tabula rasa

works in progress on the studio floor

There is nothing like working to opera in the studio.  The brick and wood bounce the sound and build it into epic phonic presence, and I have found myself lost in an entire opera without realizing it; all the time painting away in the zone.  I love the largeness of the medium.

As this year draws to a close I find myself considering a move to acrylic paint.  I've used oil exclusively for about 8 years now; I love so many nuances of the medium, -especially its unforgiving nature.  But there are times when my studio time is so limited, and for the sake of expediency I find myself wishing I could stay in a painting for longer at one sitting than I am able to with oil.

It won't be an inexpensive transition to be sure.  But I've found that changing one's medium often changes one's perspective and attack, and by doing so may drill down into the work to discover something fundamental about it.  I feel the need to do this for a bit.

I was out with my daughters the other day and found these 8" x 10" canvases and bought a pack of 10 on a whim.  I decided to try it and see what happened.  There are wonderful things about this work writ large, but there are equally compelling things about it small, so I'm opening myself to the exploration.  I can go buy another 10, some acrylic paint and essentially lose nothing but time.  As I heard an acquaintance say, "paint's never wasted."  It means if you embark on an honest creative exploration with integrity of idea and fullness of spirit, you do good work; even if the work itself fails, you have learned something, maybe opened something up.

It's been a amazing year for the work.  I go into 2013 strong and optimistic, and largely peaceful about life and art.  I'm not one for resolutions, but I hope to give less time and ear to the news about how messed up the world is and to spend that time making it better the only way I know how.

no fear of flying

The relations have left, the house is quiet and slowly getting back to order.  The tooth fairy is paying a double visit tonight.  The after-christmas crash hit with full force and all my wonderful girls are sleeping upstairs.

So damn much going on and so little I can talk about.  Breaking points have been reached, changes are being made, so it goes.  I've tried for years to compartmentalize my life; allowing some people access to some parts and others to an avatar persona I maintain for my day job.  I've realized that this can no longer be; that it sequesters the beautiful, true, powerful aspects of my soul and hides my work from the light of day.  That avatar will soon be dead; good riddance.   I cannot wait to be free of him.

The work in the studio is amazing and true and a painting sold from the Greenville condo model.  There's always that momentary affirmation after a sale, then you cash the check and go back to work and try to push the experience from your mind.  I want desperately to stay on the epic scale, -to make another 3 the same size as the previous ones.  I see it in my mind; all of them in a room, and it is profound.  But there is the pressure to work on a smaller scale, to make works for the smaller budget clients and when the dust settles after the New Year perhaps I will be able to see these options more clearly.

I booked my flight and hotel for NYC in March to see this artist's exhibition.  Just knowing I will be in the city so soon gives my soul wings at a time when I desperately need it.  There will be good art and good times with friends old and new.

I'm in the sweet spot of the calendar year; those days and nights between holidays where everything just feels suspended.   I've been flattening out the blacks on the two 5' x 4' canvases and I'm intrigued by the sense of downward drag of the composition in one of them.  There's something thematic going on, and I am trying to both understand it and not over-analyze it.

I'm attending an Icarus Session on January 2nd in Greenville.  Everything in my life feels as if it is moving toward significant and profound change.  As in art, I feel I don't know what is going to happen next...and I love it.

unknowing


I like not knowing what's going to happen.  You could say I thrive on uncertainty because that tension really energizes me in the studio.  The painting I am doing now has a quality of anxiety in a sublime sense of the word.  Not so much dread as uncertainty and looming transformation.  I saw Wim Wender's "Pina" the other night and felt so connected to her work because it really seemed to stem from a similar place as what is going on in my studio right now.  It feels as if the world is going mad, and yesterday when I got home there was a week-old NY Times opened to the arts section and I saw the most magnificent Matisse paintings and I felt, just for a moment, that the world is not fucked up and evil and twisted; it's just a little skewed and off course, and we need to focus on beauty and magnificence and perhaps begin to look at the unknown more as an encounter with the Divine and less as a menacing force of destruction and doom.


rough cut

studio wall, December 11th, 2012

Last night 'til the wee hours, continuing to pour and stream paint against the sweet blackness.  The forms always surprise me; references to the body, the sea, sky, and the ever-present otherness of what lives within us, always unseen.

I received good news this morning and even though I blabbed on Facebook I will keep it quiet here for now.  This isn't about that, this is about the work; the daily work.  Going home with paint under one's fingernails and exhausted and a nightcap and sitting and wondering about it all and how it all went down.  Painters paint.  So I put in the studio shifts when I'm tired and don't feel like it because tomorrow will bring its own set of obstacles.

work in progress, Rico '12

I am coming up on my 5 year anniversary in this studio.  Far and away the longest I've ever been in a studio and it's worn and weathered like a favorite tool that you instinctively reach for without considering.  You know its there and you know what it can do.  I'm fortunate to have made the rent for next year.

The good things, -the breaks, happen while you're busy doing the work and not thinking about it.  I've come to think that success surprises everyone every time it happens if they have half a soul.  The random phone call from you dealer while you're on your way through life and suddenly there's a moment of validation that you try to savor and summarily squash and move on with it.  It makes no sense; there's no figuring out what you did when or why someone liked it.  They could have just as easily ignored it, hated it or dismissed it.  It isn't you, no matter how much the ego wants you to believe it.  I've done this long enough to not confuse lucky with good, and to never dismiss being lucky.

The images in tonight's post are shorthand; rough cuts that enable me to get my first thoughts crystallized.  I'm loving where things are going.





reparations

It's late and there was paint laid down tonight and major surgery to the last large canvas.   The stretcher bars had dislodged from the weight and sheer unwieldiness of its size.  One had snapped and had to be fused.  In retrospect they needed two vertical cross braces and three horizontal.

All week I've been laying down the most amazing flat surfaces and since I took the large one off the wall I plan to flatten the blacks significantly.  It will float the white in interesting ways.

I have been thinking about a horizontal piece, -the first of this body of work.  I gessoed a page in a sketchbook and played with white oil paint straight out of the tube.  I'm looking for a black-paged sketchbook to facilitate my thought process right now.  I've been thinking of doing more drawing and works on paper to finish out the year.  I'll need to work through the horizontal orientation, but I'm thinking of a  78" x 216" painting in two panels.  I have it in my head and it won't let me rest.

Smoked a PDR maduro tonight and enjoyed the crisp autumn darkness.  The town has hung its Christmas lights and the whole of the square is lined in white illumination.  Family will soon start arriving and the semester's end is in sight, though I still have a long and stressful road up to the very last.

The work in the studio now seems inexhaustible, and this is a new experience for me; I tend to go from one thought to the next without concern or interest in consistency.  For the first time I feel I am building a body of work that is both personal and interesting for me in the long term.

