.
Face it, it is hard to think your own thoughts, much less come up with an original one. I know a lot of well-educated people and very few of them are as interesting as you might hope. When we free ourselves from the pressure of anticipating whether or not what we have to say will be perfect/brilliant/original/clever, we actually begin to open ourselves to real creativity; to authenticity.
The only way to work in the studio (for me) is to go in open. I've got to be able to listen, because sometimes where I think I painting should go is not where it needs to go. Being able to respond quickly to those impulses, -those instincts, is key to getting into "flow." Often, I am most myself when I lose myself. That goes for the work as well. When I let it lead me, rather than trying to control it, it is often much more virtuosic. Like good jazz, the artist must constantly build technique, and in the moment of execution allow those honed instincts to take over.
http://sethgodin.typepad.com/seths_blog/2011/03/originality.html
So what is originality really? How does this translate into saying whether or not an artist has real merit? I've posted many, many times that I feel Damien Hurst is the greatest art thief of our era. I don't know if the man is truly capable (or even all that worried) about producing an original thought, yet he is undeniably one of the most successful living artists around, and one whose work will be responded to (and against), for decades to come.
I long ago freed myself from the pressure of trying to invent some "new" form of art. I don't make any secrets about my references, just ask me. Yet I am alive in my time and experiencing it through the distorted lens of my own emotional, cultural, spiritual and economic realities, so the work I make, -even with its obvious nods to this or that, is by definition a translation; an interpretation. The danger of something being truly "new" is that it quickly becomes merely novel, and novelty has very little staying power. My wife bought the boxed set of Rogers and Hammerstein's musicals (more on that in another post), and it is no coincidence that all musicals begin by playing a quick version of all the upcoming songs before the story begins. We respond to familiarity; we fear what is truly new.
It's hard for the "wow factor" to sustain. Thanks to the internet, I get exposed to all kinds of art I would never have access to living where I do. I've noticed this trend, that something will initially grab me and I'll think, "wow, that's really incredible" only to re-visit the same image a day or two later and perceive it as flat and derivative.
Face it, it is hard to think your own thoughts, much less come up with an original one. I know a lot of well-educated people and very few of them are as interesting as you might hope. When we free ourselves from the pressure of anticipating whether or not what we have to say will be perfect/brilliant/original/clever, we actually begin to open ourselves to real creativity; to authenticity.
The only way to work in the studio (for me) is to go in open. I've got to be able to listen, because sometimes where I think I painting should go is not where it needs to go. Being able to respond quickly to those impulses, -those instincts, is key to getting into "flow." Often, I am most myself when I lose myself. That goes for the work as well. When I let it lead me, rather than trying to control it, it is often much more virtuosic. Like good jazz, the artist must constantly build technique, and in the moment of execution allow those honed instincts to take over.
appropriation
A quick post for the morning; just thoughts. I watched all 4 hrs of Martin Scorsese's "My Voyage to Italy," a primer in Italian cinema. Such luscious, enduring images! All of them brought to life by a man impassioned and profoundly influenced by a childhood spent at the movies. It made me think about the creative process, and about the nature and perhaps illusion of originality.The recent court ruling against Richard Prince has sparked controversy and no small amount of hand-wringing in the upper echelons of the art world. For an interesting point of view, visit here.
I've mixed emotions about appropriation as art. Emotions aside, I tend to feel that re-contextualizing a single (or even multiple) iconic image(s) is one thing, while simply re-using a body of work to "create" a body of work begins to erode several important lines. Of the nearly 100 photographs in Cariou's book, Richard Prince used 80; it doesn't seem unreasonable to question such large-scale use of a single body of work for one's own. The Prince case, much as some would like to make it about censorship and artistic freedom, is about power and money. Some don't believe that someone like Gagosian should have ethical or broader social responsibilities in his gallery program; that, as an entrepreneur, he is free from all fetters of such concerns and should only pursue what he feels is in his best interest as a businessman. Yet we can no longer afford to deny that, once a certain economic level is attained and once a single person has such far-reaching cultural power, there must be some level of social and cultural accountability. The rub is how those levels are to be responsibly determined.
The art bubble, as well as the Wall Street bubble, were largely created from the self-rationalization of excessive wealth and power. These things are seductive, addictive really. Should government say how much is too much for any one person to have? No. Should society, and by this I mean our culture and its collective ethos, impose limits on personal wealth and power? Probably so.
Some will see this as an attack on free market capitalism, and by extension an attack on our version of democracy (and it is, after all, but one version). This is not so. We are revisionist by nature in this country with our history, because our history is so brief. We are told, as of late, that the "American Dream" is about unlimited prosperity and autonomous markets. Yet we forget other essential elements of said dream: a relationship between worker and employer; a level playing field on which anyone can advance and raise their socio-economic status; access to basic human needs, which then free human beings to concentrate on self-betterment and personal investment in the larger society; the ability to care and be cared for in old age. We forget the lessons of the 1930's all too easily it seems.
