Life without endorphins

Stallion

I'm a pacer.  Usually, I pace when I'm thinking, I pace when I'm talking on the phone.  Being in motion seems to be my natural state.  I walk three miles every morning to wake up - I jump out of bed, throw some clothes on and walk. By the time I get home, I'm ready to start my day; my brain is clear; I know what I'm doing.

But I've been sick*.  Too sick to walk every day.  Too sick to pace.  Climbing a flight of stairs leaves me out of breath, weak and shaky.  My rule of thumb is that if I'm out of breath going up the stairs once, I'd better not do my three miles.  Conservation of energy.  As long as I'm still falling asleep on the couch for three hours during the day, I'm not in good health, and shouldn't be trudging back to the studio, trying to work.

This is a problem for getting any sculpture done.  By its nature, sculpture takes a lot more physical energy than, say, painting or drawing.  Clay is heavy.  Moving it around takes energy.  This is also true of converting clay sculpture into a permanent medium.  Both firing in a kiln and making molds for casting take a huge amount of energy for a sick person.  I can't do it right now.

But one good and amazing thing happened.  Just before I got sick, it had been beastly hot and horribly humid.  And even though my studio has air conditioning, I hate to run it for more than four or five hours.  So, somewhat miraculously, I prepared a clay surface for a relief sculpture I could work on in my house in the afternoons when it was just too hot to go on in the studio.  I also brought clay, clay tools, water spritzer, etc., and started the relief right away.  Two days later, I got sick.  And while there were a few days when I couldn't sit upright, for the rest of the summer, I was able to work on the relief sculpture, "Stallion," for a few hours every day in my house, getting in my two solid Hemingway hours (see previous post "Two Hemingway Hours," 5/5/15), and also, saving my sanity.

Being couch-ridden for part of every day, I've read even more than usual, and watched an almost incredible amount of movies.  Incidentally, I also found that alternating Downton Abbey with Game of Thrones counteracts the soupy qualities of one with the blood curdling aspects of the other.  (Although I did start to hope that somebody in rags would barge into Downton Abbey and go after Lady Mary with battle axe and direwolfe.)

Life without endorphins is difficult, but it is still life.


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*Boring medical details:  tumors in my liver and lungs.  Phooey.

Late bloomer

Now that the wild asparagus season is over and I've eaten or given away everything that I picked, I'm mulling over the casualties of this asparagus season which was an odd one.  A lot of the thin, young stalks in shallow soil on a southern exposure or a warm microclimate, popped up early only to be hit with a late killing frost. And the freak snow/hail storm in May didn't help.  The really big, thick, old stalks, which are mostly planted deep, came up unusually late this year even after some exceptionally hot, sunny days.  The medium asparagus halfway between the two extremes were victims of deer browse much more often than usual, which is maddening, but they're hungry for something fresh and green, just like me. Deer usally prefer to eat the tops of asparagus plants already gone to seed, but this year, they ate young stalks, too.

I see a lot of parallels between asparagus and humans. We all know people who showed amazing abilities and talent in youth, but whose early promise was blighted by the human equivalent of a late frost - illness, injury, loss, accident - that nipped the development in the bud. And we all know people who survived adversity in their youth, only to be mowed down by destructive forces in middle age - disease, failure, poverty - who soldier on, but whose dreams never come to fruition, like the asparagus plants eaten by deer which never develop their feathery fronds and berries.  But there are those who are like the asparagus planted in deep soil, in a sunny spot, whose strong roots and gradual development protect them from all those ills.

After the killing frost, I thought the whole asparagus crop was going to be a bust because nothing was showing up for the longest time.  It was quite dry for spring, and I wondered if that was contributing to the problem.  But then the big ones emerged, alive and well.  And they are the best of all.  You'd think that the big, old stalks would be tough, but they are the sweetest and most tender of all wild asparagus.  In the end, it was an almost normal season.  Somehow, the wild things always know what to do.  Too bad you can't have a Congress like that.