This weekend will yield serious work, potentially something new as I learn from and respond to each new painting.  And as I write this now I am even thinking of different ratios for the paintings; much to consider as night turns to day again...


the Decembrist


December.  I've journeyed through the current body of work for this entire year; sometimes with clear vision and often being surprised.  Try as I might, I can't write about it yet, and perhaps that's why it is still interesting.  I have two more modest-sized canvases in the final stages of black surfacing but I find myself wanting to go even larger than the works that flank me in the photo above.

I'm always seeing things differently, and discovering things in the studio.  The one thing I have noticed over the years is that I oscillate between very etherial work and very painterly, visceral work.  Two aspects of self perhaps, or maybe as simple as I get bored with one and want to do the opposite.

I've been able to develop independently here in the middle of nowhere; had I been living for the last decade in Seattle, or Memphis or New York, I don't know that I would have reached the same conclusions as I have in this studio.  The sheer size of my studio here is unique and wonderful for someone at my career level.

I feel utterly rejected here in SC, and this is a source of much frustration.  And while I get acclaim from my peers on both coasts, that hasn't translated into representation or shows.  I don't want just an art dealer, I want a true believer.  Maybe that's too much to ask in this economy, or even in the current state of affairs of Art and it's relationship to money.

I foresee myself continuing to do this work through the next year, though it will undoubtably change.  I'm looking forward to the semester break and hoping for the unseasonably warm temperatures to continue.

once more to Winter

The cold has come, once again my bones ache with a longing for short nights and chance breezes.  Once more to Winter, once more to the tomb; portal to rebirth and regeneration.  There are canvases in stasis awaiting Mars black to breathe life into them before the impending hibernation.  The irony of my life to job ratio being that when I have the most time off I am least able to work in the studio because of climate.

The late Autumn winds do not bring bitterness.  I've long defeated that monster, despite my daily environment of higher education; a fertile field for such a world view.  I no longer plot escape from life, but rather expansion of those aspects of it which give instead of take.

My long weekend has been spent in the indulgence of reading; a luxury, I am sad to say, all too infrequent in the day-to-day rush and push.  I've been immersed in Shelley's Frankenstein, a wonderful tale of ambition, consequence and revenge.  I look forward to the semester break and unplugging for a sustained period of time and finding extended solace between pages.  On December 20th, I go off grid until the new year.

Reflection on the work this past year brings me much satisfaction.  The studio discipline is, -for me, the slow grind of work and discovery, work and discovery.  Work comes from work; I tend to dismiss the notion of inspiration as some magical lightening bolt.  I follow ideas in the studio.  I say yes to opportunities as they present themselves, and I've found this to be an equally successful strategy for life.  Gone are my worries about big, abstract concepts like success; success is doing the good work, scraped knuckles, paint beneath my fingernails the next morning.  Success is the laughter of my daughters in the next room, the stroll down the old church road across the street flanked by forest.  Success is the ability to travel to a dozen cities across the world and knowing I have friends to greet me there; perhaps those I haven't even met yet.

The new year will bring a Spring trip to NYC.  I will wander the streets and attend gatherings and spend my time surrounded by artists and thinkers, which will offer me profound respite from the daily life I lead.  I care not for pettiness and base ambitions and games to which they attend.  I pity those who seek only money and follow narrow life maps prescribed to them by others.  I've always opted to pull over and get out and wander.

I'll work today, do what I can to continue to smooth the surfaces on the wall.   I'll find strength in these tasks, joy in the application of my craft and satisfaction in the realization of my visions.   This body of work will be a flare, and my deepest hope is that someone will answer my call in the new year.





the third movement


an awful rowing toward god (for Anne), 108" x 76", oil on canvas, Rico '12

It's been awhile since I updated this blog.  Life, what can be said?  Work, kids, family, struggle and the day often feels already over in the dark pre-dawn as I muster my resolve sipping black coffee in the fleeting silence.  I've let the bastards get me down as of late, but no more.

I had what I can only describe as a moment of clarity in rural Wisconsin a few weeks ago.  I awoke to the most sublime silence, and lay motionless in its sustained presence for what seemed like hours.   I saw the whole of my life as if from some high peak; the years behind, and the present, and short years to come.  I saw all of this with no judgement or emotion, I simply saw.  It's taken me a few weeks to come down from the mountain and to understand that moment.  I don't know that I fully do now, nor if I'm ever meant to.  But I came back and I was able to complete a painting with which I had been wresting for some time.

I'm lonely here.  While I absolutely need my solitude, I am also a very social being whose friends are my lifeline to humanity.  I see old friends too seldom.  New friends too; as I unable to get to NYC often enough.  The isolation at times is crippling.

This is the third, and for the moment the final large canvas.   I've learned a great deal from this body of work, and I think it is taking me someplace significant.   Tomorrow night I'll stretch some new canvases and go further.

Despite. Because.


Back in the studio after too long on the road.   A good night; I can say it was good and the paint is evidence.  I'm still ambivalent on this one and profoundly so.  The last of the three large canvases and looking at them tonight I realize that I need to keep working in this size and hammering at this body of work.  There's something going on; it feels fully-realized to me.

I am now racing the Winter, and with it the cold conditions that will impede and eventually block my studio time.  The summer was glorious; so much progress and this work is exciting to me.

Two paintings hang in a half million dollar condo model in Greenville, and initial reception was very positive.  Those are ok paintings, or, more accurately, they are good paintings that are a bit clumsily executed.  The large ones in the studio are not; they are masterful and epic.

Of course I worry about the size being prohibitive, but then again that was sort of the point.  In the studio tonight I see with this latest one especially that I am connecting with something very deep and primordial.  I have to keep going.

game changer

as yet untitled, 108" x 78", oil of canvas, Rico '12

responding to process



There's the idea; it comes all at once or (more likely) it comes in progressions of experimentation.  Even the most lucid ideas must stand the test of process, of actually attempting to realize them with materials and surface, sweat and labor.  I think one has to respond to process; that is to say be willing to go adjust  the course and intent as more interesting pathways emerge.  I think most artist have rules for works, I know I do.  A limited palette, or a reoccurring phrase, something that limits.  Limitation is good for creativity, don't kid yourself. The best art often happens because of restriction, not in spite of it.   An artist may only be able to afford one color of paint, or because of studio size may need to work on paper.

I had rules for this body of work, but as I was working today something occurred to me; admittedly subtle, but the change is significant in how I now approach it.  Size matters.  As I've made this work this bigger and bigger, I've had to contend with the aspects of process, and the limitations of what I can physically do in terms of physically manipulating the canvas.

