thoughts on television

Full disclosure: We don't have cable, nor do we (or have we for over a decade) watch television. I'll let that sink in for a moment.

No, really. I don't mean that in the sense that we only watch the news in the morning or catch an hour or two before bed; I mean we don't watch television. I don't know who Kim Kard-de-whatsername is, other than famous. At the grocery check-out line, all those tabloids may as well be written in another language, the faces mean nothing to me.

The exception to this rule is in hotel rooms, and then only to a point. On this trip I came to a bizarre realization as I was simultaneously dumbstruck and disgusted at the tube; many of the people I encounter during an average day are acting like people on television. You know how in grade school and junior high (and arguably in college for some) people tend to act like their friends? People share mannerisms, expressions, even aesthetic and fashion choices with the people they hang out with most. It struck me that a lot of people must "hang out" primarily with television, and mostly so-called reality shows at that. We've created a feedback loop of culture, where the more people see mediated reality, the more they act like mediated reality and the more distant and strange daily reality becomes. I find this discovery profoundly disturbing on a fundamental level of my consciousness.

Because exploration is often serendipitous, I checked in on some of my weekly blogroll this morning and found this post by Edward Winkleman. Read it. Watch the video by artist Ryan Trecartin and tell me if you see what I'm getting at, what I wonder if he is getting at as well.

I remember a time when television broadcast would come to an end each day. The channel would play the National Anthem and then it would go to colorbar or blank. Within my lifetime, we had huge swaths of time when we did not have access to media. I wonder if a 24-7 world is a good thing or not.

the prince of tides

Heading the coast again tomorrow, this time to Hilton Head island. Always inspired by the sea, I hope to get some work done next week before we leave for Memphis over the July 4th weekend.

a moment's peace

Began 24-27 tonight. I need titanium white, some more medium, and mineral spirits. I'll pick them up tomorrow. There's this enormous grid of paintings arranged on the floor. It spans a distance of about 20 feet. I'm looking at the most peculiar interaction of viridian and yellow ochre over-painted onto a hot cadmium red. It shifts and undulates like a hot sea.

I was tired and almost didn't make it in tonight. But I know that tomorrow is a wash, I'm traveling to the capital for a meeting and I likely won't have much left.

The night is cool, there's breeze and the loading door is open and there are times I realize I could be anywhere. I'm enjoying a cigar and watching the skeins of paint interact and ebb and flow, what Hoffman called push and pull. I see these and yet I also wonder what they look like to someone who has not logged the hours I have with them. I'm not tired any more. The first twelve canvases are beautiful, but they now seem unrealized to me. I need to put them away for awhile and leave them be. I feel quiet and powerful and at peace.

closer

It's more interesting to have just a picture of a small detail -then you dream the rest around it. Because when you see the whole thing, what is there to imagine?
-Dries Van Noten



The intimate and the abstract can be one. Do I ever paint the whole? Or am I always painting moments? People respond to my work because they are allowed to imagine, and imagination is play. The edges and gestures and visible application of paint onto a surface -so that one never forgets one is looking at both a result as well as a process- these things are alive and visceral to me. Commentary will always be dated; I am interested in allowing for infinite possibility and interpretation.

more thoughts on anti-painting


What is working now seems to hinge on the successful execution of one painting, which is then subsumed by another. The first one has to work. It has to be strong on its own, because it is all the more difficult to vandalize and smother it. The destructive action gives life, life takes destruction and transcends it and makes it life-giving. The sheer amount of paint I'm putting on these surfaces sets them apart from anything I've ever done, and that constraint was mostly due to poverty and the desire to paint even when my materials ran low.

Being able to work freely after so many years of external and internal restraint is an incredibly liberating condition; it is also one brought about more from a shift in consciousness than any real change in my finances. Nothing has really changed monetarily, I simply am committing resources on a level I have never done before.

I'm still scratching my head at these. They bring a variety of associations to my mind; comparisons, references, interpretations even. The heat helps, this partial exposure to the elements in which I work. The peculiar qualities and behaviors that paint itself takes on when exposed to high temperatures imbues these works with a singularity of surface and texture.

Every night is worth it. I'm exhausted, but I am always glad I came to work. There is never tomorrow; life makes certain of that. When we find the strength inside to define what we are living for, I think life falls into balance.




the shadowlands

I have two good friends enjoying success at the moment; long fought, well-deserved success, I might add. One is the writer, D. A. Adams, who has persevered through the near-destruction of his writing in graduate school, a horrific divorce/separation from his children (she left him on Christmas day), and through the insane rigors of his College's duel enrollment program, -which throws college professors into high school classrooms on top of their normal teaching load. Through it all, he has churned out 3 novels and good ones at that. Alex, as I know him, is a warrior. That's the greatest compliment I can give someone. He recently signed with a new publisher and his long-awaited third novel is due out soon. This recent post from his blog was a much-needed boost for me when I read it yesterday.

Another long-time friend is drummer extraordinaire George Sluppick, who recently gave me mad love on his own blog (thanks brotherman) and who is crazy busy with the Chris Robinson Brotherhood, ripping up and down the California coast. This guy has played with legends, and by that I mean think of the first 5 blues or soul legends that come to mind who are still living and yeah, he's probably played with them all. Everyone who knows George is blown away with his positivity and killer smile. He's one of those cats who makes you happy the moment he walks into a room. He is a true inspiration and quite often a lifeline. If you live in Cali, check the tour schedule for the CRB. When not on the west coast, he is split-life living in Memphis and jamming with his killer band The City Champs.