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Rhapsody in green

The first time I went picking wild asparagus with my brother-in-law forty years ago, I couldn't see any, while he seemed to find asparagus everywhere he looked. "You're looking with city eyes," he said. He was right. I had just arrived from downtown Philadelphia and all that green hurt my eyes.  Gradually I lost my city eyes and I could see the wild asparagus, too. Every spring, I bathe my eyes in the soothing, calming, nourishing green that is everywhere. There are so many colors of green.

For almost twenty years years, I didn't go back to the city at all.  I lived in rural NE Wisconsin where I had a huge garden, and grew the vegetables we'd eat all winter. I canned, froze, and dried everything possible; I even made ketsup. During those years, my eyes became totally acclimated to the country, and I was overjoyed to see the purply green tips of the wild asparagus poking up every spring.  Free vegetables!  No planting, weeding, watering, fertilizing! Also delicious.

But for the last twenty years, I've been splitting my time between Boston, MA and Door County, Wisconsin. Consequently, every year I go through the same adjustment from city to country that overwhelmed me all those years ago. And in the spring, when I'm staring at a patch of grass and wild grape vines to find out where the asparagus went, I hear the memory of my brother-in-law's voice, "Slow down. Give your eyes time." It's good advice. I remind myself of that when I get to the studio, where I transition from one studio to another. My eyes need time.





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Two color chalk drawings on toned paper

The Red Sweater - red and white chalk

Not all drawing materials are created equal.  For two color chalk drawings, I use Gioconda sanguine chalk and Gioconda black graphite. These are also called "5.6 mm. leads" and they're used in a lead holder. For highlights, I prefer white Conté pencil to any other white.

I loathe charcoal. I have always detested the texture, the scratchy sound, the light weight of it in my hand, the abrasive feel of it on paper. I actually started out drawing with chunks of dried red clay on newsprint, so red chalk is a logical drawing material for me. Chalk is very forgiving; it can be erased and worked over again and again as long as you have a good eraser like a Staedler. Light, sparing touches of white chalk for highlights are the best possible treat of the whole day. The deep quality of chalk smudged with a stump feel generous and rich, but I don't smudge very often. 

Canson mei-tintes paper is my first choice for chalk drawings, which I use for long drawings.  For me, a long drawing is 10 minutes or more; for shorter drawings, I use pen and ink.  The colors of paper that work the best for me are grey and tan, both of which show off white highlights the best.  I buy individual sheets of paper and cut them to fit the size of my drawing boards. My masonite drawing boards are three sizes:  9 x 12", 11 x 16" and 13 x 15.5."  I fold the paper to size and cut it with a kitchen knife, so there's a proper rag edge on one side showing the quality of the paper, as you would on top quality printing paper.  A large sheet of Canson paper will give me two large pieces for my largest drawing board, or four small sheets for my smallest.  The large size results in strips of paper 14 x 4.75", which I use for small drawings, testing new materials and trying out new ideas. Lately, I've been using Strathmore pads of grey paper for graphite and white conte, and really like the texture and finish for life drawings.

I sometimes use watercolor washes with chalk drawings, and for that purpose, Derwent watercolor pencils are great.  For portraits drawings with washes, I especially love their Venetian red watercolor pencils.   

Not surprisingly, my favorites artists for drawing are Watteau, Rubens, Leonardo and Michelangelo.  I try not to think about them when I’m drawing.  They are as incomprehensible to me as the work of Mozart or Shakespeare.  I’m not sure I’m even the same species that they were. 


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Pen and ink drawings

Besides chalk, my favorite drawing material is pen and ink which I use for quick sketching. I draw freehand without preliminary pencil construction lines; I measure by eye alone. I try to ignore the details and just draw the big shapes. The looser and more relaxed my hand is, the faster I can draw. Leaving the tip of the pen on the paper produces loops and squiggles, but saves crucial time trying to capture life’s ephemeral moments. Moving people, expressions, gestures, postures may only be visible for a few minutes or seconds so I have to work fast.  The absolute black of ink provides maximum contrast with the paper's absolute white, accentuating expressive line. There is no substitute for the immediacy and vitality of drawing from life. You can't get that exuberance and spontaneity any other way. I love to draw people wherever I go, especially in planes, airports, subways and trains.