The Left Hand Path, Visitations and Wonders

drop cloth (for the Forest and the Sea series), 2009-2011

I had a studio visit today, which prompted a much-needed cleaning and re-organizing of the studio.  The visit went very well and some of my work will be featured in some new condo models in Greenville's West End district next month.  I'm happy to work with this firm and I'm pleased that the work will be seen.  Sales would be great, but they will happen or they won't.

In cleaning and rearranging I propped a section of an old painting wall against the back wall of my studio.  I found it interesting, so I took a picture of it.  I've always wanted to see an exhibition of artists' drop cloths and painting surfaces and work surfaces.  Personally I think it would be fascinating.  It begs the question of what is art, and how does intent shape aesthetics?  

So, I shot more and I mounted a little online exhibition of my own.  If we're friends on Facebook, you can view it here.  

What I found in looking at my own periphery, my "left hand path" if you will, was a vernacular of my own painting language.  It was strange for me to see the work beneath the work and realize that it still carries some of the same phrases and gestures.  I've been sick with a lot of time on my hands this week, so perhaps this resonates more with me than with anyone else.

With digital photography/documentation, we as artists have the ability to rotate, invert, manipulate and "see" our work like never before.  This is a powerful tool.

If you believe there's nothing out there to see

I was almost 3 years old when Neil Armstrong took his small step/giant leap.  I have vague memories of the early space program; flickering images from the tube television, a trip to the National Air and Space Museum as a boy, later a shuttle launch as a teenager.  Like a lot boys, I loved rockets and jet planes and Star Trek and space...I have always loved space.

To have set foot on another planetary body, what must that be like?  How can the rest of your life compare?  Did he, at that moment, understand Moses, Muhammad, Elijah, Buddha?  Removed from the empirical reality and thrust into the fantastic, a shaman's journey which simply doesn't translate to those who can only trust the ground beneath their feet; what do you do after that?

There are those born with the exploring spirit.  I don't think it's in everyone's DNA, not at all.  The searching spirit becomes many things, but the static, comfortable, accepting, unquestioning life is simply not an option for these souls.  There's no point to that existence.  One man's small step changed the course of our culture, and gave courage to all the astronauts and ceiling-smashers and rule-breakers since; myself included.

When I started painting, really committing myself to painting, words like spiritual and the Sublime would get you tossed out of dinner parties unless you were disparaging them.  But when I look at the painting of JMW Turner, or Rothko, I immediately get that sensation I that get from looking through a telescope, or seeing images from the space station, or from Mars, or staring out into the ocean; that we, you and I, are insignificant and tiny and our lives and so-called problems are little more than space dust to the infinite.

All I want to do is create portals to that place.  That peaceful insignificance.  There's no room for hate, or ego or agenda there.  We can only be carried away.  I think in that moment, that absolute surrender, we find the greatest part of ourselves; the part that -in fact- doesn't even belong to us, but is a part of everyone and everything.  It's what makes us human.  It isn't a chemical compound, or a genetic puzzle piece, or anything that can be quantified or analyzed or reduced or argued about.  Our essence is our shared experience; our loss of Selves in which we find ourselves.  That's why I paint.  That is what art has the power to show us.


louder than words

I've been internalizing a great many questions as of late; what is art?  what is it that I do?  what images and themes re-occur throughout my oeuvre?  does art matter?

I've always believed in going to work.  That showing up in the studio and getting your hands dirty provides the proper and fertile state of mind for inspiration, and that painters paint, sculptors sculpt, writers write, and so on.  I believe we are defined by actions, not ideas or concepts; though I appreciate the visionaries in this world.  True visionaries make their visions real, however; with sweat and blood and sometimes their very lives.  Actions speak.

In the studio, often I'll start down a path and on my way I'll notice little trails -overgrown and thorny and mostly-hidden from the casual glance.  Sometimes these lead me to amazing places, sometimes they are distractions, but always the journey is worth it.  Making work makes me think about work and this drives the creative process into new directions.

My girls started 1st grade today.  Bittersweet, to be sure, but mostly a happy time.  They grow older (as do I) and they are slowly growing up and inspiring me and helping me grow and love and create and thrive and evolve.

Most of my time in the studio is spent prepping canvases.  I paint quickly and decisively; I always have.  I don't labor over paintings once I begin, but I fetishize the prepping.  I love beginnings and I love possibility.  I've said many times before that one day I will paint the most amazing painting that will be but a single mark on surface.  Simplicity and power in one authoritative stroke.  All else seems to be leading to that moment.

move


The second two black paintings are ready to accept the oil paint.  The past few weeks have been madness at the day job, and I feel that particular area of my life is about to undergo radical change.  Every man has his breaking point, where "lucky to have a job" no longer provides the motivation nor holds the power to take what is being dished out.

I heard from an old friend who recently moved from Italy to Germany, and thought of how I grew up -in the military, moving around every few years.  It was a good way to grow up; though at times I hated it, as children (especially adolescents and teenagers) are want to do.  I've never stayed in one place too long until here, and while my life is rich in ways I could have never imagined, I feel the road always calling.  I crave change and the act of stepping into the unknown.

Tomorrow night I'll start hitting it, and by the weekend may even be ready to get down; we'll see.  I gave a studio tour today to a friend whose been asking for months to come, and last week Donna of A Perfect Gray graced the studio for her annual visit.

When I think about the journey of the past 8 months, and see how I took this idea from a dream to these large works, it feels good.  I read a quote a few days ago that has really helped me through a stressful weekend, "before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, make sure you're not surrounded by assholes."  True indeed.  It reminds me that one can always choose; you can always change your mind.  The road might not be easy, in fact it may really suck.  But worthwhile change is worth whatever you go through to get to.  I hope I have the strength to capitalize on the possibilities that are coming my way.

ocean size


Whiskey at this late hour, reflecting and being; the sweat of labor still cools my skin.  In the warehouse studio there is no judgement or noise or frustration.  There is the living; uncompetitive and poignant.  I lose myself in the working, opening up to the autonomy of each painting and discovering.

I white mark on surface, so pure and amazing and I think of the blackness of Caravaggio and keep working, striving toward the deep, the deep.

Wish I was ocean size
They cannot move you
No one tries

There's illumination in this black paint and mark-making.  And now there's whiskey, sweet and warm and the day fades into another.  The time in the studio is pure; like love, like time spent with daughters or walking along the Bosporus, or standing on the edge of volcano in Guatemala.  Life.  Living.  The act of living is moving ever towards dying...and it makes me smile tonight as I paint in my head and see what these will be.  Cool night kissed the rafters and rained down goodness and there is seeing.  Much seeing and some doing.  A good night.

blank slate


Stretched and sized 2 more large canvases over the weekend, a brutally physical process in which I impart a substantial amount of my DNA into my work.  Let's just say that there will be no disputing authentic Rico's from fakes.