I am not entirely sure I agree with Judge Batts' ruling against Prince; but I think the premise of the case is a bit of a distortion. I see nothing wrong with Fairey's "Hope" poster, for example. And I'm certainly not intellectually opposed with appropriation as art.
The issue is one of might attempting to make right, and in this case we have a blue chip artist and arguably one of the most powerful art dealers in the world against a moderately successful photographer. It is not hard to cast this as both a conflict of class and power. How hard would it have been for Prince to approach Cariou about the use of his photos? If he had said yes, there would have been a relatively small amount of money involved and the matter settled. Everybody wins. If he had said no, Prince could have found other images. Unfortunately, Batts language does little to address these concerns and instead wanders into the murky waters of art theory, which I doubt she knows enough about to rule responsibly.
Then there is the as yet un-discussed point that, as a body of work "The Canal Series" is certainly not Prince's strongest effort. The series can almost be seen as an artist in decline, a near miss from a world-class hitter. It is ludicrous to suggest that the work has value because people were willing to pay high dollar for it. The more appropriate discussion is what determines value right now in the art marketplace, and are marketing and pedigree in fact much more important to the contemporary high-end collector than content, artistic merit and personal connection? I don't have a crystal ball, so I can't read the minds of the folks who collectively plopped down $10 million for some of these works. I'm merely saying that I wonder if their affinity for Prince is authentic or based on his role in their portfolios.
live from the studio
photo by m.r.A quick jump into the studio this morning; glazing, layering, building, building, building. I'll come back tonight and hopefully take these beyond. Sometimes people stop by. Not often, but the welcome guest is a respite to life in their simple presence.
There are 7 paintings in play; I am jumping in and out of them like a dance. No thought, no hesitation, only doing; action, decisive and direct.
I'll do an all image post next week, the work is evolving. I've written many times that art is an open act of cultural sedition; all the more so with painting, because it is, it would seem, once again dead. I cannot imagine a better time to paint.
There is very little documentation of me working. I have a friend visiting soon and hopefully we'll change that, for good or ill I'm unsure. Brushes were abandoned a while ago, and now the painting cart is mostly full of implements; some bought and others made. I approach things differently now. A painting must survive to be counted.
increments
Some studio sessions are dramatic; things happen, there are breakthroughs. Other times, most of the time, it is the slow grind. Not much to say tonight, rough week at the day job topped off with a campus wide severance offer to all full-time employees, which arrived by letter at the house this afternoon. Like so many, we've all been living under the gun for a couple of years now. It gets old, and the "lucky to have a job" thing becomes an empty and somewhat oppressive mantra to maintain. There will be terminations, entire programs will be eliminated. The cuts are always minor; getting rid of a dozen people who make less than $20K a year doesn't really do anything for the budget and everyone knows it. All it does is destroy a dozen people's lives, and potentially the lives of their families. I know we are not alone. For now our household has not seen the axe.
Still I work. What else is there to do really? Paint. See what comes. Paint more.
Statement: 03/15/11
Tactility has always played a important role in my work. The very idea that people cannot or should not touch a work of art instinctively makes me want to create surfaces and textures which cry out to be experienced through touch.
Increasingly, I have explored cartography and navigation as themes. I grew up with maps; I learned to read maps alongside learning to read words, and so the idea of image as its own narrative (both literary and physical) is very natural to me. I see the current work as having this feel; like aerial photography, satellite imagery or flight charts. Paint, when subjected to visceral and at times violent application, takes on a physicality and topography which I find fascinating. The process I’m working with right now involves tremendously thick impasto and the subsequent removing of it, augmented by the heavy use of painting mediums. I am stating and negating; I am building up and ripping away.
The results are similar to a relief map, and create a visual record of both the journey as well as process. It is my hope that these may indeed be maps to collective, even unknown destinations, and that the viewer can also become the traveler.
Site Updates
I've updated the website, and addressed some menu issues. Hopefully, I can tackle some of the font and other design elements soon. Yes, the work in the gallery needs updating. Until then, take a look.
www.christopherrico.com
www.christopherrico.com
the year of purity, part II: faith
Here's the kicker. You do something with your life; you invest, you commit, and then you realize that you're not succeeding at it and you think maybe you should do something else. You search. You try. You become embittered, and angry at yourself for allowing this. You walk away.
But, there's always the glimmer; there's always something or someone and you encounter it and you realize you're not alone and a failure and speaking gibberish on some street corner. This person/moment/idea/thing/poem/word/image caresses you; and the pulse slows and you know you can never quit yourself. You can never quit what you didn't choose; because that thing chose you.
Maybe there are many paths to somewhere. Perhaps, that somewhere doesn't even exist, -so (what were you so upset about yesterday?) why are you banging your head against a wall right next to an open door? Why make it hard?
Partly, because we are human. It's in our nature to choose the hard way. It's in our nature to choose the easy way too, that's the fuck-all shame of it in the end. We worship logic and intellect, but then we do something completely stupid the next minute. Everybody. All day, every day and then you die. But living; ah, there's the mix. How should we live? Who is to say?