I like pen and ink for quick drawings because ink marks can’t be erased or changed so you can’t dither around - you have to be deliberate and fearless.  It’s also very expressive and flamboyant; the best thing is to just dive in and draw.  Pen and ink are especially useful for croquis drawings, very quick sketches made in just a couple of minutes.  The idea is to ignore the details and draw the fundamental, underlying shapes.  These loose, rapid drawings are meant to capture the gestures.  I like to sketch people in airports, parks and streets; pen and ink are perfect for that.

For ink drawings, I use either reed pens, or a Schaeffer calligraphy pen.  The reed pens are simple dip pens that are practically indestructible - I've had mine for more than forty years. You can use them with India ink, which is the blackest black on earth.  And you can use them with all kinds of funky inks that would clog most pens.  What the heck!  You can even make your own ink and use it with impunity with a reed pen!  The down side of  reed pens is that  it's not always possible to carry around an opened bottle of ink with you, which feels like walking around with a live grenade.  An open bottle of ink isn't welcome in a lot of places, so for those places, I use a Schaeffer calligraphy pen (with the fine point) loaded with a cartridge of black ink.  The ink isn't permanent, nor as black as India ink, but at least you can draw in black ink on the subway or in a restaurant so you don't miss all those free models. Every now and then I use fine Micron pens, but I dislike the uniformity of the line. I switch to Microns if I'm having technical problems in the middle of a drawing I want to finish before the model disappears.

My masonite drawing boards are three sizes:  9 x 12", 11 x 16" and 13 x 15.5."  For ink drawings, I use cheap white copy paper  (8.5 x 11" and 8.5 x 14") clipped to a drawing board, so if  I’ve made an irrevocable mistake in an ink drawing in the first 60 seconds, I just chuck it and start again.  It’s important not to feel intimidated by your materials.

On the other hand, although it's important for an artist to use permanent materials on acid free surfaces, not every drawing has to be archival grade materials. After all, one session of life drawing can produce fifty drawings.  Doing fifty drawings a week (which is a ridiculously small amount) fifty weeks of the year for the last forty years, I've produced over 100,000 drawings. You can't save everything.  When I come up with some good short drawings, I take digital photos, and ultimately the cheap copy paper will go the way of all flesh.

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What just cracked?

Some sculpture packing and loading operations go better than others. A couple of weeks ago, I loaded two sculptures on their way to a show in a museum more than an hour away. First sculpture, a fragile terra-cotta, went into the car fine.  The second, not so much.  The second sculpture is epoxy and bronze, which is pretty indestructible.  Unfortunately, I forgot that since the last time I'd loaded this sculpture into a car, I'd switched cars and my new one has much less cargo space.  So when I shoved the sculpture into the back seat, I jammed it so badly that the arm cracked. Horrified, I got it unwedged from the door, opened the hatch and slid it into the back, jamming it once again, this time against the ceiling, which is lower than my old car. Finally, I managed to get it into position, which I had previously measured to make sure it would fit. I took a deep breath. Due at the museum in a few hours, there was no time to repair and patch the damage properly. So, I rounded up some supplies from the house. I grabbed every temporary repair material I could think of - plaster, clay, epoxy, acrylic, brushes, paper towels, plaster tools, stir sticks and started to drive.  Along the way, I realized that almost none of this repair material was going to be a quick fix that I could do under the critical eyes of museum staff, so I decided to stop by the local Walmart to see what they had. I thought maybe some muffler repair putty would work. Amazingly, in the arts and crafts department, they had a small package of plastalene in five earth colors that must have been geared for diorama makers, because the colors were black, brown, green, tan and white.  I grabbed a package, paid for it and drove.