With aching hands and scraped-up knuckles this morning I look across the studio at pure possibility; there's something so beautiful about a blank canvas; especially so with two.

I complain about location.  I do this too much, though it is certainly a factor.  The biggest limitation on me, -on anyone, is myself.  While I step up my game every time I walk into this space to work, I hesitate outside these walls.  There is no one coming to find me, of this I am absolutely certain.  It is not even that rejection bothers me so much any more, I think it is simply that natural human tendency to resist change and to avoid the unknown.  What if I were incredibly successful?  What would come with that?  How would my life need to change and am I prepared to make those changes?

Yes.

Looking at this big black painting I see something really amazing and to an extent magical.  The fact I live with it day after day and that this quality is not diminishing says something about where I've gone with it.  Where I'm going is still unknown; and that's the real magic.

swimming at night




she thinks she can warn the stars (for e.k.)
108" x 78", oil on canvas, Rico '12

Here's a preview of the big black.  I'll photograph it properly tomorrow, but this is an exclusive for the half dozen people that read this blog.  After weeks of wrestling with this painting I feel I found my groove.  Tomorrow I'll start building the next one.  And so it goes.

I painted this for a friend whose daughter died.  Six days on the earth seems such a short time, but no one can own time.  As parents we assume a natural order to life and mortality, but in the end it is only a bold assumption.  I felt this spirit needed to be writ large, and today is the anniversary of her death so I wanted to lay it down tonight.  

And I'm spent, and I need to sit alone with this epic poetry for a time as the day falls away.



wandering in blackness

I've spent weeks with this large black canvas now, slowing applying thin layers of medium and paint.  During this time I've been trying to address the logistics of exactly how to move paint around such a large area that replicates the way I did it on small sheets of vellum.  I've had a couple of "ah-ha" moments and it's just been practice, practice.  The big canvases mess with you; it's a lot of work and visual real estate to screw up, so there's the pressure that weighs down creativity.  For my part I've been struggling to get the surface where I want it before the white gets laid down.

The demons of doubt and disappointment and frustration have descended on me and I feel like St. Anthony in that famous etching being ripped apart and consumed.  Try as I might, I can't catch a break; I no longer even get rejections, I only get silence.  Being ignored is far worse than being rejected because there is no closure; you're just left wondering.

There is nothing new under the sun; and so much more so with painting.  There's always some artist you never heard of somewhere that did what you're doing.  The best one can hope for is authenticity and hopefully that authenticity may afford a new vista for the audience, the artist and painting.  So back into the 100 degree studio I go, and I keep searching myself for that authenticity and honest expression onto surface that will break open my own ways of perception.

It's less stalling and more free falling.

Just one more second before pulling that ripcord, just one more, one more, one more.  The farther and faster I fall the quicker time becomes; the more the urgency is felt.  Let go of all that I know and accept the reality of my current being; hurtling toward oblivion at 9.8 m/s/s.  Because art/creativity should be dangerous.  It should come at a price, and a high one at that.  If you're not in some way risking your soul then you're not doing anything a monkey with a brush can't do.  You've got to be pulling g's up to the point that everything is about to fall apart and spin out of control, and then you've to pull out and touch the endless blue.

It's time we took painting somewhere again.


reflection

My 3-week solo parenting adventure officially ended last night.  Of this time with my daughters I can only say that I am filled with tremendous gratitude and have been given life-altering focus from the experience.  I've lived a life I have only dreamed of heretofore; that of being a stay-at-home dad.  Being free from a desk and an office for most of a month has made me see the reality of my current situation with new eyes.  It's given me new perspective on my art career and what needs to be done there.  It is a time I will always remember and cherish, and I hope that my daughters remember it as well; I hope parts of the last 3 weeks will become ingrained in their consciousness -even if they don't remember it clearly.

I look forward to a week in the studio catching up.  Incredibly, I've accomplished a respectable amount of things.  I've gotten 3 coats of gesso on the canvas, as well as building it and sizing it.  I figured out the technique I want to use to translate the small gestures into large ones.  In the process of this journey I happened upon something truly new and I can't wait to see it manifested.

Summer has arrived with her usual vengeance, it was in the mid to high 90's in there this morning.  Interestingly (at least to me) the acrylic gesso dries almost instantly in these conditions, while I'm used to oil paint staying wet for days.  I've got sanding and then another layer of gesso and then at least three layers of alkyd to apply before it sees paint.  I am still surprised at the size of this canvas.

I want to post pictures but they don't offer anything interesting at the moment to anyone but me.

There will be late nights, and undoubtedly reflection on the process as I go forward.  Cigars and night caps, and this massive work will come to life slowly.  


knowing why

I've written my share of artist's statements as well as read many others.   With few exceptions (including my own) these are often painful and uncomfortable things to read.  They are either nonsensical, pretentious, arrogant or hopelessly naive; the worst are trite banalities about feeling.  What an odd and ridiculous thing to force someone who has chosen to express themselves visually to attempt to explain themselves in writing.

Yet, the larger purpose of these things cannot be overstated; know why it is that you do what you do.  Why do you paint with acrylics?  Why do you collage?  How does your work fit into the historical and cultural strains in which you have been born and raised?  What is important enough to you that you feel compelled (against the better judgement of friends, family and lovers) to dedicate your time, energy and money to this expression?  What is it, exactly, that you hope to achieve?

I think we should ask ourselves these questions as artists; and I think we should ask them frequently.  The answers can be simple (at least in simple language) but they must be authentic.  Art without integrity (notice I didn't say Integrity) will always be empty.  One has to apprehend that sense of what purpose it serves, -even in their own lives alone.  I know the answer isn't the same for everybody; that's not the point.  But the difference between art students, crafters and professionals is that the latter should no longer do things simply because they are provocative or edgy or "now" without having something else behind it.

I think that's how you survive and eventually thrive.  You figure out what's interesting and why, and how you think you can do it and what materials speak to you and you do that and you find out everything about how to do it and when that thing/idea/style becomes interesting to a larger audience you are already doing it and doing with absolute authenticity and integrity and the come-latelys can't hope to compete against that truth.

Maybe, maybe not.

day 1: again


I had a professor friend who taught me the "old ways," and to this day I prefer them.  There is nothing like stretching your own canvas, the smell of rabbit skin glue wafting through the studio and bloody, scraped knuckles and sweat.  Knowing that I'm building just like the altiers of old gives me sense of connection to heritage.  I don't have to do this; I could buy ready-made cavases.  But there's something about doing it, it's a journey.  Going large is like an epic wrestling match; the challenges are myriad.  But when you get it right, when you hear that taut drum hum of the surface as you flick it, -it's a pleasure all to its own.