I keep coming here and I keep painting and I keep putting it out there and the disappointments, failures, discouragements, rejections and ignoring continue to happen all the time. I don't let it alter the course. I listen to honest feedback and I keep going. Some days it feels as though I will live in obscurity forever, but at the end of the day when I'm cleaning the paint off my hands I know I am living true to myself. With that knowledge, I sleep like a baby.

Back to work............

white light, white heat



These paintings are hot to me. The bristle with a subtle energy that is easy to lose oneself in. The top painting is still pretty wet, but the bottom is ready for a glaze. I'm at a point that I have to get these paintings off the floor and stored somewhere. I am running out of room and afraid I may step or trip on one (I'm clumsy, what can I say).

I'm uncomfortable with telling people I'm an "artist," sometimes. Not because I am in the least way self-conscious about what I do, but rather because I prefer to think about my artistic practice as something I do and not something I am; something that defines me by role or persona. I like the work. I like doing the work, logging the hours in the studio and seeing these things transpire. People who meet me tell me I don't look like an artist, and I confess this doesn't bother me anymore. I am in some ways my own foil to my work. I don't care about those things anymore, I just want to get this work out there. It needs to be in front of people, that, I feel, is my responsibility to it. How to best do that eludes me.

I'm good at the making. I'm good at the work. I am horribly inept at the business end; the promotion, the marketing, all that. I know it's important. I know it's part of it, but in the end it isn't resistance to the validity or necessity of doing those things that impedes me; it is simply that I don't seem to be wired for it.

I'm taking tonight off to go see baseball. Man does not live by art alone.


hot

Every year the heat comes as a surprise. The human brain simply cannot fathom the possibility that it could be this hot, yet, here we are. Blogger is being difficult tonight and I can't post images. The paintings are hot too, they have crossed over into the yellows and oranges and whites. I can work in the heat. Some part of me is built for it I suppose. I'm tired and tomorrow is sooner than i wish it were.....

the third man

I opened crate number 3 tonight, and in some senses begin again. I got lost in the last ten, so much so that I did not begin any new ones until now. Two things seem to be vying for power in the studio; one path are these stark, almost ghost-like landscapes, the other are fields of formless applications of paint which seem to also be about color. Indeed, my own loyalties are divided. On the one hand I gravitate toward the horizon; the power of the unknown and the vast faraway. That's fairly biographical I guess. On the other hand, I have always felt that colorfield painting never fully reached its fruition; it never lived up to its own promise in a way. Unlike Impressionism, which reached a natural if somewhat fore drawn conclusion, colorfield painting seems to have gone into stasis. My musings, what can I say? I actually sit around and think of these things for fun.

Entering into canvases 30 and beyond, something will assert itself, -or at least begin to. I'm not worried about it, I'm along for the ride.

Today was exhausting, but I got some important things done. Now life comes back in; grocery store and then home........

Summer

Summer. I make most of my paintings in the summer. I always have since I was a little kid. I can still smell the roses in my uncle Jack’s backyard. I like to paint outside. My studio doesn’t have a roof on it. I can see better, get further away from the paintings, see them in radically different light at different times of day. The weather affects the paintings too, stains, rain, mildew, bleached by the sun, accidents, blown by the wind, nature, at first a distraction interfering then helping. It is an activated system. Freedom of materials set in water and daylight, every summer.

-Julian Schnabel
from JULIAN SCHNABEL SUMMER
PAINTINGS AND SCULPTURES 1982 - 2007





staying the course


Sometimes, momentum is all there is. I can't always see the goals I've set, the points to which I tell myself I am navigating. I get up, I come to work, and I don't have a valid reason or promise of reward other than the fact that action inevitably brings forth action. If you keep putting your feet forward, you are walking; and if you keep walking, you'll get somewhere.

I'm faced with an unforeseen option in my non-art life; a possibility I casually pursued out of a complete lack of knowing what to do. As I follow-through on it over the next few weeks, there will be a great deal of soul-searching and discussion with family. But the inner refrain that keeps repeating itself is that I am nearly 45 and have never made life decisions solely about money, so it is somewhat suspect to attempt to do so now.

Back in the studio, the assignment was fairly simple and I accepted it; paint 50 canvases of uniform size and in factory-like succession. It is zen-like exercise in repetition for the sake of observing my own mind and process, while equally allowing that process to be free from judgment. So far, so good.

If I abandon now, even temporarily, I wonder what will be lost. I am watching this patchwork of paintings appear before me, and each week it grows larger and more intricate. I'm managing an unprecedented amount of frugality and fiscal responsibility in my external life in order to keep tubes of paint and bottles of medium on the table. This uninterrupted surge is not even half complete, but I feel in my heart that it is having much of the impact I had hoped for. Working in this way has opened up the unexpected as well, and sharpened my instincts to be able to seize on those moments to better effect.

I am also coming to terms with just how much my beach week and all that I saw and experienced is working its way into the work. I worked on the large piece today and it has become (for the moment) a seascape; undeniably and uncharacteristically literal. The arrival at this picture has been anything but intentional; other than the intention to continue to work on it. The subconscious has asserted itself independently and rather forcefully. Message to self: I long for the water.

Before the summer is over, I plan to go surfing; something I have not done in over a decade. I may have succeeded in convincing my daughters to go to surf camp next summer, the 3 of us could do together. For however long we are this close to the coast, I want to develop and encourage their love of water. I also want to dispel fear whenever possible, and to build confidence.

For my own part, I am staying the course for now. Having tomorrow off means I can get back in here tonight and work late.