When I got to the museum, I unloaded the first sculpture and all went well. Before I unloaded the second, I made the mistake of explaining what had happened to the very nice woman receiving work. She was aghast. The more I explained, the more horrified she looked. Obviously not a sculptor. Not everything always works perfectly. I hope for perfection, but I don't expect it. Molds don't separate. Casting materials go bad. Stuff doesn't set correctly. Things blow up. I got the feeling she wasn't an artist of any kind because she was so freaked out. This was obviously not someone who had ever had a day in the studio that looked like a 3 Stooges episode, and I don't know any artists who haven't. What the heck. Accidents happen. Trying to disregard the atmosphere of disbelief and horror, I brought in the damaged sculpture, and showed her what I was talking about. I started smooshing plastalene together to match the epoxy bronze. I filled in the crack, which thankfully was on a sleeve with lots of folds of drapery, and I anchored a couple of places on the base. From a foot away you couldn't even tell there was a repair. I called over the horrified woman and asked her what she thought, and she admitted, "You're right. If you hadn't told me it was there, I never would have seen it."   The museum put the repaired scupture in a glass case that has so many reflections you can barely see the arm, much less see the repair job. This stuff cracks me up.



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Shake it up

I've been agonizing over a sequence of questions for so long that I'm starting to feel like I need some help.  I'm confused about what shows to enter, and what to exhibit, and where, and why.  What I need is a Magic 8 Ball for Artists, to answer questions like, "Should I enter the Blah Blah Blah show?"  or "Should I apply to the "Yada Yada Yada?" No matter who is asking these questions and what it's all about, there are actually only two answers, although the Magic 8 Ball would have to have ten times as many #1 answers as #2:

"Should I enter the National BS Show?"
1.  No.  The juror (or panel of jurors) is an idiot.
2.  Yes.

Of course, one explanation of the incomprehensible choices of jurors in many shows is that the jurors were using a Magic 8 Ball of their own:

"Should I include entry #34?"
1.  No. The artist is a zombie.
2.  Yes.

But there are a whole class of other questions that artists frequently ask:
"Is this (painting, drawing, whatever) a lost cause?"
"Should I bother finishing this?"
"Is this hopelessly out of proportion?" etc.

And these could be answered with a whole lot of cliches:
Try again.
Keep trying.
It's better than you think.
Practice makes perfect.
If at first you don't succeed, shake again.

Altogether, all of an artist's questions could be answered simply, saving the artists' partners, friends and spouses hours of hemming and hawing.  So, what do you think, should I patent this amazing idea?  Drat.  No Magic 8 Ball to give me an answer.


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The fat lady isn't singing yet

American Woman

Last summer, I was cleaning out my studio and hauled out an old sculpture from the closet it had been parked in for more than 20 years. The sculpture is a student work - the first sculpture I ever cast in plaster, in fact. I'd kept it all these years because I really like some things about it. But from one angle it kinda looks like a deoderant check. And there are technical problems.  So, I decided to throw it out. As I put it in the trash can, I wondered, "Is there anything I can do with this besides throw it out?" I remembered an old idea and ideas don't have expiration dates. The idea was one I'd thought of years ago, but had never acted on it. (I have a theory about ideas and actions - there's a 3 minute rule.  Remind me to explain that later.) The idea was to wrap the figure in chains and flowers, sort of a female version of the Laocoon, symbolizing contemporary woman’s struggle with idolization and enslavement over her appearance. The flowers to represent the transitory rewards for a woman’s beauty; the chains to symbolize the trap inherent in the quest for physical beauty and perfection.

So I did it. I pulled the sculpture out of the trash can. I scrounged up some chain, found some little paper roses the right scale, put the whole thing together, and spraypainted it all white. Then I took photos and named it "American Woman." And here's the funny thing. That sculpture from the trash can was accepted in 4 out of 5 things I entered it in. It won an award in the first exhibition, was published in two art and literary magazines, and one publication designated me as a Distinguished Artist. And it was selected to represent my state in a year long online exhibition that's kind of a big deal, Figure50 2016.

After a run of glorious and unexpected successes, of course, "American Woman" got a couple of rejections. Oh well. You can't win them all. I don't know what happens next, but I'm not hearing the fat lady sing.