It was 93 degrees in the studio today as I pulled and stretched and stapled.  I was dripping when I left, but when I look at that big, blank canvas I feel true joy because I know that over the course of five months I have brought a picture from my mind's eye into physical being.  This work was always this size; it simply took me this time to get there.

I'll size this canvas in the next day or two and then I'll start applying black gesso.  It has begun.  It has begun.

renewed

Week # 1 of solo parenting is winding down, and it is amazing.  I have not been as happy as I have been over the past week in ten years.  The combination of spending most of the day with my daughters and not being chained to a desk in a windowless office has awakened something in my consciousness that I realize has been dormant for a long time.  I feel a renewed sense of life purpose.

Tonight I have a sitter and at last will be able to get into the studio to begin the grand canvases.  I've painted them in my mind for weeks now, and I can't wait to bring that vision to life.  I have been thinking a great deal about authenticity in art.  I remember the first time I heard a Lenny Kravitz record; how I thought to myself that it sounded like it was recorded during the time of his obvious influences and yet was so fresh at the same time.  It's like if you could transport him back in time, he would be immediately accepted by those he most admired as both a peer and a pioneer.  When I think about painting, I have always and only ever been concerned with greatness.  I do not hide my influences; I celebrate them.  It is my dream to one day hang in the same room as a Rothko and for people to see it and say, "yeah, that works."  I have never hid my passion for the sublime in art.  My paintings are imbued with a sense of the mystical and primal.  I'm concerned about the primordial energies of the universe, and I want my work to be a gateway to those energies for the people that see and experience it.

I unpacked the stretcher bars earlier in the week and they are things of beauty.  This is going to be a blast.

Buffalo

Buffalo, 60" x 48", 
oil and fibered aluminum coating on canvas, Rico '12




return of the heroic

Today I began the final realization of my dream from December.  There are supplies on the way which will enable to build 3 epic (108" x 78") canvases.  The largest size I've ever attempted, these will loom in the cavernous space of my studio and hopefully I will be up to the challenge.  I can say from working nearly as large previously that the challenges are not just compositional or skill-based; when you work with something significantly larger than yourself it presents physical challenges as well.  I stand a mighty 68" on a good day (and only after months of yoga), so there's a good 4 feet vertical and nearly a foot horizontal to contend with.

Something that my friend Mark said to me in NY has stayed with me.  We stayed up late talking about art and career and he said something to the effect that the big ones will sell the small ones, but never the other way around.  Like Rothko and others, the practical un-attainability of such a large work for most people makes the market for the smaller works hot.  These can't go in most people's houses.  They can only go in museums or large private/public spaces like atria.  Intention set forth into the universe is a powerful thing.

Looming black and ethereal, I hope that they will convey that sense of encounter I am always striving to make within my work.  When we meet something larger than ourselves, delivered on the human scale or beyond, we respond with awe.  The processes I've developed over the past half year are unforgiving and difficult to control and perhaps that's why I'm having so much damn fun.

Looking back at the 7" x 5" post card canvases I worked out my initial ideas on back in January, I see a quantum leap ahead.  I see them; I've always seen them, and I suppose that is one aspect of what it means to do what I do.  At a party in the city we talked about experience and the duty of the artist to not only provide but to bring back experiences s/he has brought back from other realms of consciousness.  I've never shied from stating that I'm interested in the sublime and the spiritual in art.

It looks to be a grand summer.

The New York Chronicles

Stayed in Hell's Kitchen with my gracious hostess who will be getting a surprise in the mail in a few weeks and then immediately shuttled into Brooklyn to hang at the painter's studio.  Much wine, beer, whiskey, art, career talk, discussions of size and heroic painting into the morning.  Dragged my hung over self out of bed and crawled Chelsea all morning until my eyes hurt from looking at art.  Brice Marden's concurrent exhibitions, -still taking that in, and saw the good, the bad and the utterly banal elsewhere.  Work that made me think, re-consider, wonder and yes, a hell of a lot of bullshit that just pissed me off.  Too beautiful a day to stay mad at lazy artists and the lazy gallerists who promote the ever-shifting "now," I climbed onto the High Line and dug the City from a higher vantage point then dipped back down underground and up into a crazy Turkish parade which winded and flowed and sucked me in, dancing to crazy music and hugging happy people in the streets.  MoMA and the wall of exhaustion hit me simultaneously but I was lost in Siqueiros' wonderful bound woman painting on burlap for a long time and then Miro before eyeing the usual suspects at length.  Back to the Kitchen and Pakistani food before heading back uptown to catch the opening.  Met the amazing James Little, many more people drinking and laughing and arguing into the night.  Walked alone through the cool night after coming out of the hot tunnels again and was wonderfully lost in thought and delight at all seen and experienced.  Black sedan out of town and into the harsh Laguardia light, then on the open road listening to Campbell and Moyers talking about god and art and everything.

And it is amazing, and there is clarity, and there will be epic paintings about god and art and everything.

myth

"Buffalo"
in process


The gods die.  They are reborn.  The artist is one who has the transcendent experience and must then bring it back to the living, conscious system/culture to deliver the new myths.  The Myth must be relevant to the time.  The gods of old are no longer relevant.  That "old time religion" is the graveyard of relativity to each each culture that exists and pushes into the Void.

The artists do not create gods.  We show the way to them.  In this we die to ourselves; again and again and again.  We implement the software, but I don't think we design it.  Art must be relevant.  It must serve the society into which it exists, but it cannot be completely of it.

I embark on my island journey.  I'll return as if from another realm.


May 8, 2012


Girls on bikes in the late spring sun; brown skinned, long-legged giggly co-conspirators in the waining days of the school year.  Next week I'll be on two islands; the first a deserted beach and then a dense concrete jungle.  The nights are late, and I have to force myself to bed; for I have promises to keep.

Silver.  The dream state luster dim glow beneath high rafters and the trails of cigar smoke carried away on a rare breeze.  I can never stand still except when in the moments I'm still, still, the moments of total being and non-self.  Sometimes I'm lost in the work, sometimes above it, around it, inside it and outside too.  The hardware store standing among the containers and tools and implements explaining -rather trying to explain that I don't want to use this product or that trowel for its intended purpose.  This is play; this is life and living and being and being a child and being alive in a world I woke up and found myself marooned on.  Neverland seems so far away; I miss my lost boys except when my girls remind me how to play again...then I fly.

I'm always interested in the context of materials and how I can play with that.  Nasty, toxic shit that I-don't-know-if-it-will-work type experiments.  Play.  Reach.  See.  Another idea comes along, another path (where was I going?) presents itself and I take it, -what the hell?  I keep trying to get lost but somehow I never make that scene.  I come from the water, so water always finds its way.