I've been sick; the whole house has been sick. I'm sick of being sick. I'm sick of cold. And then, out comes the sun and the warm days and I drag some paintings outside into the light and I don't know...I just don't know. Because, for me, the not-knowing is the life in them. That's what I think people connect with in those instances when I make a good painting. I go through life under the false assumption that everyone else knows exactly what they are doing; they've got it all figured out and it's all running according to plan. Or, that if I had more of this, or less of that, I would somehow be "better" or "more successful" or all the dreamy phrases that we cling to in order to keep us from looking in the mirror and taking stock. Because I am never satisfied with my work, because I am constantly shifting and trying new directions, because I am unmarketable in both my surfaces and my personality at times, maybe in spite of myself I am making something real and true and enduring and touching. I wish it was of my own talent and acumen, I really do; but I think it is despite my best efforts that I succeed and make something beautiful and personal and universal.
I stumbled upon that thing; that moment that captured me like a lover's glance that flies through a crowd finding its mark. The glimmer. Funny, it's never a light with trumpets and neon. It's never declarative. Prophets are about nuance, after all. We hate literalness and facts. Better to howl in the wilderness, that's the job description, isn't it? To wander. To wander and perhaps to find, if only for a moment, that rush of life pulsing through our being and expanding out into all consciousness and every other being and then to try to bring it back and show it, and talk about it, and take others there. A monkey can paint a picture. But when something stops you in your tracks, and forever alters your way of perception and maybe even challenges your core beliefs, that is something else. There are those who do that for me; Goya, Turner, Rothko, to name some. I remember standing in front of a particular Goya in the National Museum and weeping for a very long time over how he painted the lace on a sleeve. I can still see it, and it defies technique.
My crisis of faith over the past few months is, I must admit, ongoing. Maybe that's what is so strange about a calling; that one doubts so often -not in the source- but in the ability of oneself to rise to the task of that calling. Or maybe that's just me. In any case, no absolutes right now. I'm in no condition. I haven't the wherewithall. I'm going to drive a few hundred miles and see an old friend and probably stay up entirely too late; and perhaps I will even see the morning again. It has been a long time since I've really seen the morning.
But, there's always the glimmer; there's always something or someone and you encounter it and you realize you're not alone and a failure and speaking gibberish on some street corner. This person/moment/idea/thing/poem/word/image caresses you; and the pulse slows and you know you can never quit yourself. You can never quit what you didn't choose; because that thing chose you.
Maybe there are many paths to somewhere. Perhaps, that somewhere doesn't even exist, -so (what were you so upset about yesterday?) why are you banging your head against a wall right next to an open door? Why make it hard?
Partly, because we are human. It's in our nature to choose the hard way. It's in our nature to choose the easy way too, that's the fuck-all shame of it in the end. We worship logic and intellect, but then we do something completely stupid the next minute. Everybody. All day, every day and then you die. But living; ah, there's the mix. How should we live? Who is to say?
I've been sick; the whole house has been sick. I'm sick of being sick. I'm sick of cold. And then, out comes the sun and the warm days and I drag some paintings outside into the light and I don't know...I just don't know. Because, for me, the not-knowing is the life in them. That's what I think people connect with in those instances when I make a good painting. I go through life under the false assumption that everyone else knows exactly what they are doing; they've got it all figured out and it's all running according to plan. Or, that if I had more of this, or less of that, I would somehow be "better" or "more successful" or all the dreamy phrases that we cling to in order to keep us from looking in the mirror and taking stock. Because I am never satisfied with my work, because I am constantly shifting and trying new directions, because I am unmarketable in both my surfaces and my personality at times, maybe in spite of myself I am making something real and true and enduring and touching. I wish it was of my own talent and acumen, I really do; but I think it is despite my best efforts that I succeed and make something beautiful and personal and universal.
I stumbled upon that thing; that moment that captured me like a lover's glance that flies through a crowd finding its mark. The glimmer. Funny, it's never a light with trumpets and neon. It's never declarative. Prophets are about nuance, after all. We hate literalness and facts. Better to howl in the wilderness, that's the job description, isn't it? To wander. To wander and perhaps to find, if only for a moment, that rush of life pulsing through our being and expanding out into all consciousness and every other being and then to try to bring it back and show it, and talk about it, and take others there. A monkey can paint a picture. But when something stops you in your tracks, and forever alters your way of perception and maybe even challenges your core beliefs, that is something else. There are those who do that for me; Goya, Turner, Rothko, to name some. I remember standing in front of a particular Goya in the National Museum and weeping for a very long time over how he painted the lace on a sleeve. I can still see it, and it defies technique.
My crisis of faith over the past few months is, I must admit, ongoing. Maybe that's what is so strange about a calling; that one doubts so often -not in the source- but in the ability of oneself to rise to the task of that calling. Or maybe that's just me. In any case, no absolutes right now. I'm in no condition. I haven't the wherewithall. I'm going to drive a few hundred miles and see an old friend and probably stay up entirely too late; and perhaps I will even see the morning again. It has been a long time since I've really seen the morning.
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