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Mail art from the token traditionalist

"Tribute to Klimt," Austria,  http://postkunstgustavklimt.blogspot.co.at/2016/04/088-deborah-dendler-usa.html

"World Theatre," Portugal

"Trees," France

"King Lear," UK

When I first heard about mail art*, I thought it was complete nonsense, just for amateurs. Nothing to do with me.  I'm a serious artist.  A few years went by without any change in my opinion. And then I looked at a mail art show online and was totally blown away. True, some of the submissions were actual crayon drawings from elementary school kids. And some of the others weren't much better.  But there were some that were refreshingly original, witty, and unique. On a postcard. I was intrigued.

It happened that right then I had a dense crop of unpleasant medical scans, tests, and labwork that had to be done, which involved a lot of waiting around, which felt like wasted time, when my normal work routine was totally disrupted. I couldn't concentrate and I wasn't getting anything done. But I remembered a mail art show that sounded interesting. So while I was waiting around, I did a drawing on a blank postcard, sent it off and that was that. Except that it wasn't. I felt so overjoyed, uplifted and good about getting something started, finished and sent off into the world in less than a day that I did another mail art entry. And another. So that's what I do lately while I'm waiting for labwork, tests and scans - mail art.

Here's why. From beginning to end, a finished sculpture takes me about a year. The time from the initial sketch, to detailed drawings, to a small maquette is about a month. From the maquette to a full size sculpture is at least three months. From that to a cast or fired, patinated, and mounted sculpture is another one to six months, depending on my schedule and the foundry. So I love the idea of picking up a pen and a blank postcard and drawing, and then addressing, stamping and mailing it. One hour, maybe two, and I’ve completed and exhibited a new work. 

Plus there’s no waiting around for another year for exhibition: photographing, submitting to a show, packing and shipping, publication of the catalog. Instead, I mail it, and it’s released into the world, free as a bird, to find its own place. Maybe in the recycling bin. Maybe on a gallery wall.  Either way, it’s not my problem anymore. Wikipedia says that "Mail art is considered art once it is dispatched." So there. 

The second reason, overflow, is that I have more ideas than I can possibly execute in my lifetime.  Some of them aren’t sculpture, some of them aren’t good, and lots of them will just never make it into permanent sculpture materials. So the overflow is perfect material for mail art shows. 

Third reason is that I draw all the time. I can’t help it. In elementary  school, I got into a lot of trouble for drawing instead of doing math. By high school, I had perfected my drawing-disguised-as-note-taking techniques. Imagine my delight when I went to art school and I got to draw on purpose, as much as I wanted, without recrimination! But to this day, all paper and writing materials are fair game for drawing. The backs of envelopes, post-it notes, bills, grocery lists are all just waiting to be drawn upon.

And the final humdinger of a reason to participate in mail art shows is the amazing work that appears in them. I’m assuming that whatever I submit will be among the most traditional and least innovative.  I’m totally on the classical end of the art spectrum, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get my socks knocked off by what’s on the other end. Good stuff. I also like to feel I’m upholding the traditional, classical end of the art spectrum. I’m the token traditionalist. Somebody has to do it.

I'm amused to find that just like the spectrum of thank you-note-writing for gifts, some curators of mail art shows don't respond at all when you send some an entry, while some, who have obviously been well brought up, respond with an email, or even a letter.  One even sent me a photo of my drawing in the center of a wall of wildly eclectic work.  It was so cool:  it looked as though my very traditional portrait was an anchor to a whole world of portraits spinning off around it.

But I gotta go - I have a PET scan. I'm thinking about drawing with metallic markers for that mail art show in Greece. Maybe Ulysses...

*  Mail art -  "populist artistic movement centered on sending small scale works through the postal service...Media commonly used in mail art include postcards, paper, a collage of found or recycled images and objects, rubber stamps, artist-created stamps (called artistamps), and paint, but can also include music, sound art, poetry, or anything that can be put in an envelope and sent via post. Mail art is considered art once it is dispatched. Mail artists regularly call for thematic or topical mail art for use in (often unjuried) exhibition.^[1][3]

The mail artist community values the interconnectedness of the participants and promotes an egalitarian ethos that frequently circumvents official art distribution and approval systems such as the art market, museums, and galleries. Mail artists rely on their network as the primary way of sharing their work, rather than being dependent on the ability to locate and secure exhibition space.^[4]The community embraces this outsider or alternative status, and refers to itself as "The Eternal Network" or just "The Network."^[5"    Wikipedia

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What's the problem, Iceland?