I'm there in the last hours of each day and I'm alive.  I tell you time stops sometimes there; it's magical.  Then back home and sometimes read books into the wee hours and sometimes drink a beer or whiskey to get back down to this earth where I have to go to work the next day and breakfast/school/work/dinner/bedtime comes and goes too quickly...all too quickly.

So my daughters are six and precocious and wicked smart and lovely and sneaky and funny and beautiful and we will paint pictures in the June sun in the backyard.  At night I will smoke cigars in the moonlight and maybe drink rum and move paint and see what happens.

Quince

el capitán y el Matador
mixed media, 108" x 50"
Rico '09
My father would have been 72 years old today.  As I catch up to the age he was when he died (57), I constantly ask myself how I want to spend the remaining years of my own life; what I want to accomplish yes, but more importantly what I want to experience.

I had the realization at a dinner party last night (that moment when you see someone across the room and you think you've met them but have absolutely no idea who they are) that I don't remember people or names or faces so much as I remember experiences.  My closest friends are those with whom I've multiple experiences; the people I remember most are those who, when we met I had an experience.  The mad ones.

Death is the cover charge to life, and everyone pays the same; no VIP's, no comps.  In the end it doesn't matter how much you have or powerful you are or whether you live in a dirt floor shack or a cow palace; what matters are your experiences and maybe the impression you've left on those you leave behind.  This country values "success" over just about everything, but we let life fall apart on the unerring path toward it.  Families, marriages, friendships all become expendable as we drive ourselves to addiction, stress, obesity, and a host of other hells striving for a completely subjective destination that turns out to be no destination at all, just another stop along the way.  Enlightenment is the same mirage for many who "reject" the status quo; there is no end until the big end, and then it doesn't matter.

So Cinco de Mayo always has profound meaning for me.  It always reminds me of one of the most amazing men I've ever known.  He may have been the last generation for whom the American Dream was even possible in the classical sense.  He raised himself up from poverty and became an officer, a doctor and deacon in his church.  English was his second language, but he hid his accent to the point that I only vaguely remember him having one.  Today he would just be another brown-skinned alien bent on taking away white people's jobs.  How ironic and how fucking revisionist.  But somehow he not only overcame all these things but he kept me from experiencing them as a child.  It breaks my heart that I don't believe his achievements are possible for a young boy just like him today; a boy, by the way, who was born in America.   I painted the painting at the top of this post a few years ago about our relationship.  It hangs on my studio wall and it may hang there always.

I started on another large canvas this week and I'll get back to it tonight in the hot Carolina night full of steamy, sticky train sounds and heavy air.  I'll go where it takes me.  In a few short weeks I'll be in NYC attending a fantastic painter's opening.  I look forward to being around my own kind for a few short days.


The 50: epilogue

eastern studio wall, April 2012

The 50 are now a broken set.  I love having collectors visit the studio.  There is nothing like watching people who love art look at art and carefully consider what they want to acquire.  Unlike openings, a studio visit is a low-key soft sell.  It is absolutely magical to watch people walk around my space and make observations and ask questions.  

I feel so positive right now, and good things are flowing.  I look forward to getting back to work tomorrow night and getting back on schedule after a crazy couple of weeks.  I'm flying up to NYC next month for an opening and I'm looking forward to seeing lots of folks and spending all day at MoMA.  

On the personal side I am finally addressing a tattoo repair I've wanted to do for years and located an artist and studio in Atlanta that I feel I can really work well with.  I feel that I am entering into a new stage of life and I feel good about it.  So many things are about to change; things that have needed to change for a long, long time.  

two more


where i waved at the sky, oil on canvas, 60" x 48", Rico '12


The Death of the Fathers, oil on canvas, 60" x 48", Rico '12

more works on paper


untitled, oil on black vellum, 17" x 11", Rico '12


untitled, oil on black vellum, 17" x 11", Rico '12

You can see more images from this set here.  I'll be uploading another 40 images over the weekend and adding them to that page.  

the fruit of exile


The past few nights have been manic-driven late night hammer-slinging grunt work.  I stand in here today and I see the wall of dreams.  Next week I will post a picture of "the 50" hung on this wall.  I'll have a family studio visit next weekend and then I can re-dedicate myself to what will eventually hang on this wall.

Over the xmas/new year break I had a vision.  I started working through it in small, post-card sized canvases and have since taken it to 17" x 11" works on black vellum to tremendously successful effect.  That body of work, nearing 100 as of this writing, will live a life of their own.  They are on a level of anything out there and I'll find a home for them; and for me.  I have no doubt of my success and it has been hard fought.

I'm running on a little over a dozen hours of sleep in 4 days and fortunately the drywall compound has to cure for at least 24 hours.  But remember this image.  Hold on to it and prepare.  Gloves off.

construction time again

Drywall and lumber got delivered yesterday and I worked into the midnight hour. Slept through my alarm this morning but got the kids to school on time and myself to the day job. By this weekend, there will be an 11' x 24' wall along the Eastern side of the studio. I will hang "the 50" in a grid and will post those pictures next week.

With this work there is a sense of absolute knowing, and this is causing tremendous stress in the balancing of two careers, as they compete for time and energy. I feel hapless and helpless in my ability to get the work "out there." I truly don't know how to begin anymore. I've asked for help, but in the end I will have to find it within myself. I have to spend the time researching to figure out where and towards whom I need to direct my energies. It only takes making that one right person understand; that person who is in a position to spread the gospel of Rico. As I've blogged many times, my geographical and cultural isolation does nothing to help my efforts.



the primordial gaze

I'm deep in the work. The associations are obvious: 19th century photography, early x-rays, paranormal photography, deep aquatic life, the celestial. Beyond those thing there is, for me, the freedom...the invitation to breath life and association into the work at will. I see the Why that cannot be answered, the curiosity of the beyond, the ephemeral nature of the now, of life. There are lots of formal things going on but honestly who gives a shit except a handful of painter friends? No, there's something tapped here; something real and visceral and shared. The Sublime and I'm not afraid to say it.

Another 10 tonight and each one is autonomous and self-referential even side-by-side to others. One can look at these for a long, long time.

I took it large to some effect. I prepared another large canvas tonight and we'll see.

Picked up an old book on Mexican art and flipped to this dog-eared passage....