Screenshot of Google Analytics showing the countries from which people have visited my website

Like everyone else on earth, I have a website (deborahdendler.com). I am amused and amazed on a daily basis by how many visitors do or do not visit my site. For a long time, I've been mystified by two things:  What's up with Russia? And, what's the problem with Greenland and Iceland? I get why there wouldn't be a lot of internet traffic to an obscure North American sculpture website from the Congo, Paraguay or Mongolia. Not sure that high speed internet connections are top priorities in those areas.  But Greenland and Iceland? They're European and more highly developed than the US. So what's the problem? Partly it's the numbers. There are more people living in Newton, MA (80,000) than live in Greenland (30,000.) And while Iceland has almost 11 times as many people (323,000) it is also a country with no clay. Their most illustrious Icelandic sculptor, Einar Jonsonn, couldn't get a reliable source of clay (a hundred year ago) so he worked mainly in plaster. Apparently, the sculptural needs of Iceland are still met by Einar Jonsonn, just as Sweden is still happy with the sculpture of Carl Milles. Fine.

The Russian traffic to my website is the most mysterious. I've had more visitors from Russia than any other country, except the US. It's true I have actually shown my work in St. Petersburg, Russia, but still. For some reason, I'm really big in Kyrgystan. At work, I asked a guy who's Russian/Ukranian, and he said humorously, "They're watching us." But I think he's right. They are watching us. I feel like I'm in a James Bond movie.  Meanwhile, how do I attract the Icelandic crowd? And more importantly, would Iceland let us send them some bankers?

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Drawing babies that don't look like Winston Churchill

I'm so excited!  I finally did some drawings of a baby that don't look like Winston Churchill! They also don't look exactly like my grandson, but hey - you can't have everything. At least he doesn't look like he needs a cigar.

I also did some other drawings of children using touches of white chalk and a watercolor pencil (Derwent Venetian red) so I can do some simple washes. To draw children, I do a sketch of the child from life, and then take a digital photo when the child gets too wiggly to pose anymore.  This can be anywhere from 30 seconds to 5 minutes.  If possible, I ask the child to pose again, but I try to keep my favorite models from getting burnt out.

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Get real

Life drawing, red and white chalk, 2016

I have to confess that I don't get photo realism or hyperealism.  The whole point of creation is to make something new that didn't exist before. But in photo realism and hyperealism, the image already exists as a photograph.  Why recreate it as a painting or drawing?  What I especially don't understand is the laborious, exact copying of a photo of a celebrity that the copyist doesn't have permission to use.  Not only is it asking for trouble, but it's dumb.  Celebrities are the ones with the money and the lawyers.  Who do you think would win a copyright battle - celebrity or clueless artist?  And that goes for the photographer of a celebrity, too, who is undoubtedly a pro and not doing this for fun.  Copyright infringement is a big deal.

The only time I've copied photos was in high school, fifty years ago.  At the time, I was trying to learn how to draw any way that I could think of, so I tried to draw by copying photos.  It didn't work.  What I wound up with was neither a good drawing or a good photo.  On the other hand, I don't have a problem with copying the work of a master to study and learn.  I've even done it.  For study purposes, I've copied the drawings and paintings of Rembrandt, Durer, Leonardo and Michelangelo.  Aside from that, I usually work from life, unless my subject is either not the right age or life form to sit still, or is no longer on the planet.  I just don't see the point of copying from photographs.  Much better to learn how to actually draw or paint than to copy photos.

My final problem with photrealism/hyperealism is the increasing amount of realist work with soupy subjects from mythology, history and fantasy.  There's a fine line here.  We already did the 19th c. once - let's not do it again, please!  How real do we have to get?

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Brunching with the Borgias or Money Laundering in the Art World

There was a time when the top art buyers in the world were also its cultural leaders.  Popes, emperors, kings, and the aristocracy were the patrons of the art world, its trendsetters, and its critics.  At the top of the socio-economic ladder, they were also the most educated and sophisticated members of society.  Their tastes ruled what was fashionable and their ideas decided what was good art.  Art was once a symbol of culture and wealth.  Buying art showed you had arrived or moved up the socio-econmic ladder.  Consequently, people once bought art the way people buy new cars today.  The Medici family in Florence is the classic example of education, wealth and culture combined in art buyers and patrons during the Renaissance.

Today the highest priced work of living artists looks like no one has ever looked at it on purpose.  It's junk.  It's impossible to imagine a connoisseur of stainless steel balloon animals.  No education, culture, thought or sensitivity is necessary for the consumption of this art.  It seems incomprehensible until you understand what's really going on.  The fastest selling, highest priced art isn't bought by art lovers.  It's bought by criminals and criminal organizations to launder money.  The opacity of high level art sales is ideally suited for money laundering.  Anyone can buy a million dollar painting in complete secrecy, no questions asked.  The buyer plunks down the cash, and buys the art.  There's no oversight, no safeguards.  And apparently, that's what's going on.

The buyers of all that bazillion dollar art probably never even look at what they just bought, because it's all sold again almost immediately.  Instead of the benevolent guiding influence of cultured art patrons like the Medici, what we've got instead are the Borgias, poisoning everything before we even get to the table.

What this means for actual, living artists is that you better hang on to your hat.  None of this has anything to do with you or being an artist or making art.  Just do it.  Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.

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http://www.nytimes.com/2013/05/13/arts/design/art-proves-attractive-refuge-for-money-launderers.html?_r=0
http://www.widewalls.ch/the-art-world-money-laundering-february-2015/
http://mileswmathis.com/launder.pdf
http://www.hopesandfears.com/hopes/culture/art/214699-guide-to-laundering-money-art

Short artist statements and other haiku

Drowsy Cat

I can't believe how much computer time goes along with being an artist today.  If you'd told me when I was in art school more than thirty years ago how much time I would spend now every day on my laptop, looking up stuff, futzing with digital photos and writing (oh, excuse me, word processing), I would haven't have believed you.  I'm doing it and I still don't believe it.

For me, the most onerous and least enjoyable parts of being an artist is writing artist statements.  I just don't see the point.  I'm a visual artist, trying to communicate visually.  Why does anyone need a written explanation?  Plus, for me, it's insulting.  It's like an admission of failure.  If I have to explain it, my work hasn't communicated whatever it was that compelled me to make it in the first place.

Right now I'm wrestling with three separate statements for three completely different things, so I can't just use one statement for all three.  Each has to be 50 words.  This is a relatively new and pernicious form of the artist statement:  the 50 word statement-as-sound byte.  What am I supposed to get across in 50 words?  I've got grocery lists longer than that.  I have one 50 worder almost finished, but the blasted thing sounds like some kind of constipated haiku translated badly from the original Sanskrit.  I'm better with a few more words, but not too many.  A hundred is good.  Five hundred starts to sound like blather.  A thousand gets really grandiose.  And then there are the places that want statements that are 1,000 characters or less.  What's a thousand characters between friends?  Well, it's about 300 words and somewhat blathery.  But manageable.

The horrible truth is that it's probably all about search engines and search algorithms.  Google searches text, so the artist statements add some words to an image so Google knows how to sort it.  The crazy thing to me is that none of this is real.  I mean, yes, the show is in a real gallery and it is really taking place, and yes, there will be cards stuck to the wall with artist statements printed on them.  But what's that got to do with anything?  Who cares, and what difference does it make?  I hate to get all existential about this, but none of it is as important as, for instance, what's the best kind of chocolate.


“An artist cannot speak about his art any more than a plant can discuss horticulture.”                                   Jean Cocteau


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