"Between our gaze and the world, images previously produced by habit, culture, museums, or ideologies impose themselves. the first thing a painter must do is to brush away from his eyes the spiderwebs of styles and schools. The experience is dizzying and blinding: the world leaps to our eyes with the innocent ferocity of what is too alive. Seeing without intermediaries: a painful apprenticeship that never ends. ...Asceticism of vision: the hand learning to obey the eye and not the head, until the head stops thinking and begins to see, until the hand conceives and the eye thinks. To see the world in this way is to see it with one's whole body and mind, to regain the original unity in order to win back the original gaze..." -Octavio Paz, from "From Criticism to Offering"; Paris, December 29, 1960


the morning


untitled drawing; oil on vellum, 11" x 17", Rico '12

untitled drawing; oil on vellum, 11" x 17", Rico '12

what the water gave me

It's 9 pm and I've just completed half a dozen drawings and I'm trying to figure out what the hell just happened. For the past few months, I've been using butcher paper as a drop cloth for the small post-card studies. I looked at it the other day, how the paint worked with the slick translucence, and so I ordered some black vellum on a whim. When I look at these drawings tonight I see the physical manifestation of my dream from the holidays. The scale and proportion of these are spot on, and the translucent surface further pushes the x-ray read of these works. I want to go call my doctor and clip these to his light wall just to see them like that.

The lightening rod moments don't happen often, -for some never, way it goes. But this is different. This, -tonight, is a breakthrough; one I can't fully comprehend at the moment other than the hair on the back of neck is standing up and I'm going to type this and make some more to see if this is really happening. Nothing has ever felt so truly my own before.

I'll have to see in the morning, of course. That's the rub of being a night painter sometimes.

I don't want to stop.

It's as if I fully grasp my medium for the first time; it combines all the aspects of my vernacular as a painter. Drawing has been missing from my practice for too long and I've known it. Drawing is the meat of studio work for us all. You've got to put in the time. I have to see how it dries. It reminds of the early work in copper back in the 90's. How it's evolving and changing on its own after I work it.

and the first big black canvas is staring me in the face, "c'mon, what you got?"


Appalachian Spring

The first day of Spring is next Tuesday, but things have already heated up to 80's. The summer will be brutal, and resistance is futile. I work best in the Summer. I love to open up the doors on either end of the studio and paint and sweat and drag the canvases outside. If I could ever afford to build a studio in coastal South America, I would have endless Summers forever.

I got the shipment notification today that my canvases will be here tomorrow. Four big, black-primed canvases to enjoy and contemplate and mark and stain and scrape. Cigar smoke will billow and twirl and the staple of Southern Summer, -Mexican beer, will be stacked in the fridge.

There's a few bottles of good rum at the studio as well for the longer nights when everything seems to work and you have to just sit and wonder at it all.






sunday ruminations

sunday morning coming down like that song by the Man in Black. there's sunlight and jazz and week-old cigar smoke and paint under the nails and these things rip away the veneer of the week. for all practical purposes, spring has arrived and set up camp. everything is in bloom, my allergies are kicking my ass and tomorrow is a holiday; one to be spent mostly here.

there are hundreds of paintings in this space. no one is calling for them, but I keep making them because i can't stop. rebuffed with every attempt at juried shows I try, I guess I should feel discouraged but somehow I just don't. i feel alive and sure of hand.

four large canvases are on their way from somewhere in New Jersey. they are primed black for me and as such they are grab-and-go; a necessity in the madness of time that is marriage, parenthood, job and life. i've blogged many times about how my practice has become more efficient since the girls arrived. there's an immediacy and urgency to being in here that continues to take my work places it never went before. 2009 felt the year I started over, so perhaps I should cut myself a break for not achieving wild success yet.

I haven't painted with a brush for almost 3 years now and it strikes me that painting is, -at its best, a vernacular, -perhaps a creole. when you encounter something new and truly honest on canvas, it generally is also somewhat foreign, otherworldly. you can't fully understand the language, but you get the feeling. finding your voice and all that I guess.

prepped 12 post card canvases this morning in that brooding tar of mars black. so flat and deep and it feels like swimming in a cave lake in pitch darkness; in other words, liberating.

washes, stains, smears and drips and streaks. paint puddled into pigmented pools becomes alive and reaches out and explores and wanders...to be alive is to be in motion. you might not always perceive the motion if the life is titanic. but mountains stretch and breathe, as do oceans.

Clytemnestra I

study for Clytemnestra, 72" x 48"
Publish Postoil on canvas, Rico '12

the machine

I went back into the large painting on Saturday, with not unsuccessful results. I'm developing greater control over the flow and getting a better handle on the desired viscosity of the paint. After many studies and two attempts at taking it larger I will likely use acrylic paint as a ground with some raw pigment added to get into deeper blacks. I can then put down a layer of alkyd followed by a thin layer of black in oil. What gets interesting is the response of the white to the wet surface and with the added bleeding effect of more mineral spirits. But the ground, -the surface, needs a cold, flat uniformity.

I bought a large masonry trowel and this was used to good effect. Scale and proportion; it all comes down to being able to make relative marks by utilizing the proper relationship to the scale of the studies. That's when it works. For what I want to do, I may have to make my own monster palette knives. So far I have not seen anything large enough.

It feels like things are going so slowly with constant interruption to studio hours. But soon the spring will come, my wife's show will go up, and time will once again be an ally. Until then...

the fire

Locked out of the studio for the past week and a half has me self-destructing, and underscores that fact that I paint as much to survive and be human as anything else. Visited Charleston and got the painful reminder of the Art World I choose not to live in, albeit in micro chasm. The problem with what the internet has done to people's notion of proximity is this: everywhere now thinks it is the shit. Don't get me started on Greenville...where? exactly.

There is something magical and self-expanding to getting on a plane, bus, boat, car and going someplace that scares the bejesus out of you...preferably alone and knowing no one there. Those experiences let you find your core, the sum total of your own wretched self-ness and the excavation of "I". If you're not in it, you're not part of it, and in the end it is easy to complain, criticize and dismiss from a safe distance. that's why there is so much vitriol on newspaper blogs in the comments section.

I was fortunate enough to sit in on an improv workshop with my wife on Sunday and I was struck by something our friend Greg, the workshop leader, said afterwards. he said he wasn't interested in making decent theatre. he would rather it be horrible or brilliant than decent. the highest compliment I can give art is when it makes me want to make art. that's the real stuff. everything else is vanity and bullshit, no matter the price tag.

I don't care about anything but making significant work. i have realized that may take the rest of my life and it may come with numerous heavy prices in addition to those already paid, but it really doesn't matter. so much undone right now in the studio waiting for a thaw. rejections and dismissals aside, i answer to me and me alone in the studio. at least i know what i'm looking at and how to see. fits and starts come, always there are interruptions -well deserved and well-meaning, but interruptions nonetheless. i'm riding a razor blade in those perfect moments of focus when time falls away.

watching theatre students struggle with the unknown aspect of art was revealing. i forget why it's scary to pedestrians sometimes. possibly because I like the scary. I like the unknown, the potential for abject failure, the risk of soul and fortune. it makes me feel alive to watch/conjure this living thing called a painting...like flame, like fire one must tend it but it always wants to escape and consume or die out completely. the moments in the fire are the greatest moments of living.




the winter

i was recently denied another juried exhibition. par for the course to some degree. i thought i had selected every factor carefully, but in the end i did not make the cut. correction: my work did not make the cut.

i am feeling horribly adrift at the moment. my wife's job is tenuous as academia continues to turn away (and cut) the Arts. we dodged the bullet last year, but we both fear that the budgetary and cultural gun is still fully-loaded. the pressures of this and kids force me to reconsider my life's trajectory almost constantly. i've been hammering away at this art thing for two decades with only limited success and no representation. there comes a point where the resources (financially, emotionally, and spiritually) become too thin. sustainability is in question.

location is undeniably a factor, but since my location is not likely to change in the immediate future I must accept this factor as a significant impediment to any success. my work is not appreciated in this region, and that seems unlikely to change.

i'm also at odds with what i see when i look at the galleries/art world in that it seems another wave of conceptualism is in full force. i call it "idea art" and the term is derisive. complex ideas manifested into soulless, sterile art school art. with the death of Don Cornelis yesterday I'm thinking a lot about soul, and that is something i feel my work has always had.

i believe in outdated notions like the Sublime, the life force within art and the role of the artist as shaman/spiritual guide. social commentary is always a part of my work, but it is never at the forefront or obvious. i was punk once, when i was a teenager and having lived through that movement i don't see the merit in re-living it. the NYC of the Mud Club era no longer exists. it is a city that will, in my lifetime, have no poor people in it.

all this can come across as sour grapes and it isn't so. the conflict (and anger and frustration and hopelessness) are internal. they are issues within, not without. i will always paint, but increasingly i find that i no longer have the energy to attempt disseminating it to an audience that could care less. i don't even know where to begin any more.

my travels are on hold as my finances stabilize and we as a family look ahead to the next round of budget cuts by the College.

Fail. Risk Again.


Large canvas fail. It happens. There is always this mixed sense of frustration and loss, and then one moves on. Frustration in that laying down the black took a month, loss in the sense of both materials and losing this living moment itself.

I posted a new album to FB with some of the studies so far. You can view it here. I think you can see what is lost in translation. I think where I went wrong was two fold; improper tools and not enough restraint. The tools are an ongoing search, I've been looking at masonry trowels and they hold some potential in terms of recreating my use of palette knives. Proportionally, they should be about right. This was also a funny ratio for me at 6' x 4'. I may try a few trusty 5' x 4' canvases and see if it feels better.

To an extent, without failure there is no real progress or growth. It never makes it easy, however. I'm doubting myself as of late; feeling that sense of being cut off, wondering if I will ever connect and get my work in front of its audience. Doubt, doubt.

There's snow in the forecast this week, and maybe that is the vision I need even it prevents working in the studio.

no more thoughts now...

a horse by any other name

There is so much on my mind and as always I wonder if this is an appropriate medium. As of late, I'm thinking not so much. In truth I'm exhausted by electronic media. In the end I think it pulls a certain amount of energy away from more productive avenues of expression. But I'm willing to admit that maybe it's just me.

So, SC primary, no surprise. People who are upset by this live in a bubble. Period. If you haven't noticed that white, rich, conservative America is indignant and in full panic/fear mode, you should put down the NY Times and get out for a walk once in a while. Call your grandparents, call your parents. Go talk to your richest friend. They are freaking out. Make no mistake, Gingrich is a formidable adversary and if progressives don't think he stands a chance they are dead wrong. This country IS that desperate and crazy, and probably more so than most realize. Newt turned racism and philandering into character strengths on live television. This man is not to be dismissed, nor are the symptoms he represents in the national consciousness to be ignored. For my money, I still see Romney as the nominee, but he has to get his shit together and stop being so damn smug and slick and, -here's a wild thought, try standing for something. Preferably something that can be reduced to a sound byte.

In the art world there's a lot of ink and bandwidth being spilled on Damien Hurst, and to be honest most of it is not good conversation. A rich artist who makes art for rich people who got way too famous way too young. End of story. The shift that has taken place in the last 50 years or so is more interesting.

Rich people used to want to be around artists (or at least have them around). They made dinner parties interesting, they imparted a certain cool factor onto their hosts/patrons and so on. A few of this upper echelon of society actually thought that art (something they themselves were incapable of creating) was worth fostering and protecting and paying for. I am not naive enough to suggest that the affluents' goals were purely altruistic and for the "betterment" of society, except that sometimes they actually were. What happened post-Warhol is that now artists want to be around (and be) rich people, and rich people only want to be around themselves. The contemporary artists court the vapidity and self-absorption of society, -not as a means to an end, but as the end itself. They look forward to the droll dinner parties and yacht cruises. The shift is subtle, but significant. The old saying goes that you cannot serve two masters, and art is a jealous one to be sure.

We're told in America that "there is nothing wrong with success". It is what we are supposed to strive for, after all. But success has become synonymous with money, and lots of it. This is a problem. This is a false truth. Sure, call me a poor outsider, that's fair. But consider this; life is an endurance sport. You can come in early and come in big, but you die in the end just like all the people who didn't give a damn. No amount of money or power or celebrity or walled community can protect you from the fact that you will die; it will be inopportune, and it may well even be pathetic and insignificant. Worst case scenario, you will do it alone and won't be missed all that much.

If I wanted money, I would paint horses for christsake. You can't go wrong with horses. It's easy. I could spend the summer in Aiken and paint a crapload of horse pictures, maybe even some polo drawings and I could quit my day job by the end of the year and have galleries from Savannah, Charleston and across the state calling me all damn day. Make the best-selling ones into cheap giclees and by a mountain home. Hey, maybe this isn't such a bad plan!

Where did we get the idea drilled into our heads as Truth in this country that we deserve comfort, luxury and wealth and endless resources that we can use up at our whims? What about that makes us "great"? What part of greed is difficult to understand? What part of "love your neighbor" is vague? We live in a snatch and grab culture that cannot have a candid discussion on its own shortcomings, much less its sins. Our national art has become that which reinforces these fear-based fantasies, and give permissiveness to unsustainable lifestyles which exist only at the expense of the less fortunate.

Horse-ranting aside I feel depleted. I'm going to pull the plug for awhile and wait for warmer weather and go to the studio and see where it goes. The work is not moving in ATL, but people are seeing it. I've always found that market tough to break into. I'm not discouraged, partly because I don't feel owed anything, and partly because I know the work there is good. I can afford to wait. I can afford to continue to make work and push myself further beyond my comfort and pre-conceptions and crutches of art. I'm simply saying that this revolution may not be tweeted.